There are post-apocalyptic films where the relationship is a subplot, something to fill the quiet moments between chase scenes.

The Road is the opposite — the father and son’s bond is the whole movie.

The world is falling apart, yes, but the plot is really just this: one human being, determined to keep another human being alive, both in body and in spirit.

That’s what makes it useful in couples and family therapy. It’s not about defeating the apocalypse; it’s about refusing to let the apocalypse defeat what’s between you.

In The Martian (2015), astronaut Mark Watney is accidentally left behind on Mars after his crew assumes he’s dead.

NASA is 140 million miles away, the food supply will run out in weeks, and the planet is an endless expanse of red dust and silence.

It’s not unlike some marriages—barren landscapes, poor communication, and the sinking feeling no one is coming to help.

Watney survives not because of a single act of heroism, but because of thousands of small decisions: taking stock of what he has, innovating under pressure, keeping himself mentally engaged, and refusing to quit.

Those are of the same survival skills couples can use when their relationship feels stranded in hostile territory.

In April 1970, three astronauts found themselves in a situation you wouldn’t wish on your worst Tinder date: floating 200,000 miles from Earth in a damaged spacecraft, oxygen bleeding into the void.

The moon landing was out. The only mission left? Get home alive.

If you’ve seen the movie Apollo 13, you know the beats: the explosion, the frantic calculations, the MacGyvered CO₂ filter made from socks and duct tape.

You also know the moment where panic could have taken over — but didn’t.

That’s a masterclass in emotionally regulated, essential communication, the kind of skill that works in Mission Control… or in your kitchen when your spouse just “accidentally” put the good cast-iron skillet in the dishwasher.

Some couples fight like they’re in a kitchen-sink drama. Others fight like they’re in Jaws — except instead of a shark, it’s a mortgage payment, a teenage son with a vape habit, or the silent accumulation of dishes in the sink.

And most of us, in the moment, handle it with about the same grace as an inflatable raft in a hurricane.

But then there’s Quint.

If you’ve seen Jaws, you remember the scene: he’s half in the bag, singing sea shanties, the boat rocking lazily in the twilight — when suddenly, bang.

The shark slams into the hull. Quint doesn’t flinch, doesn’t panic, and doesn’t start narrating his feelings. He drops the song mid-verse, sits up, and starts issuing calm, precise orders.

No “What the hell is that?” No “Oh God we’re all going to die!” Just:

“Shut off the engine.” “Hooper, get forward.” “Brody, you come with me.”

This, gentle reader, is emotionally regulated, essential communication — the kind that can keep a marriage afloat long after it’s taken on water.

Most people picture the apocalypse as something out there — mushroom clouds, superviruses, maybe an asteroid with bad aim.

But for married people, the end of the world can be smaller, quieter, and a lot closer to home: a pink slip, a diagnosis, a betrayal you never saw coming.

And yet, throughout history, couples have made it through disasters big and small.

Even in the ruins of Pompeii, archaeologists have found skeletons curled toward each other — ancient proof that love sometimes survives the ash.

So what separates the couples who pull through from the ones who can’t?

Science actually has a lot to say about that.

You’ve probably met a psychopath.

Not the movie kind. Not the prison kind.
The “works in your office, dated your roommate, made a killer bruschetta” kind.

Research shows psychopathic traits exist in everyday life — and some are subtle enough to miss unless you know what to look for.

Psychopathic traits aren’t just for true-crime villains.

Here’s what peer-reviewed research says about their everyday expressions — and when they matter most.

Most people picture “psychopath” as a headline-maker: a prison documentary star, a character in a crime novel, maybe a shadowy CEO in a prestige drama.
But the reality is far more mundane — and more interesting.

Psychopathic traits exist on a spectrum and show up in the general population (Neumann & Hare, 2008). You’ve probably worked with someone who has them.

Family therapy used to be about the people who lived in your house—or at least showed up for Thanksgiving.

You’d draw a genogram, map the alliances, name the conflicts, and maybe figure out why your brother still isn’t speaking to you about that thing from 2011.

But in 2025, that map is missing someone.

The algorithm.

It’s not blood-related, but it’s in the room. Every day. Every night. And it knows exactly what your teen searched for at 2 a.m. It’s shaping conversations before they happen, influencing loyalties before you’ve even had your coffee.

Someday, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders will sit in a museum, next to a rotary phone and a butter churn.

The plaque will read: “Once believed to capture the human mind in tidy categories.”

Until then, we play along. Insurance companies demand DSM-5 categories. Schools want a formal mental health diagnosis before offering help.

The mental health system—like any bureaucracy—loves nice and easy paperwork.

But human beings nevah evah do anything nice and easy…

If you were anywhere near a bookstore in the late 80s or 90s, you probably saw The Dance of Anger staring back at you from a shelf — red cover, unapologetic title, and the promise that maybe your frustration wasn’t the problem, but the clue.

Harriet Lerner didn’t just write about anger. She reframed it. And she made sure women — and the therapists who treated them — stopped treating anger like a dangerous leak in the plumbing.

Today, in an era when a 30-second Instagram Reel can pass for “emotional education,” Lerner’s ideas feel more urgent than ever.

Can faith make you kinder to yourself? A new study says yes. But there’s a twist.

According to research published in Pastoral Psychology, Christians reported higher levels of self-compassion than atheists—but also slightly higher levels of narcissism, specifically the kind that craves recognition and admiration. Yikes.

In plain terms? Religious folks may be more likely to treat themselves with understanding and care, but they’re also a little more likely to think they’re morally or spiritually impressive.

If that sounds like a contradiction, welcome to the human condition.

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.”

It conjures images of samba dancers in Rio, spontaneous street fútbol, and long, laughter-filled meals.

But is this just a sun-drenched stereotype—or is there something deeper behind the Brazilian orientation toward the present?

The answer is yes—and it’s far more nuanced than a postcard fantasy.

Living in the moment, Brazilian-style, isn’t about escapism.

It’s a worldview shaped by history, social dynamics, spiritual traditions, and an uncanny ability to find beauty in chaos.

From psychology to poetry, from Carnival to Candomblé, Brazilians have cultivated what researchers call a present-hedonism culture—but one that’s as soulful as it is celebratory.

Let’s consider how and why this cultural ethos developed—and what it means today.