The Collapse Is the Point: A Psychologist’s Take on Kendall Roy
By a psychologist who’s treated more than one golden child on the edge
Let’s talk about Kendall Roy — heir apparent, corporate casualty, tragic antihero, and reluctant wrecking ball of HBO’s Succession. If Logan Roy was the iceberg, Kendall is the Titanic: doomed, dazzling, and somehow still playing music as he sinks.
Kendall is not just one of television’s most psychologically rich characters — he’s a case study in what happens when love is conditional, identity is outsourced, and failure becomes a form of self-expression. Watching him unravel isn’t just painful. It’s recognizable.
Son, Brother, Addict, Brand
Kendall Roy is the client who walks into therapy in designer clothes but can’t meet your eyes. He says he wants to “work on himself,” but what he really wants is to be told he’s okay. That he’s still salvageable. That this latest screw-up doesn’t mean he’s fundamentally broken. He wants redemption — not through introspection, but through performance.
This is a man who oscillates between grandiosity and despair at breakneck speed. He’s not sure if he’s the savior of Waystar Royco or a fraud who shouldn’t be in the room. Often, he’s both at once. And that’s the core of Kendall’s psychology: he doesn’t know who he is without someone else’s reflection.
He’s Logan’s son, yes — but he’s also his unfinished project. Kendall is the one who wanted his father’s love and his crown. The tragedy is that he never truly got either.
Addiction as Coping, Collapse as Control
Kendall’s substance use isn’t the main problem. It’s the symptom of a deeper hunger — to escape, to feel numb, to momentarily mute the white noise of self-hatred. When he’s using, he can stop performing. When he’s clean, he just finds new addictions: attention, approval, the illusion of control.
This is where therapy would begin. We’d talk about how relapse, for Kendall, is almost a ritual — a predictable response to failure or shame. He implodes before someone else can reject him. He leaks to the press before the board can vote him out. Even his attempts at healing are performative: think yoga, Instagram-friendly wellness retreats, or quoting social justice language he barely understands.
He’s not in denial. He’s in disguise.
Daddy’s Boy in a Broken Mirror
At the center of Kendall’s psychological storm is the relationship with Logan. The push-pull is almost Shakespearean — one moment a tender “I love you, Dad,” the next a public betrayal. But let’s be clear: Kendall didn’t just want to beat his father. He wanted to be him — just softer, better, with a conscience.
And yet every time he tries to separate, he crumbles. That’s the legacy of emotional enmeshment. Kendall’s sense of worth is so entangled with Logan’s opinion that autonomy feels like abandonment. He’s terrified of becoming his father and equally terrified of disappointing him. There is no safe route forward.
We call this a narcissistic injury — when early attachment wounds create a fragile self-esteem that overcompensates through image, achievement, and fantasy. Kendall isn’t shallow. He’s lost. There’s a difference.
What Would Therapy Look Like?
Kendall in therapy would be… complicated. He’d start strong: self-aware, articulate, maybe even a little charming. He’d want to show he “gets it.” But the moment we hit something real — something about shame, grief, the accident — he’d deflect or spiral. Possibly both.
The work would center around emotional regulation and identity reconstruction. Kendall’s internal compass has been outsourced for so long that he doesn’t know what his own values are. Therapy would help him separate who he is from who he thinks he needs to be in order to earn love.
We’d talk about boundaries — with his family, with substances, with the version of himself he’s constantly auditioning for. And we’d sit, gently but firmly, with his grief. For the kid he never got to be. For the man he’s trying to become. For the damage done — and the damage inherited.
Why We Can’t Look Away
We root for Kendall, even when he’s insufferable, because we recognize something universal in his fight. He wants to be good, but he doesn’t know how without being perfect. He wants to lead, but he still craves approval. He’s self-destructive, but also self-aware — a rare and painful combination.
Kendall’s story isn’t about winning. It’s about what happens when you try to fix your insides with external achievements. It’s about how hard it is to grow when no one ever showed you how to rest, reflect, or just be.
Like many of us, Kendall’s greatest fear is that he’s not enough. And his greatest tragedy is that he keeps trying to prove he is — in all the wrong ways.