15 November 2025
When my mother moved to Singapore, I became a parent overnight. Not to a child, but to my little sister, who was still in high school. I went from being her older sister to making sure food was on the table, grades were met, and she graduated on time. I was 23 when my mother impulsively moved abroad with her husband for his new job opportunity.
This blog is about that journey—how it felt, how it broke me at times, and how it shaped me into the person I am today. It’s about the quiet sacrifices that go unnoticed, ones that don’t make headlines. I didn’t ask for these responsibilities, but I felt obligated to take them on. Maybe you’ve carried some, too.
It was unexpected, my mother moving halfway across the world. I would have been nervous too if I were leaving the country. At the time, I had just broken up with my ex-boyfriend and driven across the United States by myself, two cats, and whatever I could pack in my car. My sister, in her last year of high school, didn’t want to move with her. And honestly, I don’t blame her. After spending four years at the same high school, why leave everything familiar for a completely new life in another country?
She had two options: move in with our dad and our three siblings, or move in with our grandparents, who were heavily religious. Not wanting either, she asked if she could stay with me. I would do anything for her, so like the big sister I am, I agreed until she finished high school.
Taking on the responsibility sounded like a simple task, on the surface. I told myself, “ I can handle this. It’s just for a year.” But overnight my life quickly shifted. I had to step up and be the adult my sister needed, even when i didn’t feel like much of an adult myself. But I had to figure it out.
I had to push my mess aside. The heartbreak I was still grieving, driving across the country alone with everything I could grab, and the confusion of rebuilding my life after the Navy. All of it had to be pushed aside. My sister didn’t need anymore confusion. She needed stability. She needed to know that someone would show up for her even on days when I wanted to fall apart. So I became that person for her.
Throughout the year, I worked at a job that I hated but paid decent. I worked long nights and barely had any room for a social life. My routine was work, home, sleep, and repeat. To help out with expenses, I also decided to use my Post 9/11 benefits to go back to school while I was working overnights. And all of my unresolved struggles I had pushed aside were finally catching up to me. The heartbreak, the anxiety, the pressure of being “the strong one”, all came falling on top of me. They didn’t stay buried for long. I had taken on so much, I didn’t realize how heavy the weight was until I cracked.
I created unhealthy habits to try and cope with everything around me. I didn’t know how to balance heartbreak, responsibility, school, and work, so I numbed myself in ways I knew how. I stayed up late nights, slept too little, avoided my feelings until I they spilled over and convinced myself that I was “fine’ because I didn’t have time to fall apart.
Then, New Year’s eve 2023, everything shattered again. My ex-boyfriend, was having a baby with an old friend from the military. The timeline clicked together like a puzzle piece. I realized that during the 4 days he was gone, he might have been with her instead. My heart shattered into pieces all over again. All of those feelings came flooding back. The last conversation, packing whatever I could carry, the lonely drive across the country. I was never meant to be “the” person, his person.
My heart couldn’t take another heartbreak on top of everything else happening in my life. It felt like my life was shattering into a million pieces and I didn’t have the strength to put back together. I was supposed to be the “strong one”, the reliable one, the one who held everything together. But I hit my limit.
I couldn’t pull myself out of the hole. For the next three months, I would shut myself out from everything. I was silent. I stopped reaching out. I barely had the energy to exist, left alone show up for my routine. It was survival mode at that point, and I didn’t realize how hard I had fallen.
Over those three months, everything slowly slipped away from me. I ended up losing my job and dropping out of school, not because I wanted to but because I had no motivation left to fight. Each day became heavier than the last. The smallest tasks felt impossible to do. I started to not take care of myself. Most nights I couldn’t sleep. I had no appetite, no energy, not even to take a shower. I was just going through the motions, barely.
My world was black and white, starving for color.
One night, sometime in March, I realized I couldn’t live like this anymore. I was sitting on the bathroom floor, exhausted from crying, numb from everything. I couldn’t live like this anymore. That was the night I decided to get help. It wasn’t a magical fix, but it was the first time I chose me.
I used the last bit of energy I did have and went to the emergency room to seek professional help. Not because I wanted to but because I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t go.
As I sat in the chair at the ER room with it’s bright fluorescent lighting, all I could think about was my sister. It felt like I let her down, I couldn’t show up for her like how I should of. I couldn’t become hospitalized. I couldn’t disappear on her the same way others have disappeared on us.
The doctor asked me a series of questions.
“Are you sleeping?
No.
“Are you eating?”
No
“Do you feel like harming yourself or others?”
Then I hesitated. For the first time I felt seen but not like how I wanted to be seen.
The doctors asked me more questions then came back with a result. I was then told by the doctor, “You’re close to burnout and in a major depressive episode. We need to make sure you’re safe.”
I nodded, trying to hold myself together. I kept thinking about my sister waiting at home, probably wondering where I am. If she knew where I ended up, she would worry. I didn’t want to scare her, and honestly, I was embarrassed.
I told them the truth:
“I can’t be admitted. I have someone depending on me.”
They looked at each other, then back at me. And instead of pushing me to stay and get treatment, they met me where I was. In the moment, I was willing to take that risk, for my sister.
We created a safety plan.
They connected me with outpatient support.
They gave me crisis numbers and follow-up appointments.
I left the ER fragile but held together by something I hadn’t had in a long time, hope. Or maybe just the possibility of hope.
Letters from Lana 