Headline:
A Second Chance for Me and My Daughter
I carried two preschool backpacks, groceries, and the weight of my whole week on my shoulders. Between weekday shifts at the coffee shop and weekend tutoring, I was stretched so thin I could barely feel my own edges anymore. Then one afternoon, as I was flying into the house to fix dinner, my daughter pulled on my sleeve with eyes so red and raw they broke me. “Mom,” she said, “I can’t do this anymore.” And I realized I couldn’t either—but I still didn’t know who to ask for help. That’s when I found mental health practitioners in Fort Collins that accept Medicaid, a lifeline I didn’t know existed until I needed it most.
The first step was awkward: calling through directory after directory, hearing over and over, “We aren’t taking Medicaid right now,” or “Our next opening is six months away.” Every no tightened something in my chest until I wondered if I’d ever find support. I thought being a mother meant being unbreakable. Turns out, sometimes unbreakability is the easiest way to break completely.
Then one evening—tears damp on my pillow—I clicked on a website that didn’t say “No thanks” right away. It clearly stated they accepted Medicaid, listed available services for parents and teens, and had an intake opening next week. I stared at the screen for a full minute before clicking “Call Now.”
The intake was over the phone, on my lunch break, with my hands still in soapy water from washing dishes. A gentle voice on the other end didn’t rush me. She asked what was happening—school avoidance, tearful mornings, fights about screen time. When I said I was worried about my own health, she said, “We’ll get you both some support.” I thought I’d have to prove I needed it. Instead, she answered, “Yes. We can help.”
That afternoon, I tracked down a neighbor to pick up my younger one from preschool while I took my daughter, Sophie, to her first session. I was surprised how normal it felt—no greasy cafeteria lighting, no rubbery chairs. Just comfortable couches, livened by colorful cushions and a bowl of fruit on the coffee table.
Sophie clung to me as we entered. She’d been quiet while I handled the scheduling, but now the weight of it showed in every crease of her hoodie. The therapist knelt down to meet her: “Hey Sophie, tell me about your dog.” She started talking about Max, the goofy golden retriever who flips over for belly rubs. That was the moment I exhaled.
They called me back in for the last ten minutes. I listened as Sophie named a “sad worry” she felt in her chest sometimes before school. The therapist asked her gently if we could draw it. They did—big eyes, scraggly lines, a frown. It looked messy, but it looked like release.
On the car ride home, Sophie curled in the passenger seat. “I didn’t tell her everything,” she said. “Just some things.” My heart cracked. I hugged her and stroked her hair. “That’s okay,” I whispered. “We just needed to start.”
That night, I pulled up the site again and found information about Fort Collins Medicaid counselors for myself. I swallowed the fear of admitting I needed help too. Sitting on the couch, I clicked “Make an Appointment.” My hands shook, but I clicked.
I didn’t tell Sophie yet. I didn’t know how to—partly fear, partly hope that I could somehow fix everything by being stronger. But I scheduled my first session for next Wednesday evening, after jigsaw puzzles and before bedtime stories.
I spent the rest of the night curled up with my oldest, reading through articles they sent—about boundaries, parent self-care, and what it means to model strength by admitting vulnerability. I printed a worksheet, sharpened colored pencils, and set them on the kitchen table where I’d see them every morning.
I parked outside the same clinic a week later, this time alone. No toddler in tow. No preschooler needing juice or coloring books. Just me and this knot in my stomach that refused to let go.
Inside, the waiting room was quiet. A soft hum of a white noise machine filled the air, blending with the slow tick of a wall clock. I glanced through a rack of pamphlets but couldn’t focus. I wanted to stand up and walk back out, drive home, pretend I hadn’t admitted I needed this. But then a woman about my age walked in with her baby in a sling. She smiled at me—tight but warm—and I stayed seated.
When my name was called, I stood and followed the therapist to her office. I caught my reflection in a hallway mirror. My jaw was clenched. I forced a breath.
We started slow. The therapist asked about the basics: work, sleep, eating. But by the third question, I was crying—slow, steady tears that had been waiting behind my eyes for too long. “I feel like I have to be perfect for them,” I said. “Like I can’t fall apart, because there’s no one else to keep things going.”
She nodded and passed me a tissue. “You’re carrying a lot,” she said. “But I want you to know something. You don’t have to do it all at once. You’re allowed to rest.”
We talked about the morning rush. How Sophie sometimes froze in the hallway before school, her backpack heavy on her shoulders, and how I’d yell without meaning to, then hate myself the entire drive to work. We talked about Max, the dog, and how he could make her laugh with a single sneeze. We talked about loneliness—not the kind that comes from being single, but the kind that comes from hiding how hard it all really is.
By the time I walked out of that room, I didn’t feel fixed. But I felt lighter, like maybe I’d finally started to set something down.
Over the next several weeks, I kept going. Every Wednesday evening, I’d hand my youngest to a neighbor or my mom if she could make the drive, and I’d show up for myself. Each session carved out a little more clarity. I stopped apologizing for crying. I stopped feeling selfish for needing time.
And something else started happening too—Sophie began to change. Her sessions gave her words for her feelings. She’d come home with drawings, or with a new strategy she wanted to try, like using her “worry box” before bed. I’d kneel by her bed and we’d whisper to the paper, “Today was hard, but I can try again tomorrow,” then fold it, tuck it into the box, and turn off the light.
I don’t want to make it sound like everything magically improved. We still had mornings that started with tears. There were nights when dinner was cereal and everyone cried about it. But there was also laughter again. There was room for hugs that didn’t come with tension. There were moments when Sophie would crawl into my lap and say, “I’m glad you talked to someone too.”
The most powerful part? It didn’t destroy us financially. Having access to counseling services in Fort Collins that take Medicaid was the only reason we could both get the help we needed. I didn’t have to choose between groceries and therapy. I didn’t have to fake wellness for fear of the bill.
Eventually, I shared with a friend what we’d been doing. She listened quietly, eyes glossy. Then she asked, “Do you think they’d have room for me?” I gave her the website link and told her what I wish someone had told me months ago: “They’ll make room. And you deserve that room.”
I look back at that day Sophie clutched my sleeve, crying before dinner, and I realize that was the moment we both said “enough.” Enough of surviving. Enough of silence. Enough of holding it in.
Now, we’re building something new. Not perfect. Not without bad days. But it’s ours. It’s real. And it started the day I searched for Fort Collins Medicaid therapists and actually found someone who said, “Yes, we can help.”