Those who stay

 

I like getting movie recommendations from my students. If I have already watched the film, or if I take the time to watch it before meeting them again, it often helps build rapport. It gives us something shared, something neutral, a place to begin. Sometimes, it helps a student feel just a little more comfortable.

Recently, with a particularly difficult case, I used the same approach. I asked the student what their most recent favourite movie had been. Their answer was ‘Beautiful Boy.’

It’s a 2018 film starring Timothée Chalamet and Steve Carell as Nic and David Sheff. I hadn’t seen it before, so I watched it. By the end of the movie, I learned that it was based on a true story and on two books written by the real Nic and David Sheff, a father and son.

Why this particular student connected with the film is something I may explore later. I sense there may be something there – perhaps to do with parenting, or with a parent. But I may be wrong.

For now, I’m sitting with what the film left me with.

‘Beautiful Boy’ tells the story of a family trying to survive a son’s addiction to crystal meth. It offers a wide, compassionate view of addiction, not just as an individual struggle, but as something that reaches everyone around it. What stayed with me most, though, was the father.

David Sheff is not portrayed as perfect. He is confused, exhausted, and disappointed. And yet, he keeps returning. He tries to help, to understand, to remain accepting and unjudging. He doesn’t always know what to do. Often, nothing he does seems to work. Still, he stays.

What moved me was not just his love, but his endurance.

The kind of endurance that has no clear endpoint. The kind that exists without reassurance, without certainty, without guarantees.

That endurance reminded me of a mother I know.

I met her and her daughter recently. This is not a story of addiction, but of long-term mental health struggles. I have seen strong mothers before. I have heard many stories of exceptional caregiving. But witnessing it closely, in real time, is different.

She shows up every day. She supports, cares, and attends to her daughter’s needs, hoping quietly for better days and a gentler future. There is no dramatic turning point, no clear resolution. Just the ongoing work of staying present.

Alongside this care is a quieter suffering. She has learned to read the smallest changes in her child, to stay alert in ways that never fully rest. Much of her life now bends around what is needed - compromises made, priorities reshaped. 

At times, the effort is so constant that she almost disappears into it.

Mental health does not move in straight lines. There are good days and bad days. And while we speak more openly now about mental health itself, about therapy, counselling, or diagnoses, we speak far less about the mental health of the carer.

The one who understands that this is an illness, not a choice.
The one who does not blame.
The one who keeps trying.

Often, their exhaustion has nowhere to go. Sometimes, they cannot speak about the effort they put in. Sometimes, the person they care for cannot see it because they are struggling just to survive their own mind.

We like to think we talk openly about mental health. Posts, conversations and memes on social media give that impression. And yet, in everyday life, hesitation remains. We still worry about dignity. We still fear judgment. We still hesitate to seek help, to say too much, to be seen. And so, the carer’s circle of support also quietly narrows.

If not for caregivers, society would have collapsed long ago.

I don’t know how realistic it is to imagine a world where those who care are consistently supported. Perhaps that remains something we see more clearly in films and books than in real life. But maybe the message is simpler than that.

Those who endure, who stay, who return, who care without certainty also need care themselves.