“Bed rotting” isn’t just a meme—it’s a cultural mirror.

Officially defined in February 2024 by Dictionary.com as “the practice of spending many hours in bed during the day, often with snacks or an electronic device, as a voluntary retreat from activity or stress.

The phrase has taken off across TikTok, Instagram, and every group chat where someone admits:

I haven’t left my bed in 14 hours.

At its core, bed rotting is about withdrawal. But whether it’s withdrawal for self-care or avoidance is the ongoing debate.

Most people imagine the collapse of desire as something loud—affairs, slammed doors, maybe someone weeping dramatically in the driveway.

But the real story is quieter. Millions of Americans are simply… not doing it. Welcome to the sex recession, where intimacy has oddly gone missing, and no one seems to know quite how to find it again.

How Bad Is the “Sex Recession”?

The Institute for Family Studies reports that only 37% of adults aged 18–64 were having sex weekly in 2024. In 1990, it was 55%. If this were Wall Street, we’d call it a bear market in desire.

Among young adults, the story is worse: 24% of those aged 18–29 said they hadn’t had sex at all in the past year—double the rate from 2010. That’s less a dry spell than a dust bowl.

And this is not just a young person’s issue. Married couples, cohabiting partners, and middle-aged professionals all report declines. The drought is as democratic as it is dramatic.

Most couples start out with romance, adventure, and maybe a suspicious number of tapas dates.

But sooner or later, love moves from fireworks to spreadsheets—whether that means managing bills, blending families, or just figuring out who actually remembered to buy toothpaste.

This is where relationships shift into something bigger: a strategic partnership.

Not in the soulless corporate sense, but in the “we’re building a life together, and we need systems that don’t collapse under the weight of laundry” sense.

The good news?

Research shows that thriving couples look less like fairytale romances and more like resilient organizations.

They have shared vision, fair division of labor, healthy repair after conflict, and clear future planning (Gottman & Silver, 2015; Karney & Bradbury, 2020; Rusbult, 1980).

The even better news? You don’t need a Harvard MBA to get there. You just need a little structure—and maybe this something like this modest little questionnaire.

Marriage has never stood still. Once, it was about livestock, land, and alliances.

Then came the companionate marriage of the early 20th century—partnerships built on friendship and shared domestic roles.

By the mid-20th century, we wanted “expressive marriage”—our spouse should be our best friend and the main source of personal fulfillment.

Finally came the soulmate era, where your partner was expected to be lover, therapist, co-parent, life coach, and eternal roommate.

It was a beautiful fantasy. It was also quite impossible.

The soulmate model promised everything and delivered little more than a sense of ongoing disquietude.

Now, a quieter model is emerging—the strategic partnership marriage.

It’s less about destiny and more about design. Less about waiting for romance to carry the load, more about building a system that keeps love alive in a world of relentless distraction.

We all think we have a “type.” Maybe it’s tall and outdoorsy. Maybe it’s the witty bookworm. Maybe it’s someone with an unnerving ability to fold fitted sheets.

Whatever the list looks like, we treat it as if it’s set in stone.

But what if your type isn’t destiny? What if it’s more like clay—malleable, rewritable, and shaped by experience?

That’s exactly what a new study in the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin found.

Researchers didn’t just ask people about their romantic preferences—they actually rewired them. And the results tell us a lot about how attraction, perception, and relationship satisfaction really work.

The fight is over, but the quiet is worse. You’re sitting across from each other, and it feels like there’s a ledger between you — texts, promises broken, things said and unsaid.

Neither of you is innocent, and both of you know it.

That’s the tricky part about mutual betrayal.

When one person breaks trust, the roles are clear: who’s injured, who’s at fault. But when you’ve both done damage? No one gets to stand on high ground. It’s a stalemate.

And yet, not all stalemates mean the game is over. Sometimes they’re just the pause before you figure out how to move again.

Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, Zepbound—these weren’t supposed to be love potions. They were designed for blood sugar, for weight loss, for doctors’ offices.

And yet here we are: they’ve slipped into the dating world, into marriages, and straight into bedrooms.

They don’t just shrink waistlines. They shift confidence, intimacy, and the tiny rituals that hold couples together.

If you think that sounds dramatic, ask the person on a second date who suddenly can’t figure out what to order because they’re no longer hungry.

If self-expansion is about gobbling up more—more novelty, more growth, more shiny experiences—Socioemotional Selectivity Theory (SST) flips that script with quiet precision.

This isn’t pop-psych filler.

SST comes from Laura Carstensen, a Stanford psychologist who has spent decades showing that aging is not decline, but design.

She built the theory, founded the Stanford Center on Longevity, and launched the ambitious New Map of Life—an initiative asking how we might actually live well into our 80s, 90s, and beyond (Carstensen, 1992; Carstensen, Isaacowitz, & Charles, 1999).

Carstensen’s point is deceptively simple: older adults don’t just “lose” friends or opportunities; they prune them on purpose.

They trade breadth for depth, noise for meaning, obligation for intimacy.

And that single observation reshapes how we think about aging, relationships, and family life.

In 1997, before WiFi was reliable and therapy was something you could get via app, David Schnarch handed us a flamethrower and called it a book.

Passionate Marriage sorta told couples everywhere to stop cuddling, stop clinging, and for God’s sake stop hoping your partner would validate your feelings.

Instead, Schnarch said, try differentiation: self-regulation in the presence of intimacy. Stand in the fire. Be your own person. Then maybe you’ll want to have sex again.

It was electric. It was blistering. It sold a shitload of copies.

But now it’s 2025.

The nervous system has a publicist. Consent is a whole field of study. Therapists know about trauma, neurodivergence, and cultural context. And the fire metaphor?

Well, some of us have PTSD.

So maybe it’s time to lovingly take Passionate Marriage, place it on the metaphorical therapist’s coffee table, and say: “Thank you, David. We needed you. But we also need to talk.”

Let’s begin with a blunt truth: many men don’t think sexism is a them problem.

They believe it exists—sort of, vaguely, somewhere out there. But it doesn’t click. Not really. Until one night their partner, over takeout and Netflix, says: My boss called me “sweetheart” in a meeting again. And he promoted Rob. Again.

And suddenly, it does click.

A pulse of indignation. A flash of understanding. A sinking realization that this isn’t some abstract “issue,” but a pattern with receipts—and his partner is living it in real time.

In many gay relationships, one partner may slowly becomes the emotional custodian—keeping track of who’s hurting in the friend group, when your mom called last, how many days it’s been since the last real check-in, and whether you’re overdue for a fight neither of you wants to start.

The other partner, meanwhile, thinks things are great. They help. They show up. They make a killer Spotify playlist for your anniversary dinner.

But they don’t notice the weight you’re carrying—because you’ve been trained to carry it so silently, even you forgot it was heavy.

Welcome to emotional labor.

It’s invisible. It’s cumulative. And in gay couples—where there’s no gendered blueprint for who “should” do what—it’s dangerously easy to ignore until one of you checks out, or burns out, or blurts out, “I feel like your unpaid emotional concierge.”

That’s where the Emotional Labor Mapping Tool comes in.

“I Didn’t Marry a Bad Person. I Married Someone Who Doesn’t Notice.”

That line came from a gay client of mine last winter, uttered while wiping his glasses with the bottom hem of his hoodie and trying not to cry.

What he meant was this: his partner isn’t cruel, isn’t abusive, and isn’t absent.

But the man he lives with—who splits the rent, the groceries, and the dog walks—doesn’t notice when he’s overextended, emotionally drained, or quietly spiraling while trying to remember everyone’s birthdays.

What he’s describing is emotional labor: the anticipatory, invisible, unpaid management of feelings, social nuance, and care. And yes, it exists—vividly and uncomfortably—in many gay relationships.

And no, it isn’t discussed nearly enough.