The Other Side of Care: What Being an ABDL Carer Has Taught Me

For five years, I've been a professional ABDL carer. In that time, I've written about my clients, their emotions, their evolution, their psychology, their breakthrough moments. I've talked about their glows, their safety, their needs. But I've rarely talked about what happens to me.

It's time to change that.

The Glow We Share

When I'm in a session, something remarkable happens. My clients – my littles – often glow. They become immersed in the present moment, fully alive and in awe of the experience. And here's the thing: I glow with them.

I'm not just observing their transformation from the sidelines. I'm in it with them, mirroring their presence, their joy, their aliveness. It's one of the most emotionally rewarding parts of my work: witnessing and experiencing that happiness. But that glow comes at a cost.

The Energy of Connection

People often don't realize that being a carer takes energy, it's also emotionally intense. I aim to do more than just communicate with my clients; I aim to truly connect. And connection plus attention and care, can require everything I have.

So I must pace. I can't do two sessions in a day. I can't do more than two in-person sessions in a week. Why? Because it's not just the physical energy. It's the emotional labour of being fully present, of making someone feel completely seen and safe, of holding space for their vulnerability. That kind of presence demands that I give my best, and I have standards for what my best looks like.

When I'm with someone, they have my full attention. But that fullness has limits, and I've learned to respect them.

The Chemistry of Care

Now let's get some biology of it: during a cuddle, a nurturing moment, our bodies release oxytocin and serotonin. We know what those do – they create bonding, safety, joy. But what people don't always acknowledge is that I produce these chemicals too. I often feel the same neurochemical shift my clients do. And that creates a feedback loop with them, who notice it in their bodies.

Which means I need aftercare too.

After the Door Closes

The moment a client leaves, I step out of Miss Mummy. I don't make contact other than a thank you message. I don't blur the lines. It's professional, it's ethical.

I also need time to return to myself.

A walk. A bath. Time alone, depending on the weather and what my body needs. The bath, especially, brings me back to wholeness. Because Miss Mummy – that caring part of me – uses only a portion of who I am. She's the part that nurtures, that holds, that gives. But she's not the whole picture.

I am a full woman, my personality is bigger than the side of Miss Mummy that is applicable for sessions. I have needs to receive, not just give. Those parts of me don't show up in my professional role, and they shouldn't. But they need tending to in my own life.

I do get something precious from my clients, even though the relationship is fundamentally one-directional. They give me their energy, their presence, their engagement. When they show up with openness and warmth, when their energy is pleasant and authentic – that matters to me. It sustains me.

But its also true I will always miss clients I've connected deeply with, knowing I can't reach out. It wouldn't be professional. My ethics come before everything else. That boundary protects both of us, but it doesn't make the missing any less. It comes with the profession.

There's also the responsibility of saying no. Declining sessions because someone isn't in my remit, or because their mental health needs exceed what I can safely provide, or because my own safety could be at risk. Those decisions are right, but they're hard.

What This Has Taught Me

Five years of caring for others, of holding space, of glowing and then returning to myself – it's changed how I understand myself as a person.

This work has taught me to draw very clear lines between caring for others and my real life. Because a life worth living requires give and take. It requires reciprocity.

I've learned that losing myself into someone else's needs isn't noble. It's not sustainable. And it's not what I want for my own relationships. And still, I get a lot of joy from and with them, for the time we are together.

In caring for others, I also put attention in caring about myself, so I can continue caring for others. This should be valid for all carers.

The Whole Picture

So here's what I want to say, finally: The psychology of being a carer isn't just about what happens to the person being cared for. It's about the carer too. It's about the energy we expend, the bonds we form, the chemicals flowing through our bodies, the boundaries we maintain, the grief we carry, and the wholeness we have to protect.

I'm Miss Mummy for some time, and fully immersed into it with happiness. But I'm me all the time. And understanding that is what allows me to show up fully for my clients while staying grounded in my own life.

That's the work that happens inside me.

That's my psychology too.