The Problem Behind the Pain

On therapy, transition, and the surprising question to ask yourself when it hurts

I notoriously suck at navigating life transitions. I’m not being self-deprecating here. I’m just reporting the facts. Ladies and Gentlemen (or gentleMAN…there may only be one of you reading), consider the following evidence for your review:

Every major meltdown I’ve ever had came on the heels of a life transition

• Marriage (x1) ✅

• Bringing home a new baby (x4) ✅✅✅✅

• Moving (x5) ✅✅✅✅✅

That’s a minimum of 10 major meltdowns in 32 years — and just to be clear, those were triggered by the happy milestones. The milestones most people celebrate.

That’s not even counting all the other inherently sad life transitions that warrant a legit meltdown — like the death of my son, both of my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, my mother-in-law, and my two nephews.

At this rate, I’m averaging a major meltdown every year, give or take.

And by “meltdown,” I mean extreme irritability, prolonged sadness, uncontrollable crying, lack of energy and motivation, racing thoughts, and anxiety so gut-twisting that I feel like I’m about to step onto a stage and speak to 100,000 people — but I’m actually just unloading the dishwasher. (Once, the meltdown involved throwing one of those clean dishes against a wall.)

So, last year, when my youngest daughter, Elliana, was preparing to leave the nest and chose a university 150 miles away, I knew transition was imminent — and so was a major meltdown. So, I decided to support myself in the best way I knew how, which included, but was not limited to, finding a good therapist.

Not my therapist…this is Elliana.

Let’s talk about therapy for a moment.

Have you been? Not to brag or anything, but since 2008, I’ve been solo three times with three different therapists, to marriage counseling once (with Jon, obvi), and with each of my three kids separately.

I’m pretty good at therapy, is what I’m saying.

So if you haven’t been, let me paint a picture of it for you:

You sit in a well-appointed office on a comfortable chair — tissues and water at the ready. What begins as pleasantries and small talk quickly turns into the therapist poking and prodding at you until you eventually squirm and say, “OUCH! That hurts!”

At which point, instead of apologizing like a normal human being, the therapist leans in and pokes harder. She starts digging around in the dusty attic of your soul, pulling out long-forgotten boxes labeled “It’s Fine, Really.” and “I’ve Moved On From This Years Ago.” She shines a flashlight into emotional corners you were perfectly happy leaving in the dark and asks deceptively innocent questions like, “And how did that make you feel?” that somehow make you cry and question all your life choices. It’s uncomfortable, slightly humiliating, and often feels like being emotionally mugged…

You do that semi-weekly until either you graduate from therapy or quit from exhaustion.

Aaaaaand apparently, that’s how healing happens.

(Truthfully, I’d rather pay someone $135/hour to tell me that I’m winning at life and my hair looks great. But I suppose that would not be very helpful in navigating life transitions.)

Anyhoo, when I started therapy in the early spring to help me process my youngest child moving away last month, I anticipated much poking and much pain.

But weirdly, the pain wasn’t where I expected it to be.

I expected it to be in the absence of Elliana, a.k.a. best buddy/shopping companion/singing partner/Gilmore Girls-watcher (I mean, we did EVERYTHING together—how am I even gonna do this?).

In the shifting atmosphere within the home, without her at the dinner table, without her milling about the kitchen, without her impromptu dance parties.

In the silent, empty, dark, perpetually clean bedroom.

In crossing the finish line of a 21-year parenting sprint of kids on a traditional school schedule, and the resulting removal of the scaffolding that framed my days for more than two decades.

Where the pain actually was:

Suppressed insecurity and unresolved issues in my marriage

Questioning the validity of this work that I’ve been devoting every spare minute to since 2005, and wondering if it’s time to shut it all down and get a “real job”

The exorbitant amount of time and energy I spend trying to manage everyone’s emotions and reactions, and…

The fact that other people’s pain and discomfort make me so uncomfortable that I’ll do almost anything to minimize it

OUCH!

In those moments when my therapist was busy poking and prodding at my life (rude!), and I’d suddenly tear up or start talking way too fast or raise my voice, she would gently interrupt my emotional spiral and ask,

“What are you feeling right now?”

Um, Like something is wrong with me?

Like, why can’t I just handle things like a normal, healthy human?

Like I wanna be done with therapy?

I wouldn’t say any of that out loud, of course, because technically those aren’t “feelings.” Usually, I’d just mumble something like, “I’m not sure what I’m feeling…a bit untethered, I guess.”

That’s when she’d try a different question — and this is the one I want to offer you today:

“What about this is hard for you?”

Do you hear the difference? It’s not, “Why is this so hard for you?” And it’s definitely not, “What’s wrong with you that you can’t handle this like a normal, healthy human?”

It’s gentle. It’s clarifying.

And somehow, that small shift takes the shame right out of the conversation. Instead of assuming there’s something wrong with me, it helps me separate what’s actually hard from what’s not.

Because here’s the truth: not everything about this transition is hard. Some of it is, sure. But some of it is fun and exciting.

What about this is hard for you? helps me name only the hard part, while allowing the fun and exciting parts to rise to the surface, too.

And once I can clearly name the hard part, I can start doing the important work — the work of figuring out how to navigate that specific thing and move through this transition without a major meltdown.