Melina TzakouFounder & Scientific Director of the Arkesis Mental Health Center
Psychologist and Psychoanalytic/Psychodynamic Psychotherapist in Nea Ionia

There are people who seem to live by looking at themselves through the eyes of others. Not just to see if they’re beautiful, successful, or young enough, but to feel that they exist. The question “How do they see me?” gradually becomes more important than “Who am I?” and life can turn into a ceaseless effort to construct an image worthy of being loved, admired, and desired.

The gaze of the other is indeed of immense importance for our psychological development. People are not born with a complete and stable image of themselves. They need others to recognize themselves. The gaze, care, responsiveness, and affirmation of the early environment contribute decisively to the creation of the sense that “I am someone” (Winnicott, 1967).

The problem begins when the gaze of the other ceases to be a mirror through which we recognize ourselves and becomes the mirror—or, more contemporarily, the screen—within which we must constantly exist. Then, our inner sense of worth depends on something outside of ourselves.

Jacques Lacan described with particular acuity the significance of the gaze and the image in the formation of the subject. The image of the self is not merely what we see. It is something within which we learn to recognize ourselves and, at the same time, something that exposes us to the gaze of the Other (Lacan, 1949). From a very early age, we learn, in one way or another, that we are not only what we feel we are, but also what we imagine others see in us.

Somewhere along the way, a need for perfection may arise, dictating that we “be beautiful,” “look young,” “be desirable,” “succeed,” and “not show our age.”

Beneath these “musts” often lies a much deeper difficulty: the inability to accept an imperfect self—a self that cannot be everything. The psychological mechanism of omnipotence is linked precisely to this denial of limits.

In the early stages of development, the infant experiences a relative sense of omnipotence. The world seems to magically respond to its needs, while dependence on the caregiver has not yet been fully perceived as a separate reality (Winnicott, 1960). On the path to maturity, however, we need to gradually let go of the illusion that we can control everything.

This is one of the difficult yet essential transitions of human life. It is the transition into adulthood and the understanding of the transience and fragility of human nature.

We cannot decide whether we will grow old. We cannot prevent every loss. We cannot control how others see us. We cannot ensure that we will always be desirable, young, beautiful, or important.

And yet, modern culture often offers us the illusion that we can negotiate even these limits—that with enough effort, discipline, technology, or money, we can indefinitely delay whatever is part of the natural course of human life. To fix the body, to erase the signs of aging, to preserve the image of youth.

The desire to take care of oneself is, of course, not pathological. It can be an expression of love for the body and for life. There is, however, a crucial difference between “taking care of myself” and “I can’t bear to look at who I am.”

In the latter case, the body becomes the site of a constant battle. A wrinkle is no longer just a wrinkle. It is proof of loss. A gray hair is not merely a change. It is a reminder that time passes, and the image in the mirror can feel like a betrayal: “I am no longer who I used to be.”

Then, the great tragedy and danger lie in focusing on the outside, on the image. Existence becomes more about how one appears than how one feels. A massive investment in appearances, to the point where contact with one’s true self is gradually lost.

In this case, a person may appear full of self-confidence while at the same time basing their self-esteem on a series of external validations. Kohut described the importance of the need for mirroring and recognition in the development of a coherent self (Kohut, 1971). When this need remains fragile, validation through the gaze of others can become almost vital.

And then a paradox emerges. The more a person tries to please others, the further they drift from their true self. Because, in order to constantly adapt to the gaze of others, I must continually ask them who they want me to be.

 

When others’ perspectives cloud one’s judgment

But there is yet another, even more dangerous consequence of this estrangement from the self. When the need to remain acceptable in the eyes of others becomes dominant, we risk not only losing our authentic connection to who we are, but also beginning to lose confidence in our own judgment.

A person who feels the need to constantly conform to an external ideal may find themselves in a state of confusion. They may see, but not allow themselves to acknowledge what they see. If something threatens the image they must maintain, it can become difficult to let it take on its full psychological meaning.

“I know this might be going too far, but I have to do it.”

“I know it’s hard for me, but I can’t stop.”

“I know there are risks, but I don’t want to think about them.”

“I know this might not be good for me, but I can’t stand looking different.”

Denial isn’t necessarily conscious. It can act as a defense against something that is emotionally difficult for a person to bear. When reality clashes with the need to maintain a certain image, the psyche may try to protect that image rather than process the conflict.

And then something tragic can happen. The desire to be accepted can become stronger than the desire to protect ourselves. And this is particularly important when maintaining that image requires actions that involve real dangers.

This does not mean that every aesthetic choice is a risk, nor that anyone who chooses to change their appearance lacks judgment. The issue runs deeper. What happens when the need for acceptance becomes so pressing that a person finds it difficult to recognize, weigh, or even allow themselves to see the risks associated with what they are doing?

That is when the relationship with the Other can become one of dependence, from which it is difficult to break free. Because if the other’s acceptance has become a prerequisite for feeling worthy, then even a reasonable warning may be experienced not as protection but as a threat.

The voice that says “stop” may clash with another, deeper voice that says, “if you stop, you won’t be enough anymore.”

In this situation, reality may become distorted not because the person has failed to recognize the dangers, but because they cannot psychologically bear the consequences of taking them seriously.

This is perhaps one of the most subtle points of psychoanalytic thought. It is not enough to know something in order to be able to accept it. We may be consciously aware of a reality and at the same time psychologically deny it, when accepting it threatens an important need or a fragile self-image.

 

When we defy the limits of human nature

Herein lies one of the most difficult issues of our time. It is not just that we struggle to accept our age. It is that we find it increasingly difficult to accept that we are human.

A human being is a creature with limitations. We have a body that changes, wears out, and eventually dies. Humans have needs, dependencies, and weaknesses. They need others; they feel pain; they lose; they fail; they become disappointed. They cannot remain forever young, forever attractive, forever productive, forever strong.

These are not failures of human nature. They are its laws. And when we attempt to defy them, the price may not be merely physical, but deeply psychological—and potentially dangerous even to our very existence.

Denying the natural passage of time can turn into a never-ending quest for correction. The body becomes a work in progress that is never completed. There is always something else that needs to be changed, corrected, or delayed.

The desire never ceases, because the image can never offer what the soul truly seeks: the feeling that I am enough, that I belong, that I am worthy of love.

Because the problem—for which a solution is sought in the body and in appearances—actually lies elsewhere. The face may change, but the insecurity remains. The body may change, but the fear of rejection remains. A sign of aging may diminish, but the fear of time may remain even greater.

From a psychotherapeutic perspective, the issue is not to condemn the desire for change, but to listen to it and mature through this understanding.

Maturity means being able to desire without becoming enslaved to the desires of others. It means being able to love ourselves without being perfect. It means being able to desire without constantly needing to be desired. It means being able to look at our bodies without viewing them as works that have failed to remain unchanged over time.

The rejection of time is perhaps the deepest form of omnipotence.

Time is not our enemy. It is an inevitable condition within which we live. The body changes because we live, and the face changes because we have laughed, cried, loved, lost, and grown older. Their wear and tear does not always signify the opposite of life, for they are also traces of vitality.

Accepting the laws of human nature entails letting go of the omnipotence that promises victory in the battle against time, decay, and loss. A letting go that can, paradoxically, be extremely liberating and life-giving.

For when we no longer need to constantly fight against who we are, there is more space and time left to simply live.

This is truly one of the most difficult psychological transitions—the transition from omnipotence to maturity. To accept that one cannot be everything, cannot look young forever, cannot be liked by everyone, cannot control how others see us—and, despite all that, to be able to say:
“This is who I am. And I can desire, love, and live.”

 

Childhood trauma is one of the mental health issues of greatest concern in our time. Socioeconomic difficulties, cultural changes, and events such as the economic crisis and the pandemic have increased children’s exposure to traumatic experiences (Vasileiou, 2023). Childhood trauma encompasses not only physical or emotional abuse but also more subtle forms of neglect or loss that affect the family and society.

Childhood trauma is an experience or a series of experiences that exceed a child’s resilience and leave psychological scars capable of affecting their development. In Greece today, trauma often arises in cases of divorce, bullying, and domestic violence, as well as in situations such as the prolonged economic crisis and the experience of being a refugee (Papadopoulou, 2022).

From the perspective of psychoanalytic theory, childhood trauma is considered a disturbance in the symbolic functioning of the psyche. When trauma is not processed, it is stored in the unconscious and often manifests as anxiety, learning difficulties, or behavioral problems (Laplanche & Pontalis, 1973). In modern Greece, where traditional bonds are often disrupted, trauma can be transmitted from generation to generation, creating a “collective unconscious” of pain (Karagiannis, 2021).

The literature highlights that trauma shapes an individual’s psycho-emotional structure from the earliest years of life. Attachment theory (Bowlby, 1969) emphasizes that secure emotional bonds with caregivers protect the child from the long-term consequences of trauma, while the destabilization of these bonds increases vulnerability. Bessel van der Kolk (2014) notes that trauma is imprinted not only on the mind but also on the body, affecting emotional regulation, interpersonal relationships, and the capacity for trust. Furthermore, the systemic approach emphasizes that trauma is not an individual phenomenon but affects entire family and social systems, requiring interdisciplinary intervention and collective awareness (Minuchin, 1974).

Recent social changes in Greece, such as the increase in domestic violence during the COVID-19 pandemic (NGO “The Smile of the Child,” 2021), demonstrate how important early recognition and intervention in childhood trauma are. The media, schools, and social services must act as “systemic guardians” for the protection of children (Georgiou, 2023).

Childhood trauma in modern society has far-reaching consequences across various aspects of Greek life. In school, children with traumatic experiences often perform poorly, struggle with relationships, and are at greater risk of dropping out. On a broader level, trauma can lead to social exclusion, delinquent behavior, or substance abuse, which are often repeated as patterns of violence in adulthood. In today’s Greece, where the crisis has increased insecurity and inequality, childhood trauma often becomes an obstacle to psychological resilience and social cohesion. These consequences affect society as a whole, the functioning of institutions, trust among people, and the ability to prevent and address violence.

One very important point to emphasize regarding childhood trauma is that its effects are not limited to childhood but can profoundly influence an individual’s entire life, even if the person is not fully aware of the connection between these experiences and the difficulties they face as an adult. Trauma often “lies dormant” in the unconscious, manifesting its pain through psychosomatic symptoms, relationship difficulties, anxiety, or even recurring situations that seem inexplicable.

It is equally important to realize that trauma is not an irreversible sentence. The theory of post-traumatic growth posits that trauma, though painful, can—through appropriate processing—lead to positive changes, such as increased wisdom, empathy, and new ways of making sense of life (Tedeschi & Calhoun, 2004). With proper recognition, psychotherapeutic help, and social support, even the deepest wounds can heal, strengthening resilience and opening paths to personal growth and meaningful relationships. Hope and change are always possible, as long as there is room for understanding and therapeutic processing.

In recent years, Greek society has also faced new forms of trauma, such as online abuse and exposure to violence through social media (KETHEA, 2024). These cases require specialized interventions and the ongoing training of mental health professionals. At the same time, contemporary social movements, such as the #MeToo movement and the public discourse on children’s rights, have contributed to the creation of a more protective environment for specific population groups. However, social stereotypes, the lack of adequate support structures, and the stigma associated with psychotherapy continue to pose significant barriers to the effective prevention and treatment of childhood trauma in Greece (Bakogianni, 2024).

Addressing childhood trauma requires collective responsibility and collaboration among all stakeholders. Psychotherapy is important not only for the individual but also for healing the social structures that perpetuate trauma. Continued scientific research, public discourse, and the strengthening of psychosocial structures are essential steps toward a society that respects the psychological resilience of its children (Synodinou, 2025).

Psychoanalytic psychotherapy offers a safe environment where children, adolescents, and adults can process trauma through their relationship with the therapist (Winnicott, 2017). The goal of therapy is to understand internal conflicts and restore psychological continuity. When it comes to therapy with minors, it is very often necessary to collaborate with the parents—and possibly with the family—to break the cycle of trauma transmission (Fonagy et al., 2002).

 

Bibliography

Vasileiou, A. (2023). Childhood Trauma and Greek Society. Psyche.

Bowlby, J. (1969). Attachment and Loss: Vol. 1. Attachment. Hogarth Press.

Georgiou, D. (2023). The Child as a Victim of Violence: Institutional Interventions. University of Athens.

Fonagy, P., Target, M., Gergely, G., Allen, J. G., & Bateman, A. W. (2002). Attachment and Trauma. Routledge.

Karagiannis, T. (2021). Intergenerational Trauma in the Modern Greek Family. Journal of Psychoanalysis.

KETHEA (2024). Report on Cyberbullying in Greece.

Laplanche, J. & Pontalis, J.-B. (1973). Dictionary of Psychoanalysis. Kastaniotis.

Minuchin, S. (1974). Families and Family Therapy. Harvard University Press.

Bakogianni, L. (2024). The Stigma of Psychotherapy in Greece. Journal of Mental Health.

Papadopoulou, E. (2022). Trauma and Migration: New Challenges. Journal of Social Work.

Synodinou, A. (2025). Psychological Resilience in Childhood and Contemporary Social Challenges. Papazisis.

Tedeschi, R. G., & Calhoun, L. G. (2004). Posttraumatic Growth: Conceptual Foundations and Empirical Evidence. Psychological Inquiry, 15(1), 1–18.

Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking.

Winnicott, D.W. (2017). The Child, the Family, and the Outside World. Gavriilidis.

 

This article was published on psychology.gr

Every year we look forward to vacation as if it’s going to give us something we’ve been missing all year. And when it finally arrives, it seems to end before we’ve had our fill. There’s a strange experience that repeats itself almost every summer. We count down the days until we leave, imagine the days ahead of us, and dream of the beach, sleeping in, hanging out with friends, going for walks, and a morning without an alarm clock. And yet, when the vacation comes to an end, the phrase “My vacation wasn’t long enough” slips out effortlessly. A phrase so common that we hardly notice it anymore. And yet, perhaps it’s worth pausing to reflect on it for a moment. Maybe it really wasn’t very long. But perhaps the interesting question isn’t how many days the vacation lasts, but how much we mentally expect to happen during that time. Is it just the number of days, or is it something more?

Essentially, vacations aren’t just a period of time without work. They’re a time in which we invest many different emotional expectations. We expect to rest, to be happy, to fall in love, to connect, to sleep, to play, to take our time. We hope, perhaps, to rediscover a part of ourselves that, in the midst of daily life, has been lost somewhere amid our obligations. And perhaps that’s why vacations always seem too short.

Even before we leave, the vacation has already begun to take shape within us. We imagine it. We fill it with images and expectations.  “I’ll sleep, I’ll relax, I’ll have a wonderful time, I’ll have time for my loved ones, I’ll enjoy the sea.” We invest a great deal of emotional energy in them. In reality, we often don’t just look forward to taking a vacation; we expect the vacation to fix something. To make up for the exhaustion of an entire year. To restore the energy we’ve lost. To make us feel free again.

This is precisely where the first paradox lies. When the needs of an entire year are condensed into a few days, it’s almost inevitable that those days will seem insufficient. Vacations are expected to be more than just vacations. They’re expected to be rest, joy, reconnection, freedom, pleasure, renewal, and, sometimes, a brief escape from ourselves. And the more we expect to get out of our vacation, the easier it is to feel that it wasn’t enough.

But there’s something else, too. Pleasure carries within it a bittersweet truth: it doesn’t last forever. When we start having a good time, at some point we realize that time is passing. The first day becomes Tuesday, Tuesday becomes Friday, and suddenly there are only two days left. And then another paradox may occur: even while we’re still in the midst of the pleasure, we’re already beginning to experience its loss. “In a few days we’ll be leaving.” This thought can creep in even during the most beautiful moment. The experience is no longer just “I am here”; it is also “soon I won’t be here.”

Psychoanalytic thought reminds us that desire is not simply the same as a need. A need can be satisfied—just as I am thirsty and drink water. Desire, however, has a different dynamic. It often shifts, returns, and seeks something more. Freud, already in his work on the pleasure principle and later in *Beyond the Pleasure Principle*, highlighted the complex relationship between satisfaction, repetition, and desire (Freud, 1920). This can help us understand why even a truly wonderful week might leave us with the feeling, “I’d like more.” Not necessarily because we didn’t enjoy it enough. But because pleasure does not have the power to permanently rid us of desire. Perhaps, in fact, that “just a little more” is an integral part of the human experience.

There is, however, one aspect of modern life worth noting. Often, we go on vacation with the same mindset we have at work. We want to “make the most” of our days. To get things done. To see places. To do activities. To take photos. To not let a single day go to waste. As if there’s a voice inside us saying, “Since you have time, you have to make the most of it.” It’s the voice of demand, of performance—what Freud would call, within the framework of his theory of the psyche, a superego function: the internalized demand to conform to rules, expectations, and ideals. In this way, even rest can turn into work. And then we return from vacation exhausted from trying to rest.

Furthermore, for many people, summer also carries a special memory: childhood summers. Back when time seemed different. The three months of summer could feel endless. The days had a sense of space; there wasn’t the same feeling of “I have to get everything done.” As adults, we return to that time of year in a way every summer. Perhaps not just to a place, but also to an older sense of self. Summer can awaken a memory of a life with more play and fewer obligations.

Winnicott (1971) linked play to a special space of experience, situated between inner and outer reality, within which a person can be creative and feel more alive. Perhaps sometimes what we long for on vacation isn’t just the place. It’s the self we can be there. On vacation, we might be a little different. We wake up later. We eat without rushing. We walk more. We talk late into the night. We swim. We gaze at the horizon. We have time to think—or, even better, time to think about nothing at all. For a little while, we don’t have to be so productive. And that can be deeply relieving.

And then comes the return. The suitcase opens. Clothes are put away. The alarm clock goes off again. Emails pile up. The schedule fills up again. Along with them, our roles return: employee, parent, partner, professional, the person who has to live up to expectations. Returning, therefore, doesn’t just mean that vacation ends and work begins. It means that the roles, demands, and obligations that had temporarily eased are coming back. Perhaps that’s why sometimes coming back hurts more than the end of the vacation itself. We’re not just saying goodbye to a place; we’re not just losing a beach or a hotel. We’re temporarily losing a version of ourselves.

But perhaps the point isn’t to make our vacations long enough that we don’t miss them. That will probably never happen. Perhaps the question is, “What did my vacation give me that I miss so much when I return?” If it’s rest, we can ask ourselves where rest fits into our daily lives. If it’s connection, what has happened to our relationships the rest of the year? If it’s freedom, how much room do we allow ourselves to choose? If it’s play, when was the last time we did something without it having to be useful? And if it’s simply the feeling that “I’m more myself,” then perhaps that’s where the most important message lies. Vacations may not just be a break from life. They may be a mirror of the life we’d like to have a little more of. So perhaps we don’t need to hold on to summer forever. We need to hold on to something of what it allowed us to feel. A little more space, a little more enjoyment, a little less guilt when we’re not being productive, a little more play. And perhaps that way, during our vacation, we’ll remember that life isn’t just about what we have to get done.

Because vacations may indeed end very quickly, but…

“What if we could let a small part of that experience continue to live within us every day?”

August has become culturally associated with relaxation, family time, and a return to a more “human” pace of life. It is the month that most parents look forward to as an opportunity to make up for the time their children were deprived of during the year, but also to relax. Vacation seems to promise that relationships will be restored, that gaps will be filled, and that the family will regain its lost balance.

However, clinical experience shows that August does not always serve as a period of recovery. It is often the month when the psychological consequences of an entire year of emotional distance, chronic fatigue, and accumulated guilt surface with the greatest intensity. The closeness that vacations offer does not automatically erase what was missing in the preceding months. On the contrary, it often makes it more visible.

What is often missing from contemporary discussions about parenthood is the distinction between physical and emotional presence. A parent may work tirelessly to ensure the best possible living conditions for their child, yet at the same time be mentally exhausted and emotionally unavailable. This absence is neither a choice nor a sign of diminished love. It is, often, the result of a society that demands constant productivity and leaves little room for emotional processing.

Bion (1962) described the parent’s role as that of a “container” for the child’s emotions. The child projects their anxieties, fears, and raw emotions onto the parent, and the parent is called upon to transform them and return them in a form that can be tolerated. This is an extremely demanding psychological task, which requires that the parent themselves possess sufficient psychological reserves.

In today’s reality, however, these reserves are often depleted before the workday is even over. Work no longer ends when you leave the office. Emails, constant notifications, and always-on availability have blurred the lines between work and family time. As a result, many parents are physically at home but are unable to truly be present there mentally. The body returns home, but the mind remains trapped in the demands of the day.

The quality of a parent’s presence does not depend solely on the amount of time available. The theory of emotional availability holds that the development of a secure attachment depends on the parent’s ability to respond sensitively to the child’s emotions (Biringen, 2008). Research shows that even brief interactions can have a protective effect when they are characterized by genuine psychological presence (Siegel & Bryson, 2020).

Winnicott (1953) reminds us that a child does not need a perfect parent but a “good-enough parent.” This concept takes on particular significance today, as parents are called upon to meet conflicting demands: to be professionally successful, financially secure, emotionally available, constantly informed, and at the same time tireless.

The reality, however, is different, as most parents reach August mentally exhausted. This exhaustion is not limited to physical fatigue. In recent years, the international literature has highlighted a term that accurately describes what many parents experience but struggle to name: parental burnout. Mikolajczak, Gross, and Roskam (2019) describe parental burnout as a state of chronic emotional exhaustion related exclusively to the parental role and characterized by four key elements: intense fatigue, emotional detachment from the child, a loss of the joy associated with parenthood, and a sense that the parent is no longer the person they once were. This is a condition that is not the same as depression or occupational burnout, although it often coexists with them. What makes it unique is that it concerns the relationship with the child itself, a fact that gives rise to intense feelings of shame and guilt. Most parents will not readily talk about this experience, as they fear they will be labeled as inadequate or that their love for the child will be called into question.

This is precisely where the great psychological trap of August lies. When time suddenly becomes more abundant, many parents attempt—unconsciously—to make up for what they believe they deprived their children of during the year. Guilt turns into overindulgence. Parents find it hard to put a stop to things, to say no, or to disappoint. They allow more screen time, more sweets, more shopping, more outings, and more concessions. Not because they truly believe these things benefit the child, but because they feel that this is how they compensate for an inner void. Psychoanalytic theory describes this process as a form of overcompensation. Guilt, when it cannot be acknowledged and psychologically processed, is transformed into action. The parent cannot bear to see the child frustrated, because that frustration triggers their own sense of failure. Thus, every “no” is experienced as a personal rejection of the child rather than as a normal aspect of parenting. Melanie Klein (1937) described mature guilt as a force that motivates the restoration of relationships. However, when guilt becomes excessive, it ceases to lead to meaningful restoration and turns into anxiety. The parent does not restore the relationship; instead, they try to soothe themselves.

This has direct consequences for the functioning of boundaries. In contemporary public discourse, boundaries are often presented as a behavior management technique. In reality, from a psychoanalytic perspective, boundaries serve a much deeper function. First and foremost, they exist to organize the child’s inner world, not to control it. Winnicott (1965) describes the environment created by the parent as a “holding environment,” a psychological framework within which the child can experience even the most intense emotions without fear of falling apart. Boundaries are part of this framework. They are proof that there is an adult stable enough to withstand the child’s anger, disappointment, and frustration without withdrawing or breaking down.

For this reason, the absence of boundaries does not equate to more freedom, because the result is greater anxiety. The child seeks not only pleasure but also an adult who can protect them even from their own impulses. When every desire is satisfied, the child is left alone to face their own omnipotence. And omnipotence, however appealing it may seem, is one of the most anxiety-inducing experiences of childhood.

Furthermore, the increased presence of August often brings yet another difficulty to the surface. Many children exhibit more outbursts, reactivity, or intense clinginess precisely at the moment when parents were expecting them to “finally calm down.” The first thought is often that “the child is testing our limits.” From a psychoanalytic perspective, however, we could phrase it differently. The child is testing the availability of the relationship. It’s as if they’re unconsciously asking: “Are you here? Will you still be here even when I get angry? If I need you, will you stick around or walk away again?” Behind many of these reactions lies not an intention to manipulate, but a need to reaffirm the relationship.

Daniel Stern (1985) argued that a sense of self is built through thousands of small moments of emotional attunement. It is not grand outings or expensive vacations that shape a child’s psychological memory. It is the moments when a parent truly looks, truly listens, and responds authentically. This is perhaps the greatest misconception of our time. We have equated good parenting with the overproduction of experiences, while emotional development continues to be grounded in something much simpler: the consistent experience that there is someone available who cares about us.

August, therefore, does not need to become a month of “paying off” an “emotional debt” to our children. No relationship is healed through excess. Relationships are restored when people can tolerate their own imperfections. Perhaps the greatest challenge for the modern parent is not finding more time. It is coming to terms with the fact that they will never be the perfect parent. That they will get tired, be absent, make mistakes, get angry, and feel frustrated. What matters is not the absence of these experiences but the ability to reconnect with the relationship. As Winnicott wrote, a child does not grow up because of a parent’s perfection, but because of the reliability of that parent’s presence.

Perhaps the most precious gift of August is not the time we have at our disposal, but the opportunity to stop trying to make up for what was lost and to begin truly inhabiting our relationships. With boundaries that protect, with a presence that isn’t limited to physical closeness, and with the acceptance that authentic parenthood isn’t born of guilt, but of a parent’s ability to think, to endure, and to remain emotionally available.

 

References

Bion, W. R. (1962). Learning from Experience. Heinemann.

Biringen, Z. (2008). The Emotional Availability (EA) Scales Manual (4th ed.). Emotional Availability Inc.

Bowlby, J. (1988). A Secure Base: Parent–Child Attachment and Healthy Human Development. Basic Books.

Holden, G. W. (2020). Parenting: A Dynamic Perspective (3rd ed.). Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications.

Klein, M. (1937). Love, Guilt, and Reparation and Other Works (1921–1945). Hogarth Press. (1975 edition).

Mikolajczak, M., Gross, J. J., & Roskam, I. (2019). Parental burnout: What is it, and why does it matter? Clinical Psychological Science, 7(6), 1319–1329. https://doi.org/10.1177/2167702619858430

Roskam, I., & Mikolajczak, M. (2021). Parental burnout: Moving the focus from children to parents. New Directions for Child and Adolescent Development, 174, 7–13. https://doi.org/10.1002/cad.20376

Siegel, D. J., & Bryson, T. P. (2020). The Power of Showing Up: How Parental Presence Shapes Who Our Kids Become and How Their Brains Get Wired. Ballantine Books.

Stern, D. N. (1985). The Interpersonal World of the Infant: A View from Psychoanalysis and Developmental Psychology. Basic Books.

Winnicott, D. W. (1953). Transitional objects and transitional phenomena. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 34, 89–97.

Winnicott, D. W. (1965). The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment: Studies in the Theory of Emotional Development. Hogarth Press.

Winnicott, D. W. (1971). Playing and Reality. Tavistock Publications

People rarely turn a blind eye to self-awareness because they are ignorant. They resist because the truth comes at a high cost. The mind does not hide things by chance, but buries deep within itself what once seemed unbearable. In psychoanalytic psychotherapy, this resistance is not treated as stubbornness or failure, but as a form of protection. Every defense mechanism that is mobilized is, at its core, an act of psychological survival.

A client of mine once told me, “I don’t understand why, in every relationship I have, I end up feeling completely alone and abandoned.” Intellectually, she understood the pattern, but emotionally, she couldn’t bear its meaning. Time and again, she chose distant partners—people who were emotionally unavailable, reserved, and hard to get close to. Consciously, she called it “bad luck”; unconsciously, she was reliving the emotional atmosphere of her childhood—a father who was physically present but emotionally absent. For her, the familiar pain of disappointment was “safer” than the possibility of “unknown” true intimacy. This is one of the tragedies of the unconscious: people do not seek happiness; they seek intimacy. Even pain can become a strange comfort when it resembles the emotional world in which one first learned to survive.

Freud (1917), in one of his writings, noted among other things, “…the ego is not master in its own house.” What I understand he essentially meant was that most people imagine themselves to be rational and self-aware; yet much of human behavior is governed by hidden fears, forbidden desires, unresolved grief, and unconscious beliefs. Powerful defenses are erected to prevent these truths from reaching consciousness.

Consider, for example, the person who constantly criticizes others for selfishness. He feels generous, moral, and ready to sacrifice himself. But beneath his moral indignation lies an unconscious envy; he secretly longs for the freedom to put his own needs first, but this desire seems unacceptable to him. So, instead of acknowledging his own aggression or selfish desires, he projects them onto others. Suddenly, the world is filled with selfish people, and he can remain “innocent” in his own eyes. Projection protects the self from guilt, but it keeps the person trapped in a distorted reality.

 

Another patient came to therapy complaining of “unexplained anxiety.” She described herself as independent and successful, with complete control over her emotions. Whenever sadness reared its head, she would throw herself headlong into work, clean, run errands, go out with friends, or hit the gym. Silence terrified her. One day, after a prolonged pause during the session, she burst into tears, whispering, “I can’t… if I stop moving, I feel empty, like nothing.” That sentence contained years of unconscious pain. Deep down, this productivity wasn’t ambition; it was a defense mechanism. Beneath the constant activity, she was reliving a childhood experience of emotional neglect. She had learned very early on that her emotional needs would not be met, so she replaced desire with achievement. Success became a substitute for love, and as long as she remained busy, she could avoid the unbearable sadness of her unmet needs for attachment.

Something similar happened with a man who had been telling me for years how much he longed for intimacy. But every time someone loved him sincerely, he lost interest. Eventually, he realized something devastating: what captivated him most was the chase, because that reproduced the emotional deprivation he had learned as a child. Love was unfamiliar and emotionally unsettling to him; it wasn’t rejection he feared, but being truly seen by someone. Being known deeply is terrifying because it shatters the illusion. Many people prefer idealized versions of themselves—ones that make them feel they’re always strong, that they don’t need anyone, that they’re rational, that they’re kind, that they’re in control.

People don’t resist the truth because they prefer illusion; they do so because the body remembers what the mind has forgotten. One of the toughest battles in psychotherapy occurs when a person nears real change. Paradoxically, anxiety increases the most precisely at the moment when therapy begins to yield results. Why? Because therapy threatens the identity they had known up to that point. The symptoms, however painful they may be, become the compass by which life is organized. Depression can hold unconscious anger captive. Anxiety can act as a shield against emotional risk. Even pain offers a strange sense of continuity.

Through psychoanalytic work, this inner contradiction is gradually revealed. It becomes clear that a person who loves can, at the same time, feel hatred. That the most independent person hides within themselves a need to depend on others. That behind the most unshakable self-confidence, fear lurks. True emotional maturity comes precisely when one is able to withstand these contradictions without breaking down.

Carl Jung (2003) spoke of the “shadow”—the hidden parts of the self that are rejected by the conscious mind. The more intensely one fights against and denies these aspects, the more power one gives them in the darkness. What is not acknowledged does not disappear; it returns through the back door, transformed into symptoms, dreams, obsessions, toxic relationship patterns, addictions, or pervasive anxiety. A woman who insists that she “never gets angry” develops chronic migraines. A man who believes that vulnerability is a weakness becomes emotionally numb. A parent who denies feeling resentment toward their child becomes inexplicably irritable and cold. The unconscious will always find a way to speak, even when the conscious mind refuses to listen.

Self-awareness is deeply liberating. The moment a pattern is consciously recognized, the person is no longer at its mercy. Awareness gives rise to choice. A person who understands that their jealousy stems from childhood insecurity may still feel that twinge, but no longer confuses it with objective reality. Reflection creates a valuable psychological space between the impulse of the moment and the action. This is the true, ultimate goal of psychotherapy: freedom. Freedom from the compulsive repetition of the same choices. Freedom from invisible fears. The freedom to love without endlessly reopening old wounds.

This freedom, however, comes at a price: mourning. Mourning, not only for the pain of the past but also for the loss of illusions in the present. It is essential to mourn the fantasy of perfect parents, of perfect love, of perfect control, and even the fantasy of a perfect, unshakable, and whole self. That is why self-knowledge is so frightening. Reflection threatens the very strongholds that have kept the soul alive until now.

Our relationship with our parents is the first and most formative context in which our personality develops. The ways in which we were loved, rejected, protected, or neglected have left deep psychological imprints that we often unconsciously carry over into our adult relationships and, later, into the way we ourselves become parents. Through the psychoanalytic understanding of the psyche, it has become clear that we humans tend to repeat psychological patterns from the past, even if they cause us pain. Awareness of these patterns of repetition can be the first step toward breaking this intergenerational cycle of trauma and dysfunction.

A clearer example comes from interpersonal relationships; we often hear someone say, “They’re all the same—why do I attract them like a magnet?” “Why do I keep ending up with the same kind of people?” “It’s as if I’m constantly attracting people who hurt me.” For many people, relationships feel like a repetition—almost like a psychological script that plays out over and over again, despite the different circumstances and different people involved.

Psychoanalysis gave a name to this phenomenon as early as the beginning of the 20th century. Sigmund Freud described the concept of “repetition compulsion,” referring to the unconscious tendency of humans to repeat experiences, relationships, and emotional states linked to old wounds and unresolved conflicts (Freud, 1920). A person who grew up in an emotionally distant environment may, without realizing it, choose cold or aloof partners in their relationships or become emotionally unavailable as a parent themselves.
At first glance, this idea seems paradoxical.
Why would someone return to what causes them pain?
Why would they choose partners who reject, ignore, or belittle them?
Why would they choose to cause their child pain in the same way?

This repetition is not a conscious choice but an attempt by the psyche to “rewrite” an old trauma with a different outcome—an attempt to make amends or change the ending of the story. In other words, the psyche seems to be saying: “This time she’ll love me,” “This time she’ll see me,” “This time she won’t abandon me.” However, because these choices are based on old unconscious dynamics, the result often reenacts the trauma rather than healing it.

 

From the perspective of object relations theory, early relationships with parents are internalized and transformed into “internal objects”—that is, mental representations of the self and others (Klein, 1946). Similarly, from the perspective of attachment theory, it is argued that our earliest relationships—primarily with parents or primary caregivers—create an internal “map” of how we perceive love, security, and intimacy, internal “models” of relationships that guide emotional attachment (Bowlby, 1969). If a child grows up with an emotionally distant parent, they may unconsciously learn that love is accompanied by distance, uncertainty, or anxiety. As an adult, they may feel strangely drawn to similar people, even if those people hurt them. As a parent who did not receive emotional security in childhood, they are very likely to struggle to provide it to their own children.

In a seminal psychoanalytic paper from 1975, Selma Fraiberg, Edna Adelson, and Vivian Shapiro termed this condition “Ghosts in the Nursery.” The metaphor of “ghosts” was used to describe how unresolved childhood trauma and unhealed wounds in parents subconsciously influence the way they interact with and raise their own children. The basic idea is that when parents carry pain, neglect, or abuse—which they often do not remember—these memories become “uninvited guests” in the child’s room. Without being consciously aware of it, parents may project these past experiences onto their children or reenact them.

The most challenging aspect of this process is that the repetition usually occurs unconsciously. People rarely recognize their pattern right away. However, this does not mean they are doomed to repeat the same stories forever. Research has shown that awareness of one’s personal history and the development of reflective capacity can modify these patterns and lead to healthier relationships. When someone begins to recognize their patterns—what attracts them, what triggers their emotions, what makes them feel “at home”—they gradually gain the ability to make different choices.

One very helpful insight Donald Winnicott taught us is that a child does not need “perfect” parents, but “good enough” parents who can respond consistently and with emotional availability to the child’s needs  (Winnicott, 1965). Many parents fear they will repeat their own parents’ mistakes and are driven either to overcompensate or to feel guilty. Winnicott’s perspective is an extremely important insight, as it frees us from the idea of perfection and guides us toward a more attainable approach to this role—one that can be achieved through the conscious processing of traumas and emotions via the psychotherapeutic process.

Breaking the intergenerational cycle requires, first and foremost, a desire to do so, and then self-awareness. A person needs to recognize what happened to them and how it continues to affect them. Intense reactions toward partners and/or children usually do not relate to the present but stem from triggered, old, unprocessed emotions. “Breaking the cycle” means taking responsibility for our emotional history. Although understanding the past won’t change what happened, it can change the way we relate to ourselves and others in the present.