Psychologist and psychotherapist in Milan, Porta Romana

I have been working as a psychotherapist for several years now. The majority of my patients are young women between the ages of 25 and 40. They mostly come to therapy for anxiety symptoms, panic attacks, and depressive states. The triggering factors can vary—family dynamics, work or academic pressure, romantic disappointments.
What often surprises me about these seemingly fragile young women is, in reality, their exceptional intelligence, the inner resources they struggle to bring to light but undeniably possess, their ability to look within themselves, and above all their strong desire to work on themselves, to change, to grow.
And yet something holds them back. Something makes them doubt what they could be, even who they already are. It causes them to stumble, to appear resigned, discouraged, so disappointed and disheartened that they can no longer truly see, recognize, or know themselves.
It is difficult to paint a general picture—each of them has a unique story, different challenges, and a personal path of growth and transformation. However, I have identified some common elements, and in particular one that stands out: loneliness.
I am not referring to being physically alone or isolated from the world. These young women often—though not always—have a wide network of friends and acquaintances with whom they spend their free time and share experiences. But at a certain point, it feels as though this is not enough. It is as if the inner emptiness they experience can only be temporarily covered by the noise of conversations, nights out, group vacations—but never truly filled.
Their greatest desire remains finding a partner who appreciates, understands, and cares for them—someone with whom they can share life. Seemingly simple things: going to the movies, having dinner together, making plans, sharing laughter, exchanging a knowing glance. Yet these simple things represent the longing to feel complete, loved, and respected.
And where are these men? Are they all already “taken”? Especially after the age of thirty, as they witness friends getting engaged, married, and starting families, there is often a painful sense of having been discarded—or worse, of having to settle for what remains. The belief emerges that if someone is still single, there must be something wrong with him—so perhaps there must be something wrong with them as well.
The search for a partner then becomes a pressured and often disappointing mission. Once friends-of-friends are exhausted, attention shifts to acquaintances, colleagues, singles vacations, and social media—especially Tinder. After all, we live in an increasingly connected society, where meeting places have moved from social gatherings to phone screens. On a screen, we can be everything and its opposite, with seemingly minimal risk.
I say “seemingly” because online dating can be both facilitating and devastating. Very often, women encounter men who immediately state what they do not want: no serious relationships, no blondes, no brunettes, no short or tall women, no “hysterical” or “demanding” types. The starting point is exclusion, not desire—and this is already revealing.
Whether declared or implied, the message is that one meets with a single purpose—and only that. Everything happens at lightning speed. The traditional stages of courtship are shortened or reduced to virtual exchanges. Conversations quickly become sexually charged. Before even meeting, touching, or truly knowing each other, a kind of artificial intimacy is created—full of expectation. If reality fails to match that expectation, the result is a blow to self-esteem and a cascade of questions: What is wrong with me? What did I do wrong? Why am I not enough?
Endings are just as sudden and drastic. From texting until late at night, to the man suddenly disappearing without a trace—except for the clear sign that he remains active on the app, searching for someone else.
At first, there is a kind of frenzy—the excitement of finally succeeding in meeting someone. Conversations happen with multiple people simultaneously, there are several dates, sex may happen lightly and with the desire to let go. But when the endings follow the same pattern, what remains is emotional emptiness.
So is Tinder to blame? Clearly not. This system accelerates and amplifies a process that often begins with an already present sense of self-devaluation. If Tinder were the problem, simply not using it would solve everything. Yet similar dynamics occur even when meetings happen in real life.
The deeper issue is the encounter itself—the fear of revealing oneself, of sharing dreams and fears, of not being adequate, not being understood, of risking too much and being hurt. These fears inhibit the possibility of opening up and getting to know one another authentically. And this fear is not only female; many men experience the same emotional struggles, albeit from different perspectives.
So what can be done if genuine connection feels impossible?
The work we do in psychotherapy focuses on developing self-awareness and discovering one’s own strength, resilience, and capacity to be and to give. We strengthen self-esteem and emotional independence—not to eliminate the need for another person, but to allow for an equal partnership.
Not as the girl who needs to be saved, loved, and supported—but as a companion with whom to share life and walk side by side.
And often therapy is not about fixing something broken, but about engaging in a transformative process of personal discovery—facing oneself and one’s experiences, evolving and reshaping toward a conscious and mature self.

We are used to imagining pregnancy as a state of grace. We feel we must be proud of it, proud of our growing belly, appear happy and fulfilled, ready for a new life as a family of three.
Yet reality is often very different. You may feel uncomfortable because you are living through a physically uncomfortable experience—limited in your movements, gaining weight in places you would rather not, with legs and feet so swollen that you need shoes two sizes bigger. Not to mention back pain, inflamed sciatica, constant reflux, nausea, and that frustrating negative toxoplasmosis result that prevents you from eating cured meats, meat, fish, or vegetables without careful disinfection—so goodbye to restaurants, sandwiches, sushi, and even a simple fresh salad.
And if we talk about intimacy with your partner, it often swings from one extreme to the other: either total abstinence because he fears harming the baby while you long for tenderness and closeness, or an overwhelming desire on his part that clashes with your complete lack of interest in being touched.
So where is this “state of grace”? Why does no one prepare you for the fact that pregnancy is hard work? It is almost as if generations of women, in silent agreement, have passed down a comforting myth—leaving those who experience perfectly normal emotions feeling deeply wrong.
Pregnancy is both an emotional and physical earthquake—nine months of preparation for what will be a radical life change: the birth of a child.
The first major transformation of this kind most of us experienced during adolescence, when both our bodies and our emotions seemed to move on separate tracks. You wanted to express joy but felt anger instead; you were sad but appeared restless; you were angry but could only cry; you longed for a hug yet ended up arguing with your parents.
After adolescence, things usually improve. You look in the mirror and see a young woman—features you have come to accept, a body more or less proportionate. And if you are fortunate, you learn to love yourself.
Pregnancy reshuffles all the cards. Your body is no longer only yours—it gives absolute priority to the life growing inside you. It disrupts everything you once felt certain about and brings, month after month, fears, anxieties, and conflicting emotions that are difficult to keep up with.
Is that really me in the mirror? Which version of myself am I looking at? You may not recognize yourself because you have not yet come to know yourself in this new role—not yet as a future mother. What will it be like to be responsible for someone else? Will I be good enough? Will I be capable of raising and loving my child?
Another important aspect not to underestimate is that our body becomes the visible proof of our near-total loss of control. Motherhood confronts us with the impossibility of controlling events. The body changes without our consent, just as our lives will change in ways we cannot fully predict.
However, while many events will follow their natural course with limited influence from us, it is also true that once the upheaval has been lived through, we will gradually be able to rebuild our lives piece by piece, restoring a coherent vision of ourselves. How? With patience and a spirit of discovery—without the anxiety of needing to be perfect, without expecting everything to return to how it was before. Because it will not be the same. It will be a new version of ourselves—of our body, our mind, our emotions, our family, and our relationship.
We must give ourselves time to get to know ourselves again—and to get to know this new life that is arriving, a small person with their own unique traits, who is part of us and at the same time completely their own individual.
From the very first moment we see those two lines on the pregnancy test, everything begins to change. We cannot expect too much from ourselves. It will take time—for the body to recover and for the mind to adjust to the new reality. And those stretch marks, that softer breast, that extra pound more or less—these will be the marks of the greatest battle a woman faces in her life. Like a superhero, though perhaps one who carries her own form of kryptonite.