Let’s start with a bang—except, apparently, for some women with ADHD, the bang doesn’t always come.

A new study published in The Journal of Sex Research (Jensen-Fogt & Pedersen, 2024) offers compelling evidence that ADHD symptom subtypes—particularly inattentive traits—may be quietly undermining women’s orgasmic consistency during partnered sex.

This is not about libido, trauma, technique, or even partner compatibility.

It’s more about the brain’s tricky wiring when it comes to attention.

And it turns out that the wandering mind, a classic marker of inattentive ADHD, may be the real third wheel in the bedroom.

When you and your partner run a business together, every kiss comes with a calendar invite. Your pillow talk sounds like a revenue review. And the only thing you’re emotionally vulnerable with is your profit margin.

Welcome to entrepreneur couple life—where “how was your day?” is a performance review and “let’s spend time together” means labeling inventory on the living room floor while arguing over font choice.

But amid the chaos, stress, and shared WiFi password, there's a rare alchemy at work. You’re building something. Together.

And that shared purpose, believe it or not, rewires how you give and receive love. Or at least how you try to—before collapsing from burnout.

So let’s decode the true love languages of entrepreneur couples, using actual science, a little sarcasm, and the hard-won wisdom of people who’ve tried to merge QuickBooks and libido—and lived to tell the tale.

You’re sipping coffee, thinking about an old friend, and the phone rings—it's them.

You dream about a place you’ve never been and then end up there a year later. You feel someone watching you before you turn around—and you're right.

Coincidence? Imagination? Or something more baked into our wiring?

According to new research published in Psychology of Consciousness: Theory, Research, and Practice (Palsson, 2025), these so-called anomalous experiences—premonitions, déjà vu, out-of-body events—aren’t fringe occurrences.

They’re part of being human, especially for people with a curious trait: subconscious connectedness.

Imagine you’re living in a body wired like a pinball machine—flashing lights, relentless motion, reactive tilt sensors.

That’s ADHD for many adults: a combination of emotional speed, impulsivity, and executive dysfunction. Now add alcohol. For some, it’s used as a numbing agent, a social lubricant, or a momentary off-switch for a brain that never quite powers down.

But a new French study published in the Journal of Psychiatric Research (Luquiens et al., 2025) suggests that this combination—ADHD and alcohol—doesn’t merely fail to soothe. It amplifies suffering.

Alcohol, already notorious for wreaking havoc on mood and cognition, exacts an even steeper toll on quality of life for those with ADHD, particularly those stuck in patterns of emotional suppression and impulsive regulation.

Let’s explore why this interaction is especially toxic, what clinicians can learn from it, and how we might support neurodivergent clients in more adaptive emotion regulation.

Let’s start with the obvious: if you feel like your partner holds all the cards—whether or not they actually do—your relationship might not feel so dreamy.

And thanks to a large new study published in the Journal of Research in Personality, we now have data to back up what therapists have been watching for decades: relationship satisfaction is less about how much power you hold, and more about how much power you think your partner has.

But this isn’t your grandma’s relationship research.

Led by Eleanor Junkins and colleagues at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, this study pulls the thread on the old, straight, heteronormative fabric of power dynamics in love and weaves in something much more expansive: diverse identities, relationship structures, and nuanced personality variables.

It’s time to retire the idea that power in relationships is just about who earns more money or who gets to control the remote. Turns out, the truth is far messier—and far more interesting.

If Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky had been locked in a room and told they couldn’t leave until they agreed on the meaning of life, one of two things would’ve happened:

A duel at dawn (Tolstoy trained with pistols; Dostoevsky preferred psychological torture),

Or a 4,000-page co-authored religious treatise involving farm labor, murdered children, forgiveness, and the moral significance of buttered bread.

Either way, you wouldn’t be leaving with a bumper sticker.

If Leo Tolstoy wrestled the question of life’s meaning like a man hacking at firewood in a snowstorm, Fyodor Dostoevsky dragged it down into the basement, locked the door, and started interrogating it with a candle and a loaded revolver.

Dostoevsky didn’t so much answer the meaning of life as demand that it confess under pressure. His novels—The Brothers Karamazov, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, Demons—are not self-help manuals. They are psychological crime scenes, each with God as suspect, human freedom as weapon, and suffering as evidence.

And yet, if you read him closely (and survive the theological whiplash), a fierce, trembling answer does begin to emerge. But you’ll have to forgive a few corpses and confessions along the way.

Leo Tolstoy—aristocrat, soldier, novelist, peasant-fantasist, proto-vegan, devout Christian anarchist, self-appointed prophet—lived so many philosophical lives in one that the question

“Did he discover the meaning of life?” feels almost quaint.

The more urgent question might be: Which Tolstoy are we asking?

Because by the end of his life, he was no longer the Count who wrote War and Peace and Anna Karenina, nor the moralizing bearded hermit who gave away his copyrights.

He had become, in his own words, “a man lost in midlife, staring into the abyss with a Bible in one hand and a suicide note in the other.”

And from that abyss, he returned with a meaning—one that still haunts therapists, theologians, and Tumblr reblogs alike.

“When your partner cheats and the internet laughs louder than you cry.”

By the time a couple lands in therapy post-infidelity, one partner has already seen their pain turned into a meme. The other has already scrolled past half a dozen TikToks that begin with: “POV: you just found out he’s been liking her stories since June.”

Welcome to affair recovery in the algorithmic era, where betrayal is viral and repair must be—somehow—intimate.

But here’s the kicker: people still want to rebuild.

Despite digital cynicism and public shaming, couples keep showing up. And they want answers that don’t come in template form.

Let’s talk about what trust looks like now, and how the recovery process has changed when cheating is no longer just personal—it’s platformed.

In the time it takes to type “wyd?” at 2:07 a.m., a relationship dies and a meme is born.

Welcome to the meme-ification of modern infidelity, where TikTok confessions double as confessionals, Instagram becomes the cathedral of curated betrayal, and Memedroid turns pain into punchlines with relentless pixelated efficiency.

If adultery was once a sin or a secret, it’s now a content category.

Infidelity, that ancient spoiler of monogamy, hasn’t changed much in form—but its framing has become a collective spectacle. And each platform plays its part in turning private agony into public archetype.

Let’s dissect this digital theater of betrayal.

The Rise of the Micromancer

Welcome to the age of micromancing—where love doesn’t arrive on horseback with roses in its teeth, but texts you “I’m proud of you” at 2:17 p.m. and remembers your oat milk.

In a world fatigued by spectacle and hyper-curated performative affection, micromancing is the quiet rebellion: an aesthetic of small, specific, consistent intimacy.

The term has recently gained traction on TikTok, Reddit, and Instagram, with hashtags like #micromancing and #littlelovethings aggregating countless 7-second videos and memes.

These snippets celebrate everything from “He folded my laundry without telling me” to “She sent me a song that made her think of me.” It’s minimalism meets relational depth—Marie Kondo for the heart, if Marie Kondo also remembered to refill your ADHD meds.

In the anthropocene epoch of parenting, you no longer need a village. You just need Wi-Fi.

Today’s digital parent isn’t just asking for screen-time hacks or gluten-free cupcake recipes.

They’re uploading their child’s entire emotional ecosystem into a chatbox and whispering: “Can you please explain menstruation using soft metaphors and positive affirmations in the voice of a friendly owl?”

Welcome to the AI Co-Parent Confessionals, where a tired generation of parents outsource bedtime stories, existential questions, and conflict resolution scripts to neural networks with better boundaries than their in-laws.

What began as digital assistance has morphed—quietly, almost endearingly—into a kind of intimate partnership.

And like any co-parent, AI sometimes misses context, overfunctions, and has its own peculiar affective tone. (i.e. Why does it always sound like a polite but emotionally distant teacher from the future?)