How Does The Myth Of Sisyphus Relate To Existential Therapy?

I’ve thought about Sisyphus while helping friends and in late-night conversations more than I’ll admit. To me, the myth is a crisp metaphor for what existential therapy often does: it refuses to smooth out the hard edges of life and instead helps people choose how to live with them. Where Camus sees revolt against absurdity as a source of authenticity, therapy turns that revolt into practice — identifying what matters, deciding to act on it, and owning the responsibility (and anxiety) that comes with those actions.

Concretely, that can look like naming the things someone cares about, setting tiny experiments aligned with those values, and treating setbacks as part of the project rather than proof of futility. It also involves warning against two traps: either spiraling into nihilism or performing endless hustle to avoid feeling. The healthy middle is a kind of dignified persistence — the Sisyphus who knows the stone will roll back but still finds meaning in the push. With friends, I usually suggest small, stubborn rituals: a creative hour, a phone call you’ve been avoiding, or a short-term pledge to a project — all tiny rebellions against the void that, over time, change how you relate to it.

There’s something quietly stubborn about how I picture Sisyphus these days: not a defeated man, but someone who has been forced to take responsibility for a task that will never be finished. When I think about 'The Myth of Sisyphus' and how it threads into existential therapy, I start with that confrontation — the shock of realizing life doesn’t hand over an objective blueprint. Camus talks about the absurd: the clash between our longing for meaning and the indifferent world. Existential therapy takes that confrontation and turns it into a working space. It doesn’t try to paper over the gap; it helps people live within it, choosing and committing even without cosmic guarantees.

In practice, this shows up as helping someone face the big givens — death, freedom, isolation, and meaninglessness — and then notice the choices that open up. Think of a person who keeps postponing risky choices because they’re waiting for a guarantee; existential work might encourage experiments in living, clarifying values, and accepting anxiety as a companion rather than a sign of failure. Sisyphus, in my mind, becomes a model for an embodied ethic: if the push is the point, then how you push matters. Therapists — or anyone doing deep reflective work — might use Socratic questioning, role-play, or value-clarification exercises to help someone discover which stones are theirs to roll.

I also like to bring in the paradox Camus points out: recognizing absurdity can free you. Once you admit there’s no handed-down meaning, you’re freer to invent a life that fits. That said, it’s not a license for romanticizing endless struggle. There’s a big ethical and relational component — people need support, community, and sometimes practical problem-solving alongside philosophical clarity. So when I sit with someone wrestling with purposelessness, I try to balance fierce acceptance of uncertainty with practical scaffolding: small commitments, creative projects, routines that build identity. Sisyphus isn’t a hero because he grins at futility; he crafts a way to be alive within it. That tiny shift — from despair to stubborn creation — is where I see the myth and therapy really hum, and it keeps me hopeful in the weirdest, most ordinary moments.