New research suggests that science fiction fosters global empathy through awe.

But what happens when we see this through the lens of American culture?

Let’s be honest: few nations have done more to both fragment and re-imagine humanity than the United States.

On one hand, American culture promotes hyper-individualism, a relentless focus on personal success, and what sociologists call expressive individualism—the belief that your life’s purpose is to express your unique self.

On the other hand, the U.S. also happens to be the birthplace of much of the world’s most widely consumed science fiction. Think Star Trek, Star Wars, Black Panther, The Matrix, Interstellar, Avatar, Her—the list goes on.

So here’s the paradox: how is it that a society obsessed with the individual also creates art that is uniquely capable of dissolving the boundaries of self?

Is it ADHD, or is it trauma—or both?

That question is becoming more urgent across pediatric clinics, classrooms, and therapy offices.

For many children, symptoms like emotional outbursts, inattention, and executive dysfunction are not simply signs of a brain-based disorder—they may also reflect the lasting impact of developmental trauma and early attachment rupture.

As a couples and family therapist, I’ve worked with kids who can’t sit still and others who’ve stopped trying.

Some are labeled with ADHD before their sixth birthday.

Others are quietly enduring toxic stress, dissociating their way through childhood without a diagnosis. Many of these children are doing the best they can with nervous systems built for survival, not for school performance.

To truly support them, we need to go deeper.

For anyone who’s ever tried to take the edge off with a little weed, only to end up googling “Can you die from a too-fast heartbeat?” at 2:00 a.m.—you’re not alone.

The relationship between cannabis and anxiety is, well… complicated.

While some people swear by medical marijuana as a natural anxiety remedy, others find that it does the exact opposite: increases heart rate, magnifies worry, and launches them into existential dread about whether the barista actually did judge them for their oat milk order.

So which is it?

Can cannabis help with anxiety—or does it just help some people feel better while making others more anxious?

And what does the science say about medical marijuana for anxiety disorders?

Let’s take a deep breath (no toking required yet), and explore.

It’s come to my attention that some of my readers do what I do.

So I figured I’d offer a quick and dirty guide to working with clients suffering with what appears to be either ADHD, an anxiety disorder, or perhaps some combination of both.

ADHD and anxiety are two of the most challenging experiences for therapists to unpack.

Let’s talk shop.

If ADHD and anxiety were characters in a sitcom, ADHD would be the lovable chaos agent with a million ideas and zero follow-through, while anxiety would be the neurotic roommate constantly cleaning up after them and muttering about deadlines.

Together? They’re exhausting—but also oddly relatable.

For adults—especially in romantic relationships—the co-occurrence of ADHD and anxiety isn’t just common; it’s a clinical headache.

They amplify each other in unpredictable ways.

ADHD forgets to pay the bill. Anxiety lies awake all night obsessing about identity theft. ADHD gets distracted mid-sentence. Anxiety spirals into self-doubt and rumination.

Yikes! Let’s jump in!

Attachment theory may have started in the nursery, but it’s in the kitchen at 9:00 PM during a standoff over who should apologize first where it truly comes to life.

As attachment-based couples therapy gains cultural traction, it’s time we take a long, critical look at what it offers, what it misses, and where it must evolve to stay relevant in an increasingly diverse, neurodiverse, and trauma-aware world.

Attachment theory is no longer confined to therapy offices and psych textbooks—it’s on TikTok, in dating app bios, and behind every viral meme about ghosting and emotional labor.

But as it surges in popularity, it's worth asking: is Attachment Theory keeping up with our culture?

Disorganized attachment has long been the ghost in the machine of couples therapy.

Defined by contradiction, confusion, and chaos, it’s the style that defies clean categorization—a nervous system primed for both approach and avoidance, intimacy and terror. T

raditionally seen as the most severe and intractable of the attachment styles, it has also been among the least understood.

But like many concepts born in the 1970s and codified in the 1990s, our understanding of disorganized attachment is now undergoing a dramatic rethinking.

This post is about that rethinking—a contrast between the old clinical map and the emerging terrain, where trauma science, neurobiology, and complexity theory are reshaping how we support disorganized individuals in relationship.

Let us begin by stating something sacrilegious in traditional attachment circles: the conventional Secure-Avoidant framework, while helpful in its day, may be running on legacy software.

Attachment theory has evolved since Bowlby and Ainsworth first introduced their elegant model, and what was once a tidy categorization has become a limiting vocabulary for increasingly complex relational realities.

In this re-examination of the Secure-Avoidant dynamic, we’ll integrate fresh research, critique conventional narratives, and explore emerging models that treat attachment not as a fixed set of traits but as a dynamic, plastic, intersubjective process shaped by culture, neurodivergence, trauma, and adult developmental trajectories.

As a couples therapist, I often tell clients that gossip is the social glue we love to hate. It feels icky when it’s about us, but strangely bonding when we’re doing it about others.

So when new research out of Self & Identity revealed that some folks actually enjoy being gossiped about—especially when the gossip is negative—I had to dig deeper.

It turns out, narcissistic men may not just tolerate gossip—they prefer it over being ignored.

That’s right.

According to five studies conducted by Andrew H. Hales, Meltem Yucel, and Selma C. Rudert, most people still dislike being the subject of gossip.

Some couples fade. Others implode. And a few simply evaporate. Not with a bang, but with a quiet fade—like a candle flickering out in a room that used to be full of light.

And often, it begins when they stop noticing each other.

Not the noticing of chore completion or whose turn it is with the carpool.

Not the noticing that comes with judgment or scorekeeping.

I’m talking about the other kind—the kind that says, I still see you. You still matter. Your inner world is worth tracking.

We navigate an age of dopamine loops and disappearing attention spans, where even our to-do lists have to be optimized for virality, there's something quietly radical about paying deep, sustained attention to one another.

Not scrolling, not diagnosing, not self-optimizing—just noticing. Profoundly. Tenderly. Without agenda. Bestowed attention.

As a couples therapist, I spend my days in the land of half-heard complaints and misunderstood glances. But when a couple stumbles into what I call profound noticing, something shifts.

Tension thaws. The room softens.

One partner says to the other, “You looked so tired when you walked in, I wondered if something hard happened at work.” And suddenly, we are no longer talking about chores or mismatched libidos—we are talking about mattering.

It’s a scene no one imagines for themselves.

You raised your children, watched them grow, and waited for the second act of family life—the warm embrace of your grandkids, stories around the table, and the joy of being “Nana” or “PopPop.”

But the phone doesn’t ring. Holidays are quiet. Photos of your grandkids—if you see them at all—are filtered through social media or hearsay.

Welcome to one of the most silent and painful trends in American family life: grandchild estrangement.

The Rise of Estranged Grandparents in the U.S.

While hard data is limited, surveys and expert accounts confirm that millions of grandparents in the United States are cut off from their grandchildren—often without clear explanation or hope of reconciliation.