Let’s begin with the quietest lie you ever learned.

Somewhere between your abuela’s rosary beads and your first quince dress, you absorbed a rule that was never spoken but always enforced:

“If you love them, you don’t say no.”

Now you’re married.

You’re juggling two jobs (one paid, one invisible), still remembering everyone’s birthdays, still being the translator of feelings, faith, and finances.

And when you try to say, “I can’t,” your voice cracks like it’s a sin.

This post is for you.

Imagine this: you’ve worked twice as hard for half the recognition, paid off student loans that others had forgiven by family, climbed every corporate ladder built for white men in boat shoes—and now, you’re being ghosted by a man who’s “intimidated by your LinkedIn.”

Welcome to the surreal romance economy facing high-achieving Black women.

This is not a dating issue. It’s a cultural pattern with historical roots, economic metrics, and psychological consequences. Let’s dig in.

If you're asking this question, you're not just thinking about money. You're thinking about legacy.

You're thinking about how to make your children’s lives easier without losing your mind (or your values) in the process.

You're also wondering why no one handed you a blueprint—why you're piecing it together between shifts, student loans, and rising rents, while watching headlines scream about a generational wealth transfer that always seems to pass you by.

That’s not just personal. That’s systemic. But there’s still room for strategy.

This post breaks down how Thomas J. Stanley’s famous research on millionaires can be adapted—and decolonized—for Black American families.

We’ll dig deep into the data, the history, and the emotionally loaded work of building wealth in a country that has profited off Black labor without sharing the inheritance.

Once upon a time—say, around 1982—Americans treated marriage like an avocado: you just grabbed one and hoped it wasn’t rotten inside.

Now, it’s more like artisan sourdough from a boutique bakery. Pricey, selective, Instagrammed. And apparently, harder to ruin.

According to a new report from the Institute for Family Studies, divorce is at its lowest rate in 50 years, and the percentage of children living with married parents is finally climbing.

The Atlantic even ran a feature titled “Are We Witnessing a Marriage Comeback?” (Wilcox, 2025).

Cue the headlines. Cue the pundits. Cue your divorced aunt forwarding you articles about how “people are finally doing it right.”

But hold the champagne. This isn’t a comeback tour. It’s a boutique performance for a smaller, more exclusive audience.

Yes.
But also, of course it does.

And yet, you’re here. Not because you’re confused, but because you’re tired. Or stunned.

Or quietly Googling this question while your partner builds a Rube Goldberg machine to water the houseplants—while forgetting to feed the dog.

You love them. They love you.

So why does it feel like every conversation ends with one of you misunderstood and the other in tears in the bathroom, Googling again?

This is not just your relationship. This is what happens when neurotypical expectations of love collide with neurodivergent brains trying to function in a world that seems built by robots for other robots.

Let’s break it down like scientists who also cry at Pixar movies.

Co-parenting with a narcissist isn’t a parenting plan—it’s emotional triage under fire.

What should be a shared effort to raise a child often becomes a custody chess match, with one parent playing to win and the other playing to protect.

If you’ve felt like the legal system doesn’t get it, like your child is being used as a pawn, or like you’re slowly unraveling while trying to stay calm for your kid, this post is for you.

Your partner is in the room, the lights are on, and somehow no one’s home—not even you.

You text “we need groceries,” they respond with a thumbs up, and the silence afterward feels like an elegy.

You’re not in crisis, exactly.

No screaming matches, no wild betrayals. Just… emptiness. Like someone drained the color out of your life together and forgot to refill it.

If you’ve ever whispered to yourself,“Why does my relationship feel so empty?”—you’re not alone.

In fact, you’re part of a quiet epidemic of numbness.

One that our culture prefers not to talk about because it lacks the cinematic drama of infidelity or the punchline of Reddit meme therapy.

Let’s talk about it anyway.

You don’t just hate your partner.

You hate that they forgot the groceries, ignored your texts, and watched three episodes of Succession without you.

But more than that—you hate the bleak conveyor belt you’re both stuck on: house, kids, Amazon Prime, silent dinners, therapy, more Amazon Prime.

This isn’t just marriage fatigue. This is cultural malaise wearing yoga pants and trying to meditate its way to clarity.

Let’s get one thing straight: you’re not a monster. You’re just American. And the odds were stacked against your relationship from the start.

Once upon a tide—not too long ago and not too far from your favorite TikTok rabbit hole—humans began to do a very strange thing: they started becoming mermaids.

Yes, mermaiding is real.

It’s not a spell from a Disney movie or the fever dream of a beach-blissed influencer.

It’s a global aquatic subculture where people don shimmering tails, slip into the sea (or a chlorine-scented pool), and swim like they’ve just emerged from a Hans Christian Andersen footnote.

And, no, it’s not just for kids.

The average mermaider might have a day job in HR and a recurring chiropractor appointment—because, let’s face it, swimming in a silicone tail is hell on the lumbar.

But first, let’s address the kelp in the room:

Are Mermaids Real?

Some couples come to therapy ready to fight for their relationship. Others arrive to find new ways to fight with each other. But every now and then, a couple walks in where one partner is already gone.

Not physically—emotionally, morally, existentially.

They’re still doing the dishes. Still picking the kids up from soccer. Still nodding politely during sessions. But the inner engine of mutual care—the moral fuel that drives the relationship—has gone cold.

This isn’t burnout. It’s not even contempt. It’s something quieter, sadder, and far harder to treat.

This is moral disintegration—a slow collapse of relational integrity, when one partner simply stops caring and the other keeps hoping while circling the drain.

And yes, it’s as bleak as it sounds.

There’s a new presence in your relationship.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t sleep. But it’s always watching.

It’s Instagram—and it’s playing third wheel in a growing number of romantic partnerships.

We used to ask, “Are we compatible?” Now we ask, “Why didn’t they like my story?”

There was a time—not long ago—when therapy was a private affair.

You sat in a room, maybe cried a little, maybe blamed your mother, and eventually figured out how to stop screaming at the person who left the sponge in the sink again. That was the contract.

Now? Therapy lives online.

It’s in your pocket, piped directly into your nervous system via TikTok, delivered by 27-year-olds with ring lights and an MA in vibes.

Clinical terms once reserved for diagnostic manuals are now brunch banter.

Your ex isn’t a jerk. He’s a covert narcissist. Your roommate doesn’t forget the trash. She’s “weaponizing incompetence.”

We’re living in the golden age of therapy-speak—and it’s raising a serious question: are we becoming more self-aware, or just better at assigning moral superiority with a vocabulary we borrowed from someone else?