How “Failure to Launch Syndrome” Brought Me to Therapy
This week’s article about “failure to launch” syndrome was guest-written by Daniel Siuba. In addition to being a writer, composer, and voice-over artist, he’s also good friend of mine! I hope you enjoy Daniel’s story.
Photo by Phil Henry on Unsplash
Discovering “Failure to Launch” Syndrome
The first time I heard the phrase, “failure to launch,” I was 24 years old, studying psychology in graduate school. Our instructor was describing various life transitions that can have profound psychological effects on people, such as relocating, having a child, or divorcing. But when she said, “failure to launch,” my ears perked up. As she explained what it was, I had a flashback to my first semester in college—an emotionally tumultuous period that led me to therapy for the first time.
At 18 years old, I was not ready for college. The night before I left home to move into my dorm, I had a party with some close friends. But as the night neared its end, I started to cry, first a little bit, then a lot. Then, I couldn’t stop crying. Although I knew I would miss my friends, on a deeper level, I knew I was crying because I wasn’t ready to go, and, worst of all, I felt like I couldn’t share this with anyone, not my friends, and certainly not my parents.
Back then, I felt I had to abide by cultural norms, and where I lived, everyone went to college. If you didn’t go, it meant there was something wrong with you. At the time, I didn’t realize how much pain I was really in, because the daily structure of high school and the consistency of my home life kept my emotional and psychological issues (mostly) in check. That is, until I moved away.
Coming Undone at College
My first few days at college were okay. I slowly met people, made some tentative friends, and got comfortable in my closet-sized room. But within a few weeks, I started to come undone. In truth, I can’t remember exactly how it all unfolded, I just know I started to sleep.
A lot.
I slept so much that I missed classes, then meals. I’d spend my waking hours calling friends from back home, going on and on about how bad everything was. I blamed the college: it was obviously the school’s fault that I felt so bad. I needed to go somewhere else, somewhere with a better music program, somewhere with more “serious” students. I created all sorts of reasons to leave.
Gradually, I started having more and more nightmares, so many that I became afraid to go to sleep at night and started actively keeping myself awake. This ping-ponging between extreme sleeplessness and excessive sleep made me feel insane. Occasionally, a friend would catch me in the hallway on the way to the bathroom and ask me where I’d been. I’d make up some excuse, but the truth was, I hadn’t gone anywhere, I’d just been hiding in my room the entire time. Eventually, I concluded that all my issues must be the result of some physical illness. It had to be that, right? I never had any of these issues before coming to college, so I must’ve caught something along the way. I resolved to see the on-campus nurse, an encounter that catalyzed a series of events that changed the course of my life.
Meeting My First Therapist
The college’s medical center was a mud-colored portable unit on the edge of campus. There I met the nurse—a short motherly woman with a poof of curly blonde hair—and told her about my symptoms. I assured her that I probably had mono and just needed a blood test to confirm it. As she listened intently, she suggested that, although I could get a blood test, I could also talk to the campus therapist.
“Have you met her yet?” she asked. “She’s right here.”
Before I could say “No,” I was shaking hands with a thin, soft-spoken woman. I wasn’t sure how old she was, but even though she was small and gentle, I could feel the strength of her presence. Something in me trusted her right away. I agreed to come to one session, just to give it a shot.
A few days later, I nervously walked to the same portable building and entered my therapist’s office. It was dark, but not scary, kind of like a warm cave filled with paintings, books, and small Buddhist statues. I spent most of the session filling out an assessment form, and I was disappointed when our time was up, because I hadn’t really gotten to talk about anything.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “We’ll talk plenty more next week.”
And she was right. In the next session, I could not shut up. I talked about growing up in an alcoholic family, being a child of divorce, attending three different high schools, feeling depressed and suicidal, the list went on. We also talked about my dreams which, since I had met her, no longer resembled nightmares.
Oh, and I cried. A lot.
Coming Back to Life
As I left my second session, I stepped onto the sidewalk where the smell of fallen leaves hit me like a bus. Their overpowering scent unleashed a wave of memories—countless autumns that had been buried in my psyche were suddenly revived; it was like all my senses were being re-calibrated. The fragrance of the present moment was unspeakably beautiful. I smiled to myself and thought, “I’m coming back to life.” For the first time in my entire life, I knew were actually changing. Until then, I didn’t think real change was possible.
On a functional level, it didn’t take long before I was eating and sleeping normally and attending classes regularly again. But my other dilemmas continued: “Is this the right place for me? What should I really be doing with my life?” These questions became the new focus of my therapy sessions. Now that I had stabilized, I could talk about what really mattered to me. This expanded my understanding of therapy: I realized that stabilization was just the beginning of the therapeutic process, not the end.
Before therapy, I had been drowning in myself, silently suffering, convinced that nothing would ever change. But my “failure to launch” led me to therapy for the first time, an event that undoubtedly altered the course of my life. Some part of me had been begging for help, and if I had refused help when it was offered, I don’t know how my story would’ve ended. Regardless, I am so grateful for these experiences, especially those first conversations with my therapist, the time spent in her office, and the unforgettable scent of fallen leaves.
If any of this article resonated with you and you feel inspired to come to therapy, please contact me through my services page or find a provider through Psychology Today. Please share this article with someone who may find it helpful, encouraging, or inspiring.
Take good care.
—Dr. Ciara, Psychologist
