Somewhere along the way, relationships became a full-time self-improvement project.

Love isn’t just love anymore—it’s an endless excavation of attachment styles, emotional triggers, and personal growth arcs.

We don’t just have arguments; we have conflict resolution styles. We don’t just express frustration; we process our unmet needs in a nonviolent communication framework.

And while all of this emotional sophistication has its merits, at some point, a question emerges: Are we making relationships harder than they need to be?

This is where emotional minimalism comes in—the radical idea that maybe, just maybe, love doesn’t have to be so complicated.

That some of the happiest, longest-lasting couples aren’t the ones who spend hours dissecting their every feeling, but the ones who simply enjoy each other’s company without overanalyzing it.

Let’s talk about how our culture’s obsession with emotional deep-diving is making love harder, why not constantly talking about your feelings can actually be a good thing, and how to practice emotional minimalism without becoming an emotionally unavailable robot.

You’re in the middle of a tense conversation with your partner. Maybe they’re telling you they feel unheard, or maybe you’re trying to address a long-standing issue that keeps resurfacing.

Instead of engaging, they take a deep breath, soften their voice, and say something like:

"I just think we need to trust the universe on this."

"Let’s not focus on negativity—let’s just stay in a place of love."

Or the absolute classic: “Everything happens for a reason.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

This, my friends, is love bypassing—a sneaky form of emotional avoidance dressed up in the robes of spiritual wisdom.

So you’re in a relationship with someone who seems deeply in tune with your emotions.

They mirror your feelings effortlessly, anticipate your needs, and say all the right things at the right time. At first, it feels like the emotional connection you’ve always craved—until it doesn’t.

Over time, something shifts.

Their once-soothing words start to feel… off.

Their deep understanding of your emotions somehow doesn’t lead to kindness but rather subtle control.

They use their insight into your fears to make you doubt yourself. They seem to “win” every argument by twisting your feelings against you. And when you try to call them out, they tilt their head sympathetically and say, “I think you’re just projecting.”

Welcome to the mind-bending world of narcissistic empathy—where emotional intelligence isn’t used to build connection, but to manipulate and dominate.

It’s an unsettling concept, because we often think of narcissists as emotionally stunted, completely lacking empathy. But some narcissists don’t lack empathy at all—they have it in spades. They just use it for themselves, not for you.

Let’s unpack how this works, why it’s so dangerous, and how to tell the difference between real empathy and the kind that’s just another tool in a narcissist’s arsenal.

The Christian doctrine of ordo amoris—the idea that love must be properly ordered in a divine hierarchy—has long shaped theological and ethical discussions.

From Augustine to Aquinas to C.S. Lewis, Christian thought has framed love as something to be ranked, structured, and disciplined.

But beneath the surface of this doctrine lies an implicit, often unspoken reality: ordo amoris may function less as a true ethical framework and more as an inventory of social capital—an ideological system that organizes human relationships in ways that sustain social, religious, and economic hierarchies.

In post we will explore how ordo amoris has historically served as a ledger of obligations, a method of managing social bonds, and a theological tool for maintaining power.

If love is something to be ranked, prioritized, and allocated, then who benefits from this system? And who gets left out?

If parenting feels like it’s shaving years off your life, science might have just offered a reassuring counterpoint—raising children may actually keep your brain young.

A recent study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS) reveals that parenthood is linked to increased brain-wide connectivity, particularly in areas that typically decline with age (Holmes et al., 2025).

And the effect isn't just limited to mothers—fathers, too, exhibit these neural benefits.

Perhaps even more surprising? The more children you have, the stronger the brain-enhancing effect.

Steve comes home from work, drops his keys on the counter, and barely nods at Kathy, his wife of 15 years. She asks about his day; he grunts.

She mentions the leaky faucet; he waves it off. She tries to connect; he scrolls his phone. The routine is as predictable as a sitcom rerun—until one day, Kathy is gone.

Not physically at first, but emotionally, mentally, soul-deep. And then, maybe a few months later, literally gone, leaving behind a stunned Steve wondering, "What just happened?"

Welcome to the Walk-Away Wife Syndrome—a phenomenon where women, after years of unmet emotional needs, quietly check out of their marriage before physically leaving.

By the time their husbands notice, they’ve already emotionally left the building.

Therapy is often described as a journey, but let’s be honest—it’s more like a road trip with a backseat driver.

On one side, compassion-first therapy says, "You are enough, exactly as you are. Let’s understand your pain first, before we think about change."

On the other, accountability-based therapy leans in and whispers, "That’s valid, but let’s talk about your role in all this. What can you do differently?"

Both perspectives are necessary. Both have helped countless people heal. And both, when misused, can keep people stuck.

So, how do we integrate compassion and accountability in a way that actually moves people forward—without overwhelming them or letting them off the hook?

Let’s dig in.

In the often-genteel world of couples therapy, where gentle nods and validating murmurs reign supreme, Terry Real has never been one for pleasantries.

He’s the therapist who tells men—not just in the privacy of his office but in bestselling books and national talks—to wake up, get real, and take responsibility for the mess they’ve made in their relationships.

And not in a soft, let’s-process-your-feelings kind of way, but in a firm, unapologetic, and transformational manner that has redefined modern couples therapy.

Family therapy has long been rooted in identifying and addressing dysfunction, but what if the key to healing wasn't in fixing problems, but in amplifying strengths?

That’s the idea behind Resource-Focused Therapy (RFT), an innovative approach developed by Bradford Keeney and Wendel Ray that shifts the therapeutic lens from deficits to the inherent resources and capabilities within families.

Instead of dwelling on what’s broken, RFT highlights what’s already working and builds upon it, transforming therapy into a dynamic and creative experience.

There was a time when if you told someone your father wasn’t speaking to you, they’d assume it was because you crashed his Buick or stole money from his wallet.

Now, they assume you set a boundary.

Welcome to therapy culture: the religion of our modern age.

While our ancestors fretted over sin and salvation, we wring our hands over trauma and self-actualization.

We used to confide in a Imam, rabbi, or priest. Now we unload on a therapist (or, more commonly, the internet).

Instead of redemption, we seek closure.

Instead of community, we have self-care.

Instead of a Higher Power, we have, (most appropriately) our inner child.

And, in many ways, this shift has done wonders—destigmatizing mental health struggles, improving emotional intelligence.

But, like all religions, therapy culture has its excesses, hypocrisies, and unintended consequences. So let’s talk about it.

It’s ok. I’m a marriage and family therapist.

Let’s be honest: modern couples therapy often feels like a buffet of therapeutic techniques where everything is presented as equally valid.

“You want a monogamous marriage? Great! You want an open relationship? Also great! You communicate through a series of passive-aggressive Post-it notes? Well, let’s explore that!”

But what if you want something deeper?

What if you crave relationship therapy with a chewy moral center—something that acknowledges not just your emotional needs but also the ethical and relational stakes of being in a committed partnership?

If that’s you, congratulations. You’re looking for a therapist who believes in something. And trust me, they’re out there.

If you’ve ever wandered into the world of modern relationship advice, you’ve likely encountered Esther Perel.

A brilliant Belgian psychotherapist, she’s the high priestess of erotic distance, the champion of mystery in long-term relationships, and the nuanced defender of the occasional infidelity.

Her TED Talks dazzle, her books sell, and her clients—well, they walk away feeling seen.

But not everyone is enchanted.

Among those raising a skeptical eyebrow are spiritually inclined couples. They may be Christian, Jew, or Muslim.

They’ve found themselves shaking their heads at the suggestion that passion thrives on the unknown or that a touch of betrayal might reinvigorate a marriage.

For spiritually-inclined couples, Perel’s philosophy is, at best, incomplete and, at worst, a siren song leading marriages onto the rocks.