How did we get here?

I’ve been afraid to start writing, for fear that once the tears begin, they’ll never end.

Yesterday—December 16, 2025—was one of the hardest days I’ve ever lived.

I’m in South Carolina, and I just left my baby at a Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facility—PRTF—an acronym I will never forget.

How did we get here?

He wanted Burger King for lunch and then Sky Zone, the trampoline park. We told him we were going to see his new school first—lunch would come later. It was too early in the morning.

My hands were shaky. Tears were starting to gather. I knew I was fragile, and I knew I needed comfort.

Coffee.
Coffee would do it.

A quick search showed a Starbucks a few blocks away. I blindly followed the blue line on my map, watching the distance shrink. As I searched for the familiar green circle, I realized—crap. It was inside a store, and I couldn’t see an easy place to park. I passed it.

I put Springbrook into my map.
Twenty-two minutes.

Moments later, I asked Chris to find another Starbucks near the school. I was desperate. He found one with a quick five-minute detour.

What was five minutes? I didn’t care.

We were now going to arrive at 10:12 instead of 10:00, but this is my life we’re talking about. I was about to leave my baby with strangers.

With coffee in the cup holder and Jennifer Nettles singing Christmas tunes, we headed toward Carter’s new school. We still hadn’t told him that Springbrook would also be his new home—his community—for the next several months.

Then his favorite Christmas song came on.

Celebrate Me Home.

The irony did not escape me.

I wanted time to stop.

I made a mental note: when I drive this winding road again, surrounded by these magnificent trees, I’ll play this song. I’ll celebrate him home when the time comes.

When the time comes.

It could be six months.
Ten months.
A year or more.

I don’t know.

But I will celebrate him home.

Tucked into a woodsy area that reminded me of home sat both the answer to my prayers and the stuff of my nightmares.

Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facility.

How did we get here?

—

I buzzed the doorbell.

“This is Maria Messer. I’m here for a 10:00 meeting for Carter.”

The foyer reminded me of the old mountain buildings in Granby from my childhood—simple, cozy, familiar. We waited for Kate, making small talk.

A staff member in scrubs walked by and commented on Carter’s fashion choices. He was wearing black plaid pants with red and green lines—because Christmas. His socks were bright yellow with pork chops on them. Bright orange Crocs—brand new from our recent Christmas/goodbye party, though he didn’t know it was both.

He just thought it was a personal Christmas party.

I don’t remember his shirt exactly—something with mountains. I had bought him all new clothes, hoping they would remind him of home.

Thank God he had on his green coat. Thirty-three degrees in South Carolina is brutal—the kind of cold that sinks into your bones and refuses to leave. I had been trying to get him to wear that coat for days.

I needed him to wear a coat.

I needed to know he had a coat once he went through the other side of the doors.

On his head was a new Santa hat, topped with a headband holding a thick, soft Christmas tree. He looked like a walking billboard for all things Christmas.

The night before, I had emailed Kate asking for help. Until then, I had been confident I could get Carter to the school on my own. But in that moment, I didn’t know what kind of help I needed—I only knew I couldn’t do this alone.

As Carter collected compliments on his outfit, I silently begged God to get me through the next hour.

Just the next hour.

If I could survive the next hour, I would survive this.

We moved into a conference room to begin paperwork. Someone would come in to help transition Carter.

Two very large Black men walked in.

And I was immediately relieved.

Immediate connection.
Immediate comfort.

They were kind and respectful, introducing themselves to us and then to Carter. They had that yo bro, let’s show you around energy—making him feel cool and safe at the same time.

In my email to Kate, I had mentioned that Carter was excited about the pool. This kid loves the water. When the men mentioned seeing it, Carter was in.

Just like that, he was gone.

He walked out with them without looking back.

No goodbye.
No I love you.
No you’ll be coming home.

Just gone.

We sat for an hour signing paperwork. I had already sent documents for a month—this was simply the end. I asked questions as they surfaced, one after another. I was present. Engaged. The language was familiar. I wasn’t afraid.

The nurses came in to discuss medications. They explained we would receive weekly updates.

Weekly.

A weekly email about my child.

As the meeting wound down, all I could think about was seeing Carter one more time before boarding a brutal three-hour flight back to a less colorful world.

I asked if they could bring him up to say goodbye.

They hesitated. They said he was struggling, and I didn’t want to make things harder for him.

But I needed to say goodbye.

I asked—barely holding it together—if we could come back the next day to say goodbye before leaving town.

I remember the panic.

I could not leave without hugging my baby.

I needed one more desperate, clinging hug.

One more endless string of I love yous.