Family therapy used to be about the people who lived in your house—or at least showed up for Thanksgiving.

You’d draw a genogram, map the alliances, name the conflicts, and maybe figure out why your brother still isn’t speaking to you about that thing from 2011.

But in 2025, that map is missing someone.

The algorithm.

It’s not blood-related, but it’s in the room. Every day. Every night. And it knows exactly what your teen searched for at 2 a.m. It’s shaping conversations before they happen, influencing loyalties before you’ve even had your coffee.

Welcome to the Hustle-Halo Economy

There was a time when selling your soul was a dark metaphor. Now it’s monetized.

I think the term“Hustle halo” captures the cultural glamorization of relentless self-promotion and commodification—especially when it’s framed as virtuous, empowering, or even spiritual.

Think of it as the invisible glow we place over hustle culture to make it feel not just productive, but moral.

A new study out of Spain reveals that adolescents—some as young as 12—are not only aware of OnlyFans, but see it as a realistic, even admirable path to financial independence.

The research, published in Sexuality & Culture (Anciones-Anguita & Checa Romero, 2024), documents how some teens nowadays frame erotic content creation as authentic agency, self-expression, and rational career planning.

They speak the language of entrepreneurship and empowerment.

They cite subscriber tiers and content algorithms like they’re prepping for Shark Tank. But something’s missing.

Not just parental oversight, not just regulation. Something deeper.

Something spiritual.

Once upon a time, we all had That Friend: the one who always seemed to be recovering from something.

Every minor slight was a betrayal. Every day at work a trauma.

Every romantic interest a narcissist.

But now, thanks to TikTok’s bite-sized sob stories and Reddit’s confessionals, that person isn’t just your friend—they’re a growing archetype in the collective psyche.

If you've scrolled TikTok in the past year, you’ve probably seen it: clips tagged with #PrincessTreatment—soft-lit videos of women being pampered with gifts, doors held open, and lavish surprises.

In theory, it’s a celebration of “being adored.” In practice? It’s a viral meme built on an old relational script in glittery new packaging.

Now, the trend is facing a backlash—not just from skeptical therapists and feminists, but from Gen Z itself, who are beginning to question the power dynamics hiding behind the pink bows.

So, what exactly is “Princess Treatment”?

Why did it go viral? And what does its backlash tell us about modern feedback, gender, and relational equity?

The Silent Fade of Intimacy

Forget screaming matches and drawn-out court battles.

The fastest-growing form of marital collapse isn’t loud or litigious—it’s quiet, subtle, and Instagram-friendly.

No paperwork. No betrayal. Just two adults living in a beautiful home with a shared calendar and nothing left to say to each other.

Welcome to the soft divorce, the emotional drift that turns marriage into roommate cohabitation.

And with it comes something colder still:

The Sexual Ice Age—when eroticism freezes, touch disappears, and both partners begin living like monastics with shared dental plans.

These aren’t failed marriages. They’re marriages on autopilot—efficient, empty, and inoffensive. And it’s more common than we want to admit.

What Is a Soft Divorce?

In early 2021, a 22-year-old TikToker named Mia Lind posted a video that would launch a global wellness phenomenon. Dressed in workout gear, AirPods in, she explained the rules of what she called the Hot Girl Walk:

“You walk four miles a day. While you walk, you only think about three things:

What you’re grateful for

Your goals

How hot you are”

It was catchy. It was low-barrier. And it exploded.

Millions of women adopted the practice—documenting their routes, playlists, and affirmations.

At first glance, it was just another self-care trend. But something more interesting happened: Hot Girl Walk evolved from a meme into a kind of private ritual.

And for a certain demographic—married mothers quietly withering inside their marriages—it became something else entirely:

A coping mechanism for emotional overwhelm?

There’s a quiet rebellion underway. No marches. No slogans.

Just Gen Z, boarding planes with carry-ons and a look that says, “I’m not looking for love, but if it happens in Barcelona, I won’t stop it.”

They’re calling it flocking—a dating trend where young adults travel not just to see the world, but to dodge the soulless meat-grinder of dating apps and maybe, accidentally, fall in love somewhere with decent espresso.

Flocking is the anti-algorithm. It’s Tinder, if Tinder wore hiking boots and made eye contact.

It’s the idea that maybe, just maybe, romance has better odds at a rooftop bar in Portugal than it does inside an app designed by tech bros who think human intimacy should be “scalable.”

There’s a kind of aching poetry in watching a 15-year-old explain their identity by quoting a meme. “I’m not depressed,” they tell me. “I just have main character energy... but, like, the tragic arc.”

Their voice catches between irony and sincerity, like a Gen Z version of Holden Caulfield in a Discord hoodie.

This is not a joke. This is how many of today’s teens and young adults locate their emotional reference points: through memes, hashtags, and TikTok sounds that feel more reliable than their own caregivers.

Welcome to the new extended family system: the one you build out of pixels, subreddits, and parasocial intimacy. It's real. It's raising people.

Once upon a tide—not too long ago and not too far from your favorite TikTok rabbit hole—humans began to do a very strange thing: they started becoming mermaids.

Yes, mermaiding is real.

It’s not a spell from a Disney movie or the fever dream of a beach-blissed influencer.

It’s a global aquatic subculture where people don shimmering tails, slip into the sea (or a chlorine-scented pool), and swim like they’ve just emerged from a Hans Christian Andersen footnote.

And, no, it’s not just for kids.

The average mermaider might have a day job in HR and a recurring chiropractor appointment—because, let’s face it, swimming in a silicone tail is hell on the lumbar.

But first, let’s address the kelp in the room:

Are Mermaids Real?

There’s a new presence in your relationship.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t sleep. But it’s always watching.

It’s Instagram—and it’s playing third wheel in a growing number of romantic partnerships.

We used to ask, “Are we compatible?” Now we ask, “Why didn’t they like my story?”

There was a time—not long ago—when therapy was a private affair.

You sat in a room, maybe cried a little, maybe blamed your mother, and eventually figured out how to stop screaming at the person who left the sponge in the sink again. That was the contract.

Now? Therapy lives online.

It’s in your pocket, piped directly into your nervous system via TikTok, delivered by 27-year-olds with ring lights and an MA in vibes.

Clinical terms once reserved for diagnostic manuals are now brunch banter.

Your ex isn’t a jerk. He’s a covert narcissist. Your roommate doesn’t forget the trash. She’s “weaponizing incompetence.”

We’re living in the golden age of therapy-speak—and it’s raising a serious question: are we becoming more self-aware, or just better at assigning moral superiority with a vocabulary we borrowed from someone else?