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“I don’t feel like going out. I don’t feel like seeing anyone. I don’t even feel like doing the things I usually enjoy.”

Sometimes we say this after a tough week, a busy period, or simply because we need a little time to ourselves. Other times, however, this phrase starts to come up so often that it seems to describe our entire daily life. There isn’t necessarily any specific event that explains this mood. It’s just that nothing seems interesting enough to motivate us.

And then we might start to wonder: “What’s wrong with me? Have I become lazy? Or am I just not trying hard enough?”

A lack of motivation, however, doesn’t necessarily mean a lack of willpower. It may be the way our psyche expresses that we’re tired, that we’re being pushed beyond our limits, or that for some time we’ve been neglecting our own needs.

When fatigue isn’t just physical

Daily life often demands that we keep going even when we’re truly running on empty. Work, obligations, family, social relationships, constant updates, and the feeling that we must always be available create a state of prolonged tension.

We may be sleeping, but we don’t really feel rested. We may have free time, but we can’t enjoy it. The day ends, and we feel we don’t have the energy even for something that might do us good.

In these cases, “I don’t feel like it” might actually mean “I don’t have any room left.” When our minds are constantly preoccupied with everything that needs to be done, even a pleasant activity can feel like just another obligation.

When we stop finding joy in the things we used to love

There is, however, a difference between needing rest and gradually losing interest in things that once brought us joy.

Perhaps in the past we looked forward to meeting friends, going for a walk, pursuing a hobby, or doing something just for ourselves. Now we may constantly put off these activities or do them without feeling much satisfaction.

This does not in itself mean that there is a mental disorder. Our mood is naturally influenced by our life circumstances and can change for many reasons. However, when a loss of interest persists and begins to significantly affect our daily life, relationships, work, or self-care, it’s worth paying attention to it.

Have we forgotten what we truly need?

Sometimes we’ve learned to function more on the basis of “I have to” rather than “I want to.” I have to work, I have to be consistent, I have to take care of others, I have to stay ahead of things, I have to meet expectations.

When this mindset becomes the primary way we organize our lives, it’s no wonder we struggle to recognize what truly brings us joy. We may have become so accustomed to responding to the needs of others that when the time comes to ask ourselves, “What do I want?”, we don’t have an easy answer.

A lack of motivation can then serve as a gentle wake-up call. It doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong, but that perhaps we need to pause for a moment and take stock of how we’re feeling.

We don’t always have to wait for our motivation to kick in

There’s also a paradox that often keeps us stuck. We wait until we feel better before doing something that might help us feel better.

We wait until we’re in the mood to go out, meet a friend, go for a walk, or return to an activity we used to love. But when our mood remains low, waiting can create a cycle of inaction.

Sometimes all it takes is a very small step—without expecting to feel different right away. A short walk, a phone call, spending a little time outside the house, or returning to something that once brought us joy doesn’t have to be done with enthusiasm. It’s enough just to do it.

When is it worth asking for help?

Not every period of low mood needs to be treated as a problem. There are times when it’s perfectly normal to have less energy, to want to isolate ourselves a bit, or to not feel like doing much of anything.

However, when a lack of interest and low mood persist, become more intense, or are accompanied by significant changes in sleep, appetite, concentration, daily functioning, or our interactions with others, it’s important to pay closer attention to what’s going on. Talking with a mental health professional can help us understand what’s behind this change and what we really need.

Because “I don’t feel like doing anything” isn’t always just a catchphrase. It could be a moment of exhaustion, a period of stress, or a way for our inner self to ask us to listen a little more closely.

And perhaps that’s the first step. Not to push ourselves to feel more motivated, but to ask ourselves honestly what it is that we’re missing.

The suitcase is packed. Everything has been packed into boxes, the final details have been taken care of, and a new home awaits in another city. For the child, the start of college life means freedom, independence, new experiences, and a whole new world opening up before them. For the parent, however, a very different transition begins at the same time.

The child is leaving home.

A phrase that can convey pride, joy, anxiety, and a strange sense of loss all at once. For years, the family’s daily routine had revolved around small, familiar constants. A room that was always full, an extra plate on the table, a door that opened late at night, little conversations throughout the day, even disagreements that were part of a familiar routine.

And suddenly, the home changes.

The separation isn’t just about the child

When we talk about the transition to college life, we usually focus on the new student. Will they adjust? Will they make friends? Will they be able to manage their life on their own? Will they cope with the distance?

But an equally significant change is taking place on the other side as well.

Parents are called upon to let go of a role that for years was tied to day-to-day care. Of course, they don’t stop being parents. But the way they parent changes.

They can no longer know at every moment where their child is, whether they’ve eaten, whether they’ve gotten enough sleep, whether they’ve come home, or if something is troubling them. And this loss of that daily sense of what’s going on can cause intense anxiety.

The phone easily becomes the new form of control. “Are you there yet?”, “Have you eaten?”, “Why didn’t you answer?”, “When are you coming home?” Questions that stem from concern and love, but sometimes mask the parent’s own difficulty in coping with the distance.

From Care to Trust

Perhaps this is one of the biggest changes during this period. Until now, care could be practical and immediate. Now it needs to gradually transform into trust.

Trust that the child will make choices. That some of them will be right and some will be wrong. That they’ll forget things, get frustrated, struggle, maybe spend more money than they should, or make a decision that a parent would never choose.

But it is precisely through these experiences that true autonomy begins to take shape.

Independence isn’t achieved simply because someone suddenly turns 18 or moves to another city. It’s built when they’re given the space to take charge of their own life, while knowing there’s a safe place they can return to when they need it.

For a parent, this requires a delicate balance: being available without being constantly present; showing concern without being controlling; offering advice without making decisions.

And what’s left behind at home?

But there’s also a side to this change that often causes guilt: the sadness.

A parent can be genuinely happy that their child is moving on and, at the same time, struggle with their absence. The two emotions do not cancel each other out.

The empty room, the change in the couple’s dynamic, and the different schedules at home can make the absence feel much more acute during the first few weeks. Especially when a large part of a parent’s life had been organized around the children’s needs, another question may arise:

“And now, what do I do?”

Perhaps this is the point where separation gives way to a new opportunity.

A new relationship begins

A child leaving home doesn’t just mean they gain more space to discover who they are. It creates space for the parent, too.

For interests that had been put on hold. For more time with a partner or friends. For personal goals that had been postponed. Even for the simple discovery of a daily life that doesn’t revolve exclusively around parenting.

At the same time, a different relationship with the child begins to take shape. Gradually, the parent no longer relates solely to the child who has grown up, but to the adult that child is becoming.

Conversations change. Boundaries shift. The need for control may give way to communication, and daily interaction evolves into a relationship based more on choice and less on necessity.

This transition doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time on both sides.

The child needs to learn what it’s like to stand on their own. And the parent needs to learn something just as difficult: what it’s like to give space without pulling away.

Perhaps, in the end, raising a child involves a paradox. For years, you try to give them everything they need so that one day they can stand on their own without you by their side. And when that moment comes, it may be much harder than you ever imagined.

But when a child leaves home, they don’t leave the relationship.

The relationship simply takes on a different form.

And perhaps this is one of the most important steps in parenthood: being able to remain a constant presence in your child’s life, without needing to be at the center of it anymore.

Vacation is over, the suitcases are being unpacked, and little by little, everyday life returns. Alarm clocks go off again, commitments fill up the calendar, and the pace of life begins to resemble what we left behind just a few weeks ago. For many people, this transition isn’t always easy. It’s accompanied by a sense of melancholy, low spirits, or even anxiety, creating what’s often called “post-vacation blues.”

The truth is that the difficulty of returning to routine is a normal reaction. For a while, we lived with fewer restrictions, more free time, and greater distance from the demands of everyday life. When this changes abruptly, the brain needs time to adjust. It’s not just work or obligations that make things difficult for us. It’s the transition from one way of life to another.

Often, this change is accompanied by the feeling that the good times are over and that we’re returning to a reality full of responsibilities. The more we idealize vacations and view everyday life as something we simply have to endure, the harder it becomes to adjust. An internal divide forms between the life we enjoy and the life we “have to” live.

But everyday life doesn’t have to be the enemy of vacations. On the contrary, it’s the biggest part of our lives. And the more we manage to make room in it for small moments of joy, rest, and self-care, the less our well-being depends on just a few weeks out of the year.

Returning home can also serve as a natural fresh start. Just like the beginning of a new year, the end of summer offers us the chance to take stock. What really did us good on vacation? Was it getting more sleep? Time spent with loved ones? Spontaneous walks? Taking a break from our phone screens? If these things were so important for our mental well-being, perhaps it’s worth asking ourselves how we can maintain them—even if only to a small extent—once we’re back.

We often believe that change requires big decisions. In reality, mental resilience is built through small, consistent habits. A daily walk, a little time without a cell phone before bed, a get-together with friends during the week, or the decision to better protect our personal time can have a greater impact than we imagine.

Returning to work or school is also an opportunity to reevaluate how we organize our daily lives. Often, after a period of rest, we see more clearly which habits drain us and which ones help us feel better. Perhaps this is the right time to set more realistic boundaries, seek a better work-life balance, or take up an activity we’ve been putting off for a while.

This doesn’t mean the adjustment will happen overnight. It’s normal during the first few days to feel a bit down, have trouble concentrating, or feel like we “haven’t gotten back into the swing of things yet.” Just as it took time to wind down at the start of vacation, it also takes time to get back into our previous routines. The pressure to get back on track immediately can make this process even more difficult.

Perhaps, then, the most important thing we can do is to approach the return with more compassion toward ourselves. We don’t have to be at 100 percent from day one. We need to allow ourselves time to adjust, just as we would with any other change.

Vacations aren’t just for resting. They’re also there to remind us of what truly matters to us. If we return with a better understanding of our needs and the intention to take better care of our daily lives, then coming back doesn’t mean the end of summer. It can mark the beginning of a new, more balanced relationship with time, our obligations, and ourselves.

 

Perhaps, in the end, the most important thing we bring back from vacation isn’t the souvenirs or the photos. It’s the opportunity to return a little different from how we left. And that’s a change worth keeping for much longer than just one summer.

Summer is perhaps the season with the highest expectations. It’s the time of year we associate with relaxation, carefree living, wonderful experiences, and moments we’ll remember all year long. At the same time, however, it’s also the season when many people feel a strange sense of dissatisfaction more acutely. Not because something is necessarily going wrong in their lives, but because it seems like everyone else’s life is going better.

A quick scroll through social media is enough to be confronted with countless images of beaches, trips, groups of friends, sunsets, and moments that seem almost perfect. Without realizing it, we start comparing the reality of our own daily lives to the best moments of others’ lives. And that’s when the now-familiar FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—kicks in: the fear that we’re missing out on something important that everyone else seems to be experiencing.

What’s interesting is that FOMO isn’t just about the experiences we’re actually missing out on. It’s mainly about the feeling that we should be experiencing something more than what we’re experiencing right now. When we constantly see images of happiness and fun, our brain begins to create a template for what our summer “should” be like. Every time our own reality differs from this template, disappointment sets in.

Comparing ourselves to others is a natural human process. Through it, we try to understand our place in the world. However, social media has changed the rules of the game. In the past, we compared ourselves to just a few people in our immediate circle. Today, we compare ourselves daily to dozens or hundreds of people, seeing only the most carefully curated moments of their lives.

No one readily posts about the boring commute home, the loneliness of an afternoon, the exhaustion of a difficult day, or the moments of self-doubt they experience. What we see is a small, curated slice of reality. Nevertheless, we often treat it as if it were the whole picture.

This creates the illusion that others are constantly having a better time, traveling more, hanging out with more interesting people, or making the most of their summer in a more meaningful way. And the more we believe this image, the easier it becomes to undervalue our own experiences.

Often, the result isn’t just jealousy or disappointment. It’s a constant internal pressure to fill every day with activities, outings, and experiences. It’s as if there’s an invisible obligation to have the “perfect summer.” And yet, this pursuit of perfection often distances us from truly enjoying the moment.

When we constantly focus on what others are doing, we lose touch with what we truly need. Perhaps for some, the ideal summer is filled with travel and social activities. For someone else, it might be a few quiet days, more personal time, or simply the chance to rest after a demanding year. There’s no one “right” way to spend the summer, no matter how hard social media tries to convince us otherwise.

Recognizing this trap is the first and most important step. When we start to notice how our mood is affected by what we see on the screen, we gain greater freedom from it. We don’t need to stop using social media, but we should remember that it presents a curated narrative and not the whole truth.

Perhaps it’s worth asking ourselves: if we didn’t see what others are doing, how would we really want to spend this summer? The answer to that question is often very different from the one dictated by the images we consume every day.

Summer doesn’t have to be spectacular to be meaningful. It doesn’t have to be filled with photos, destinations, or experiences that will impress others. Its value lies not in how “good” it looks to the outside world, but in how authentically we experience it.

Perhaps, in the end, the greatest challenge isn’t to avoid missing out on an experience. It’s not missing out on our own experience by trying to live someone else’s life. And that’s something worth remembering every time the screen convinces us that summer is always somewhere else.

The transition to summer is often presented as a natural opportunity to relax, unwind, and escape the pressures of everyday life. And yet, for many people, this change is not experienced solely as a relief. On the contrary, it is accompanied by a sense of disorganization, difficulty concentrating, and an inner instability that is hard to explain in simple terms.

What changes is not just the schedule, but the very way the brain organizes daily life. Throughout the year, routine acts as an invisible framework that reduces the need for constant decision-making. We know when we wake up, when we work, and when we rest, and this creates a sense of stability that we don’t always realize, but which is deeply regulatory for our mental balance.

When this framework loosens up in the summer, the experience of daily life changes radically. Schedules become more flexible, obligations are fewer or more sporadic, and time takes on a more fluid form. For some, this is liberating. For others, however, this lack of structure creates a paradoxical feeling of emptiness, as if something is missing that they hadn’t even noticed before.

The disorganization that arises during these periods isn’t necessarily a sign of dysfunction. It is often the result of adaptation. The brain needs time to transition from a structured rhythm to a freer one, and this transitional phase may be accompanied by difficulty concentrating, mood swings, or a sense that time “isn’t flowing properly.” It’s as if the internal clock that organizes our daily experience has been temporarily lost.

At the same time, having more free time doesn’t always work out the way we imagine it would. Without a basic framework, it can easily turn into aimlessness: more procrastination, more digital consumption, and less sense of accomplishment throughout the day. This doesn’t mean that free time is a problem; it does mean, however, that the human mind still needs points of reference, even during rest.

Managing this situation does not require a return to strict structures or complete control over time. Instead, it is more helpful to establish a gentler form of routine, one where the pressure to be productive does not dominate, but rather the stability of key points throughout the day does. Small, recurring habits—such as a consistent wake-up time, a daily meal, or a simple activity outside the home—can act as anchors that stabilize your rhythm without restricting it.

Equally important is the shift from “I must” to “I choose.” Summer isn’t as conducive to strict goal-setting as winter is. Instead of trying to fill every day with specific obligations, it’s more effective to give the day direction through intentions. This shift reduces internal pressure and allows for greater flexibility, without losing a sense of direction.

Within this context, digital consumption also plays a crucial role. The absence of structure is often replaced by endless scrolling, which does not truly rest the brain but rather intensifies the scattering of attention. Conscious use of social media can serve as a protective measure—not as a restriction, but as a way to restore a clearer rhythm to daily life.

Ultimately, the summer disruption isn’t something that needs to be fixed immediately. It’s more of a transitional phase that shows just how deeply we’ve become attached to our routine. When that routine changes, it takes time to find a new balance. And this balance is never exactly the same as the previous one, but it can be just as functional—perhaps even more relaxed.

The important thing isn’t to maintain the same pace all year round, but to learn to adapt to its natural changes. Summer, with its fluidity and relaxed pace, gives us exactly this opportunity: to reexamine our relationship with time—not as something we must control completely, but as something within which we can move with greater flexibility and awareness.

Menstrual pain is a multifactorial experience in which biological, psychological, and relational factors intertwine. This article attempts a biopsychosocial and systemic interpretation of dysmenorrhea, incorporating psychoanalytic concepts such as somatization, symbolization, and identification processes. Without disputing the organic basis of the pain, the hypothesis is examined that in certain cases the bodily experience may be involved in processes of relationship regulation, seeking care, or intergenerational identification. Theoretical approaches, research data, and a clinical example are presented that highlight the complex interaction between the body, the psyche, and the family system.

 

Dysmenorrhea is one of the most common gynecological experiences during reproductive years and can significantly affect daily functioning. Although its biological mechanisms—such as increased prostaglandin production and hormonal fluctuations—are well documented, the experience of pain cannot be isolated from the psychological and relational context in which it is experienced.

The biopsychosocial model suggests that the perception of pain is shaped by the interaction of physical processes, emotional regulation, and social relationships. In this context, pain is not viewed exclusively as a biological symptom but also as a potential vehicle for psychological meaning.

 

Psychoanalytic Approach: Somatization and Symbolism

Psychoanalytic theory has extensively described the phenomenon of somatization, that is, the conversion of psychological conflicts or emotional tensions into physical symptoms. In classical psychoanalytic thought, the body can function as a “stage” on which unconscious processes are acted out when symbolic processing is insufficient.

In the context of menstruation, recurring pain may be linked to symbolic processes related to female identity, fertility, dependence, or autonomy. The experience of bleeding and physical pain may trigger unconscious fantasies surrounding femininity, loss, or bodily transformation.

From the perspective of object relations theory, physical symptoms may also be linked to early relational patterns. If care in childhood was provided primarily during times of illness or weakness, the body may unconsciously associate vulnerability with receiving care. In such cases, pain may serve as a silent signal requesting attention or emotional closeness.

 

Mental Health and the Experience of Pain

Research data suggest that the severity of dysmenorrhea is associated with increased levels of anxiety and depressive symptoms. The relationship appears to be bidirectional: psychological distress may increase sensitivity to pain, while recurrent physical discomfort may exacerbate psychological distress.

In premenstrual syndromes, and particularly in premenstrual dysphoric disorder, strong associations with mood disorders have been described. Nevertheless, the literature does not support a direct causal link between specific personality disorders and dysmenorrhea. Instead, it appears that factors such as emotional reactivity, difficulty regulating emotions, or catastrophizing pain may influence the intensity of the experience.

 

Systemic Perspective and Family Dynamics

Systemic theory shifts the focus from the individual to the system of relationships in which the individual is embedded. From this perspective, a symptom is not viewed solely as an individual dysfunction but also as a potential regulatory process within the family system.

According to Bowen’s theory of self-differentiation, individuals with a lower degree of differentiation may experience physical symptoms during periods of heightened emotional tension within the family system. In these cases, the body may function as a means of release or communication of unspoken conflicts.

At the same time, the concept of intergenerational transmission refers to the transfer of narratives, roles, and expectations from one generation to the next. In families where the experience of this period is associated with a narrative of intense pain or female vulnerability, a teenage girl may identify with this pattern, consciously or unconsciously internalizing a similar bodily experience.

 

Clinical Case Study

We present the case of a 26-year-old woman with a history of severe primary dysmenorrhea dating back to age 13. During her adolescence, she reported a particularly close emotional relationship with an older woman in her family, who also experienced severe menstrual pain. The patient described a strong identification with this woman, both in terms of bodily experience and the image of feminine vulnerability.

In the course of psychotherapeutic exploration, evidence emerged of intense relational fusion and limited differentiation from this particular figure. The onset of symptoms often coincided with periods of increased emotional closeness or dependence.

As she progressed into early adulthood, the patient gradually began to differentiate herself from this relationship, developing greater autonomy, self-confidence, and stability in her personal identity. At the same time, a significant reduction in the intensity of her pain was observed.

Through the therapeutic process, she herself formulated the hypothesis that the pain functioned in part as a symbolic bond of identification and as a way of maintaining a form of emotional closeness. As her sense of differentiation and self-esteem strengthened, the need for this form of physical communication appeared to diminish.

This case does not establish a causal relationship, but it supports the idea that, in certain contexts, physical symptoms may be integrated into processes of identification, symbolization, and relational regulation.

 

Research Directions

Future studies could investigate the relationship between dysmenorrhea severity, indicators of emotional regulation, and the degree of self-differentiation. The use of mixed methods—quantitative pain and psychological distress scales combined with qualitative interviews and genogram analysis—could contribute to a better understanding of the intergenerational and relational dimensions of the phenomenon.

 

Conclusions

Menstrual pain is a multidimensional phenomenon in which the body, the psyche, and relationships interact. The psychoanalytic and systemic approach does not aim to dispute the biological reality of pain, but rather to broaden our understanding of it. In some cases, the body can function as a vehicle for symbolism and relational communication, offering a window into the deeper processes that link the experience of pain to personal and family history.

 

Exam season is one of the most intense challenges modern families face. As the dates for promotion exams or the Panhellenic Exams approach, the atmosphere at home often changes. Time pressure and the expectation of success create an environment where stress ceases to be productive and becomes a burden that weighs heavily on both children and parents.

Along this journey, the teenager faces his or her first major test of their abilities. Stress often manifests as physical symptoms, such as sleep disturbances, irritability, or even a sense of resignation. At the same time, parents experience their own parallel anxiety. Their desire to see their child succeed often translates into overprotectiveness or constant monitoring—behaviors that unintentionally intensify the pressure the student is already feeling.

For a parent to be a true source of support, it is essential to redefine their role. The most valuable help is not reviewing the material, but creating an emotional safe haven. This is achieved when the parent listens without judgment and accepts that their child’s worth remains unchanged, regardless of the outcome of a test. The adult’s composure serves as a mirror for the teenager. If the parent remains grounded, the child gets the message that life is bigger than an exam period.

However, there are times when the family’s coping mechanisms are exhausted. This is where psychotherapy comes in, serving as an external, objective ally. Through the therapeutic process, the adolescent acquires specific tools to recognize their dysfunctional thoughts and manage their physical stress responses. At the same time, psychotherapy offers parents a space for emotional release and guidance, helping them communicate with their child in a way that builds trust rather than erecting walls.

Seeking support from a mental health professional is not a sign of weakness, but a strategic choice for self-care. This intervention helps defuse the crisis and ensures that the exam period concludes without leaving psychological scars on the adolescent or damaging family relationships. With the right guidance, this challenge can be transformed into an experience of maturation and self-awareness that will accompany the child through every subsequent step of their life.

In Greece, the Easter season is inextricably linked to a return to one’s roots and gathering around the family table. While for many this image evokes warmth and security, for a significant number of adults, the anticipation of the holidays is accompanied by a subtle sense of pressure. The transition from the independent daily routine of adult life back to the family home often triggers an unconscious mechanism of regression, in which past roles are revived and old dynamics resurface, causing an internal conflict between who we are today and what our family expects of us.

The Easter dinner table often becomes a battleground where personal choices are scrutinized by family members. Intrusive questions about our personal lives, career paths, or decisions about the future—though often disguised as genuine interest—are, in reality, violations of our personal boundaries. The difficulty lies in the fact that within the family context, setting boundaries is mistakenly perceived as a lack of love or respect. As adults, however, we must recognize that protecting our personal space is not an act of hostility, but a necessary condition for maintaining healthy and honest relationships with our loved ones.

The emotional exhaustion we feel in these situations stems from trying to live up to an idealized holiday scenario that rarely matches reality. Accepting that the Easter dinner table may not be entirely pleasant, or that disagreements with parents and relatives are part of a complex dynamic, lifts a great weight off our shoulders. We are not responsible for the happiness of the entire family, nor do we have to sacrifice our own peace of mind to maintain a false sense of harmony. The choice to distance ourselves from toxic conversations or to limit our exposure to situations that drain us is a sign of high emotional intelligence.

The true meaning of Resurrection on a personal level can be found in coming to terms with the imperfections of our family ties. Sitting at the same table while maintaining your adult identity—without letting old criticisms shake you—is a significant psychotherapeutic achievement. This year, let’s prioritize self-care, recognizing that the most important gift we can offer ourselves and others is our presence—one rooted in inner freedom rather than coercion.

Psychoanalytic psychotherapy for children is not merely a method of intervention; it is a profound, sensitive, and meaningful way to “listen” to a child’s inner world, even when the child does not yet have the words to describe it. Unlike adults, a child will rarely sit down to explain what is troubling them. Instead, they choose to speak through their drawings, silences, sudden outbursts, dreams, or fears.

In this process, play ceases to be a mere pastime and becomes a language in its own right. The therapy room becomes a safe “in-between space,” where the child can bring their anger, jealousy, sadness, or anxiety. It is a place where imagination and creativity flourish without the rush of the outside world and, above all, without the fear of judgment.

The History Behind the Symptom

This approach, which has its roots in the work of Sigmund Freud and evolved through the significant contributions of Melanie Klein and Donald Winnicott, has taught us to look beyond the surface. In psychoanalytic psychotherapy, we do not evaluate a symptom as something in isolation. Whether it involves anxiety and phobias, or aggression and learning difficulties, our question remains the same: What story does this behavior tell?

We are interested in discovering what need the child is trying to express and what internal conflict lies beneath the surface. Through a stable and safe therapeutic relationship, the child experiences something deeply restorative: they encounter an adult who “can handle” their emotions. A person who is not frightened by the child’s anger, does not reject the child’s sadness, and does not pressure the child to be a “good kid” or to achieve something at all costs. This sense of acceptance creates the inner security that serves as fertile ground for the child’s psychological development.

A Shared Journey with Parents

On this journey, collaboration with parents is an integral and invaluable part. The purpose of the therapeutic process is not to blame or judge parents, but to provide them with meaningful support. Our goal is to help them gain a deeper understanding of their child and discover new, more effective ways to connect with them.

Psychoanalytic psychotherapy does not promise magic formulas or quick fixes. It does, however, promise something much more stable and enduring: to help the child get to know themselves, learn to manage their emotions, and build meaningful relationships. The ultimate goal is to develop a vibrant and stable sense of “self”—that is, the strength to stand confidently in the world.