One of the most oddly prophetic scenes in Mean Girls isn’t about social sabotage or cafeteria politics. It’s a panicked health teacher standing in front of a blackboard, warning teenagers:

“Don’t have sex because you will get pregnant and die.”

It played for laughs, but it captured a real chapter in American culture.

Throughout the 1990s, abstinence education reigned.

Sex-ed classes, after-school specials, and even sitcoms like Boy Meets World or 7th Heaven hammered home one message:

Sex = catastrophe. Better not risk it.

The intention was good.

Teen pregnancy rates were high, and policymakers needed a solution. But the execution? Sometimes fear-based, sometimes shame-based, and almost always incomplete.

At a certain point, success becomes its own insulation.
The gestures that once built connection — mistakes, doubts, the unscripted laugh — are replaced by coordination and polish.
What’s lost isn’t love, but access.

A marriage becomes another achievement: admired, functional, and faintly routine.
Many won’t notice.
But a few will.

And for them, the real work begins:
learning how to be human with each other, again.

A fascinating new study published in The Journal of Sex Research (Kruger et al., 2025) suggests that psychedelic experiences may do more than temporarily alter perception—they may also quietly, sometimes dramatically, shift the way people experience sexuality, gender, and intimate relationships.

Surveying 581 adults who had used psychedelics, researchers found that the majority reported noticeable changes in sexual attraction, gender expression, and relationship dynamics—sometimes fleeting, often lasting well beyond the immediate effects.

Grief may not end at the grave.

A new study suggests that the majority of bereaved souls—whether mourning a spouse or a beloved pet—report vivid dreams or waking sensations involving the deceased.

Far from being rare or pathological, these experiences appear to be a common part of the human grieving process, tightly woven into how people maintain emotional bonds after death.

In fact, people who dream of their lost loved ones are significantly more likely to experience their presence while awake.

This overlap between dreaming and waking encounters challenges older assumptions that such experiences are signs of denial, avoidance, or mental instability.

Instead, they may represent something far more ordinary—and far more vital to healing.

Marriage is a contract written in disappearing ink.
You think you know what you’re signing — but identity, culture, and the private terrain of suffering are always amending the terms when you’re not looking.

Nowhere is this more painfully obvious than in marriages where the husband transitions to female.

The research offers a compassionate lens. Reality offers a harder one.

Patterns of Marriage Stability After Transition: Love Is Not Enough

If you’ve ever spent a job interview sweating through your nicest blazer, straining to remember the "right" amount of eye contact, and calculating the microcalories of every smile, you’ve experienced—briefly—what many autistic adults endure every time they apply for a job.

Except for them, it isn’t one uncomfortable afternoon.

It’s a career-long performance.

A handshake. A smile. A little banter about traffic or your favorite coffee shop. For many employers, this is the sacred opening rite of a job interview. But for autistic adults, it’s often the start of a silent dismissal.

First impressions, we’re told, are everything.

They determine who gets hired, who gets promoted, and—let’s be honest—who gets invited to lunch.

A new study published in Development and Psychopathology (Standiford & Hsu, 2025) offers a surprising twist on a long-assumed narrative: that difficulty reading emotional expressions—a hallmark often associated with autism—may actually owe more to alexithymia than to autistic traits themselves.

It’s a sharp, compelling insight. But like most compelling insights, it risks being a little too neat.

Let’s dive into what they found, why it matters, and where we need to tread carefully.

There’s a room in the public health clinic where I work most mornings — quiet, often softly lit — where families sit in a circle of mismatched chairs.

A tissue box rests on the coffee table like a silent witness to what’s about to unfold.

It’s here, in this space that feels both foreign and familiar, that the work of family therapy begins.

At first glance, it might look like just another meeting.

People show up late. They forget to make eye contact.

They sit too far apart, or too close.

But underneath all that is a kind of trembling — a hope mixed with fear. Because family therapy isn’t just about fixing problems.

It’s about stepping into the heart of something raw and tangled. It’s about telling the truth after years of speaking in code.

There’s a particular flavor of burnout no oat milk latte can touch.

It’s the weariness of the parent who’s showing up, day after day—lunches packed, bedtime books read, tantrums soothed—while silently wondering: When the hell is someone going to do this for me?

This is the unparented parent: the adult performing parenthood while still waiting for the nurturing they never received.

Many of them are excellent parents. That is, until they’re not.

Until the cost of emotional over-functioning reaches the edge of collapse, and the emotional ledger they've been balancing since childhood finally overdrafts.

This is family therapy’s unspoken crisis.

A growing number of folks are in committed romantic relationships yet choose to live separately. These people are not simply part of a logistical LAT (Living Apart Together) arrangement due to external constraints.

They are apart-ers—those intrepid souls who intentionally structure their romantic lives around autonomy, spatial sovereignty, and emotional self-regulation.

In many ways, the aparter may represent a countercultural posture against the enmeshment and performance-driven intimacy norms typical of Western relational life.

Rather than merging homes, calendars, and identities, apart-ers assert that intimacy can thrive with deliberate distance.

This post explores the psychological, sociological, and cultural underpinnings of the apart-er identity, situating it within broader trends of cultural narcissism, attachment diversity, and relationship decoupling from domesticity.

American culture is still nursing long COVID hangovers, capitalism fatigue, and digital malaise.

Consequently, lifestyle choices have become both memes and manifestos.

This isn’t just about self-care routines or ambient playlists anymore. It’s about survivable identities in a world engineered for overstimulation and algorithmic extraction.

The result? A wave of lifestyle memes that are ironic, intimate, and—dare we say—quietly revolutionary.

These memes are no longer just punchlines or TikTok trends.

They’re emerging proto-philosophies—modes of adaptation camouflaged as jokes.

At their best, they’re distilled psychological truths.

At their most viral, they offer a new moral economy for a generation burned out on optimization and suspicious of anything that smells like branding.

Each of the following ten lifestyle memes captures a very specific kind of contemporary anguish and flips it—sometimes gently, sometimes with sarcasm—into a livable ethic.

What follows, gentle reader, is my humble guide, steeped in research, and just enough irony to get us through breakfast.