Balancing Boarding School and a Parent’s Drinking While Planning My Future

Some days, my life looks very put together from the outside.

I am in Year 13 at boarding school. I go to Eton. I live in a house with routines, expectations, lessons, prep, meals, sports, and conversations about university. I think about exams, personal statements, UCAS, and what comes next. I try to keep up. I try to look as if I know where I am going.

At the same time, there is another whole part of my life that most people do not see.

It is the part where I worry about what is happening at home. It is the part where I wonder what mood I will walk into when I go back. It is the part where I listen carefully to small sounds, small changes in tone, and small signs that something might not be right. It is the part where I deal with a parent who drinks too much, while still needing to revise, apply to university, and imagine a future that feels separate from all of this.

That is the strange thing about it. From the outside, school can make everything look neat. But inside, it can feel like I am living two lives.

Boarding school can feel calm, even when your mind is somewhere else.

Living inside two different worlds

Boarding school has a rhythm to it. That rhythm can be comforting.

There are bells. There are lessons. There is prep. There are meals at set times. There are teachers, house staff, friends, and people moving around all day. Even when school is stressful, it still has a shape. You know where you are meant to be. You know what comes next. There is always something to do.

In some ways, that structure helps.

When I am at school, home can feel far away. The drinking is not directly in front of me. I am not physically there in the room. I am not hearing bottles, footsteps, doors closing, or the way someone’s voice changes after they have had too much. I can focus on the next essay, the next exam, the next conversation about university.

But the distance does not make it disappear.

It stays in my head. It follows me into lessons. It follows me into chapel, meals, prep, and conversations with friends. It is there when someone asks a normal question like, “How was your weekend?” and I have to decide how much of the truth to say.

Most of the time, I do not say much.

I might say, “It was fine,” even if it was not. I might make a joke or change the subject. I might act as if I am tired because of work, when really I am tired from thinking too much. It takes energy to keep one part of your life separate from another. It takes even more energy when both parts demand something from you.

School asks me to plan ahead. Home pulls me backward into worry.

That is one of the hardest parts of balancing boarding school and a parent’s drinking while planning my future. You are meant to be looking forward, but part of you keeps checking behind you.

The bubble can protect you and isolate you

People often talk about boarding school as a bubble. I understand why.

There is a whole world inside the gates. You can get caught up in marks, sports, house events, university offers, friendships, and the small dramas of school life. Sometimes that bubble feels protective. It gives me space from the chaos at home. It means I can sleep somewhere calmer. It gives me adults around me, even if I do not always know how to talk to them.

But the bubble can also feel lonely.

When everyone around you seems focused on exams, Oxbridge, interviews, personal statements, or weekend plans, it can feel strange to be carrying something heavier. Not because other people do not have problems. Everyone does, in different ways. But when your problem is connected to drinking at home, it can feel difficult to explain.

There is shame around it. There is confusion. There is the fear that people will judge your parent, or judge you, or treat you differently. There is also loyalty. Even when a parent’s drinking hurts you, you can still love them. You can still want to protect them. You can still feel guilty for speaking about it.

That mix is hard to put into words.

I have often found myself thinking, “Should I tell someone?” Then almost straight away, another thought comes in: “What if I make it worse?”

So I keep going. I do the school things. I show up. I write the essay. I sit the test. I answer the question in class. I laugh when other people laugh. Sometimes I am genuinely fine in those moments. Sometimes I am not.

Both can be true.

Revision and worry can sit in the same room.

Going home is not always a rest

For many people at school, going home means a break. It means sleeping in your own bed, seeing family, eating different food, and getting away from routine.

For me, going home can feel complicated.

There are good moments. I do not want to pretend there are not. Families are rarely one thing all the time. There can be normal conversations, ordinary meals, jokes, and days when everything feels almost fine. That is part of what makes it confusing. If it were bad every second, maybe it would be easier to explain. But it is not that simple.

Then the atmosphere can shift.

Sometimes I notice it before anything obvious happens. A change in voice. A certain restlessness. The sound of glass. A mood that starts to fill the house before anyone names it. I become alert without choosing to. I listen more carefully. I think ahead. I try to work out whether it will be a calm evening or one where I need to keep out of the way.

That kind of watching becomes a habit.

It can make home feel less like a place to rest and more like a place to monitor. Even when nothing happens, the waiting can be exhausting. You start to measure the evening in small signs. You start to prepare yourself before you even know what you are preparing for.

There have been times when I have counted down the days until I can return to school. Then I feel guilty for thinking that, because school is not easy either. Exams are real. Pressure is real. Being away from home has its own loneliness.

Still, school can feel calmer than home.

That is a difficult thing to admit. It is also true.

Planning the future while managing the present

Year 13 is already a strange year. So much of it is about the future.

People ask what you want to study, where you want to go, what you want to do next. You are expected to have answers, or at least be building toward them. You write about yourself in a personal statement. You try to turn your interests, achievements, and hopes into something clear enough for someone else to judge.

At the same time, part of my attention is still at home.

That can make the future feel both exciting and frightening. University can seem like freedom. It can also feel like leaving people behind. I find myself asking questions that other people may not be asking in the same way.

Will home be okay if I leave?

Will I be able to stop worrying?

What happens if something gets worse while I am away?

What kind of life do I want if I have spent so much time trying to manage someone else’s?

Those questions do not fit neatly into a personal statement. They do not appear on a UCAS form. But they are real questions, and they shape how I think about what comes next.

I want a future that is mine. I want to study, grow, meet people, and build a life that is not controlled by someone else’s drinking. But wanting that does not mean I stop caring. It does not mean I stop feeling pulled between independence and responsibility.

That pull is one of the hardest things to explain.

You can know, logically, that you are not responsible for a parent’s drinking. You can hear people say it. You can even believe it sometimes. But emotionally, it can still feel as if you should be able to fix it, prevent it, manage it, or make everyone okay.

I am still learning that I cannot carry all of it.

Traveling between school and home can feel like moving between two different selves.

Why I started Here With Care

Here With Care came from a simple thought that would not leave me alone: I cannot be the only person living like this.

I cannot be the only one sitting in a boarding house, trying to revise while worrying about home. I cannot be the only one smiling through normal school conversations while privately thinking about a parent’s drinking. I cannot be the only one who feels grateful for school and trapped by silence at the same time.

I am not writing this from the other side, with everything solved.

That matters to me. A lot of stories are told after the difficult part has already become the past. Those stories are helpful, but they can also feel far away when you are still in it. I am still in it. I am still working out what to say, who to trust, where the boundaries are, and what kind of support I need.

This space is not about pretending to have perfect answers. It is about being honest without making things dramatic for the sake of it. It is about saying what this can actually feel like.

Some days I feel strong. Some days I feel tired. Some days I feel angry. Some days I feel guilty for being angry. Some days I want to talk about it. Other days I want to hide it completely.

That is part of the truth too.

I started Here With Care because silence can make everything heavier. When nobody says anything, you start to think your situation is too unusual, too messy, or too shameful to name. But the more I have thought about it, the more I believe that naming it can help. Quietly. Carefully. Honestly.

Not everyone has to speak publicly. Not everyone should. Safety and privacy matter. But even reading words that sound close to your own experience can make a difference.

It can remind you that you are not strange for finding it hard.

What I am still learning

I do not want to turn this into advice from someone who has everything figured out. I do not. But I am learning a few things, slowly.

I am learning that mixed feelings are normal.

You can love a parent and still be hurt by their drinking. You can miss home and dread going back. You can want distance and still feel guilty for wanting it. These feelings do not cancel each other out.

I am learning that silence protects some things and damages others.

There are reasons people stay quiet. Fear, loyalty, embarrassment, and uncertainty are real. But holding everything alone can make school, sleep, friendships, and planning for the future much harder.

I am learning that support does not have to mean telling everyone.

Sometimes support starts with one trusted person. It might be a housemaster, tutor, school counselor, teacher, relative, friend, or another adult who can listen properly. It does not have to be a huge announcement. It can begin with one honest sentence.

I am learning that my future still matters.

A parent’s drinking can take up a lot of space. It can make your own plans feel selfish or less urgent. But wanting a life of your own is not selfish. Exams matter. University matters. Peace matters. Hope matters.

This post is personal, not professional advice. If home ever feels unsafe, it is important to speak to a trusted adult or local support service as soon as possible. Nobody should have to manage danger alone.

Finding words for what is happening can be a small form of relief.

If this sounds familiar

If any part of this feels close to your own life, your situation does not have to look exactly like mine for it to matter.

Maybe you are at boarding school. Maybe you are not. Maybe you are revising for exams, applying to university, or just trying to get through the week without being crushed by worry. Maybe the drinking at home is obvious. Maybe it is hidden. Maybe people outside your family would be shocked if they knew.

If it affects you, then it matters.

You do not need to wait until things are “bad enough” to care about how you feel. You do not need to have the perfect words before you tell someone. You do not need to pretend everything is normal just because you are still managing to function.

Sometimes managing is not the same as being okay.

I will keep writing here as I go. Not because I have neat answers, but because I think there is value in sharing the middle of the story too. The uncertain part. The part where you are still revising, still applying, still going home, still coming back, still hoping things might change.

For now, this is what I know: living two lives is exhausting, and no one should have to believe they are the only one doing it.

If reading this makes the weight feel even slightly less lonely, then this space is already doing what I hoped it would do.