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.

When Constance Ahrons published The Good Divorce in 1994, she gave the world something rare: a hopeful roadmap through one of life’s most painful transitions.

Divorce, she argued, didn’t have to ruin children—or define families by what was broken.

With empathy and data, Ahrons introduced the idea of the binuclear family: two households, one family, still centered around the well-being of the children.

It was a revelation at the time.

But that was three decades ago.

And while her core insights remain solid, the terrain of divorce has shifted.

Technology, gender roles, mental health awareness, and economic realities have reshaped what a “good divorce” looks like today.

So, what still holds up? And what needs a serious reboot?

I did not plan to leave. I rehearsed staying for years.

I tolerated the comments. I smiled through the guilt. I made phone calls I didn’t want to make and sat through dinners where my body vibrated with something I didn’t yet know was panic.

I came home on holidays because that’s what good daughters do. Good sons. Good children.

And then I stopped.

It was not a grand decision. It was a quiet breaking. A hairline fracture turned chasm. And then a choice, buried in the repetition: I will not go back into the house that taught me to doubt my own aliveness.

“We no longer speak,”my client hesitated.

She went on to tell me that there was no final fight, no slammed door, no ritual to mark the occasion. Just the cooling of something that had once burned.

First, the texts became short. Then late. Then none at all.

What remains is a kind of ambient mourning. Not a death. Not a divorce. Just a subtraction no one agreed to.

You learn, in time, how to stop checking their social media.

You learn how not to mention them at holidays. You learn to perform the part of the parent who is "giving them space," as if that were an act of generosity rather than exile.

But the truth is: you do not know where your child has gone. You only know that you are not invited.

Welcome to the Hustle-Halo Economy

There was a time when selling your soul was a dark metaphor. Now it’s monetized.

I think the term“Hustle halo” captures the cultural glamorization of relentless self-promotion and commodification—especially when it’s framed as virtuous, empowering, or even spiritual.

Think of it as the invisible glow we place over hustle culture to make it feel not just productive, but moral.

A new study out of Spain reveals that adolescents—some as young as 12—are not only aware of OnlyFans, but see it as a realistic, even admirable path to financial independence.

The research, published in Sexuality & Culture (Anciones-Anguita & Checa Romero, 2024), documents how some teens nowadays frame erotic content creation as authentic agency, self-expression, and rational career planning.

They speak the language of entrepreneurship and empowerment.

They cite subscriber tiers and content algorithms like they’re prepping for Shark Tank. But something’s missing.

Not just parental oversight, not just regulation. Something deeper.

Something spiritual.

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.