Between My Mom and My Daughter
Last week, I shared about the day my brother and I found our mom on her bedroom floor after her stroke, and how, in an instant, everything changed.
If you haven't had a chance to read it yet, check it out here.
Today, I want to go a little deeper into what came next—what it really felt like to stand in the middle of two people who needed me in completely different ways.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re part of the sandwich generation—caring for an aging parent while raising a child—you’ll probably recognize some of this.
That’s where the “sandwich” gets its name.
You’re pressed between two layers of responsibility, and you can feel every bit of that pressure.
For me, it was again my mom on one side and my young daughter on the other.
My mom, whose body and independence were slipping.
My daughter, who was young and tender and very much needed me—the child I had finally, after so much waiting and hoping, been able to adopt.
Both of them were mine to care for.
Both of them were deeply loved.
And I couldn’t split myself in half.
In those early weeks after my mom’s massive stroke, so much of my time with her looked very practical on the surface.
There was paperwork to sign.
Medical forms. Insurance forms. Legal forms.
Conversations with doctors, social workers, and care staff.
I couldn’t do it all by myself, and I am still so grateful I didn’t have to. My brother and I were able to walk through that season together—sharing decisions, tag-teaming visits, backing each other up when one of us was exhausted or overwhelmed. That support was a lifeline.
Even with his help, though, it was a lot. Not to mention that we both had full time jobs and kids, and for him, a spouse.
There were hard conversations with my mom that I never imagined having:
Explaining why she couldn’t go back to living alone.
Talking about driving and safety. That she couldn’t ever drive again.
Trying to balance honesty with kindness when every loss felt like another piece of her life was being taken away.
On paper, it might have looked like I was just “handling things.”
But inside, every choice felt like a crack in my heart.
I was navigating post care after the hospital and rehab, and medical decisions for an aging parent, while still trying to show up as a present, loving mom for my young daughter. It was classic sandwich-generation caregiving… just without any roadmap.
At the very same time, there was my daughter.
She needed rides, dinners, homework help, bedtime routines.
She needed eye contact and laughter and those small, everyday reassurances that say, You matter. I’m here. You are safe.
As a single adoptive mom, I carried a very particular kind of tenderness and responsibility. My daughter had already lived through loss and transition long before my mom’s stroke. Our home was supposed to be a place of stability, of being chosen and cherished.
And suddenly, large parts of me were somewhere else—at the hospital, in waiting rooms, on the phone, at my mom’s bedside, sitting in offices under fluorescent lights.
I couldn’t ignore my mom’s needs.
I couldn’t ignore my daughter’s needs.
But I also couldn’t be fully present for both of them at once.
That’s what “caught in the middle” felt like for me: not a poetic phrase, but a daily reality of trying to stretch myself to cover too much ground, knowing I was going to come up short somewhere.
There were moments when the weight of that double responsibility felt unbearable.
I remember standing in the shower, water running over my face, and realizing it was the only place I could really break down.
No one could see me there.
No one needed anything from me there.
No one was asking questions or waiting for a decision.
In the shower, I cried for my mom—the woman who had once been my rock, now needing so much care. I cried for my daughter, who deserved a mom with enough energy and attention to go around. And I cried for myself, because I felt torn between them, scared of failing both. So much guilt.
That little square of tile and steam became my makeshift sanctuary.
For a few minutes, I could stop holding it together.
I could admit to myself that this was hard.
I could feel all the things I didn’t have words for yet.
Then I would turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and step back into the day—back into the middle.
If you’re a parent caring for an aging parent at the same time—or caring for a spouse, an adult child, in-laws, pets, or even “work family”—you might know this feeling all too well.
You love the people you care for.
You’re grateful they’re in your life.
And you’re also exhausted, stretched thin, and not sure how long you can keep going at this pace.
You may find yourself asking:
“Am I failing my kids by not being fully present?”
“Am I failing my parents by not doing more?”
“Why does everyone else seem to handle this better than I am?”
These are questions I hear from so many caregivers in the sandwich generation. And I want you to know: the very fact that you’re asking them tells me something important.
You care deeply.
You’re trying hard.
You are not alone in feeling this way.
You are not a bad parent because your attention is divided.
You are not a bad daughter or son because you sometimes feel resentful or tired.
You are not failing your family because you can’t meet every need perfectly.
You are a human being in a very intense season, doing your best with what you have.
If you see yourself in this story
When I work with caregivers now, as a coach and as a clinical/medical hypnotherapist, I meet so many people who are living their own version of this “caught in the middle” story:
Caring for aging parents while raising kids
Supporting a spouse or partner with health challenges
Parenting adult children who still need a lot of support
Holding responsibility for friends who feel like family
Being the one everyone relies on at work, too
They’re overwhelmed, tired, and quietly wondering, “Who is caring for me?”
If any part of my story sounds like yours, I would genuinely love to hear from you. Your story matters. You are not “too much” or “too complicated” or “too late.” You’re in a hard part of life that many of us were never prepared for.
You can always reach out and share a bit of your situation with me at [lucy@lucyseligman.com]. I read every message and respond.
A gentle next step: Caught in the Middle Workshop Series
Out of my own caregiving experience—and Lynn’s—came something we created specifically for people like you:
Caught in the Middle: The Caregiving Bridge Workshop Series
It’s a live, 4-part caregiver support workshop designed for people who are:
Caring for aging parents
Raising kids or supporting adult children at the same time
Juggling work, home, and caregiving responsibilities
Feeling overwhelmed, guilty, or unsure what to do next
In this series, we’ll talk about the emotional side and the practical side:
How to name all the ways you’re caregiving (not just the obvious ones)
How to calm your nervous system when you feel pulled in every direction
How to have the hard conversations about safety, driving, and independence
How to begin planning ahead—without feeling like you’re abandoning anyone
If you’re reading this and thinking, “This is exactly where I am,” I would be honored to walk alongside you.
You can learn more about the Caught in the Middle workshop and see if it’s a fit for you here:
👉 https://lucyseligman.com/caught-in-the-middle
And if you’re not sure whether it’s right for your situation, send me an email and tell me what you’re carrying. We can sort that out together.
You were never meant to do this alone.