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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.