There is no graceful way to say this, so I’ll just rip the Band-Aid off:
the newest evidence-based intervention for aging brains is peanuts.

Not supplements with Greek letters.
Not longevity powders that cost as much as a dinner in Tribeca.
Not even blueberries, the Beyoncé of the produce aisle.

No—the scientific spotlight now shines on unsalted, skin-on roasted peanuts, a snack so pedestrian it could run for local office.

According to a surprisingly rigorous 16-week trial in Clinical Nutrition, these humble legumes—yes, legumes, the great pretenders of the nut world—improve brain blood flow and verbal memory in older adults.

I

f you feel personally insulted by this information, that is the appropriate reaction.

Smart women rarely burn out for the reasons people assume.
They don’t collapse because they’re overwhelmed.
Or because they “took on too much.”
Or because they “care too deeply.”

Smart women burn out because for a very long time, they’ve been doing two jobs in every relationship they’re in:
the job they signed up for, and the job they absorbed quietly because no one else was willing or able to do it.

Most smart women don’t even realize they’re overfunctioning.
They think they’re coping.
They think they’re being competent.
They think they’re “just handling things.”

Meanwhile, their nervous systems are keeping the receipts.

What follows is not a pep talk.
It’s not a manifesto.

It’s a scientifically grounded explanation of why smart women overfunction and why their bodies eventually revolt.

Some smart couples don’t implode. They erode.

They don’t hurl plates or storm out the front door. They draft position papers.

They index their grievances. They quote the relevant literature.

Then they slide quietly into marital loneliness while congratulating themselves on how impressively civilized they’ve been.

This is the paradox of the bright, articulate, emotionally over-educated marriage:
the couple can describe their relationship in exquisite detail while completely failing to live inside it.

It’s like watching two brilliant meteorologists discuss barometric pressure while ignoring the tornado forming over their heads.

Every couple has a shared mythology. For some, it’s romantic: the enchanted vacation where everything worked, the tiny first apartment with the terrible heating, the proposal at sunrise.

For others—let’s be honest here—it’s pettier.
Much pettier.

The fork incident of 2017.
The Great Dishwasher Mutiny of last October.
The One Time You Said “Do Whatever You Want” In That Tone That Almost Ended the Republic.

These moments linger not because they matter, but because they didn’t—and yet somehow became emotionally significant anyway.

Here’s the secret few therapists say out loud:
petty grudges keep many relationships alive.

Big conflicts may define a chapter of your marriage, but petty grudges define its texture—and texture is what couples return to years later, laughing, grimacing, or reenacting with strangely theatrical precision.

These small irritations aren’t immaturity.
They’re intimacy in miniature.

Mixed-neurotype couples often arrive in therapy with the same expression: the polite but vaguely startled look of people who have survived a long winter indoors without central heat.

Not traumatized. Not defeated. Just… cold. A little worn down.

A little bewildered at how two intelligent adults, armed with modern conveniences and a shared mortgage, can still feel this tired.

This is the quiet signature of neurodiverse relationship burnout—a particular sort of relational fatigue that’s less dramatic than despair and more persistent than everyday stress. It doesn’t crash into you. It accumulates. Like weather.

And with weather, the story is never the storm. It’s the atmosphere.

So let’s begin with Anna and Marcus.

Long-term relationships run on many illusions, but the most cherished one is this: the belief that “supportive behavior” is inherently meaningful.

Americans love imagining that helping their partner through stress automatically strengthens the bond. It sounds so noble.

It flatters the helper. It looks terrific in wedding vows.

But according to recent research published in Frontiers in Psychology (Roth et al., 2023), your support does absolutely nothing for relationship satisfaction unless your partner bestows attention, registers it, feels grateful, and—critically—you pick up on that gratitude.

Without this specific sequence, supportive behavior is the relational equivalent of unpaid emotional overtime.

Nobody remembers it, and nobody feels better for having done it.

This finding is not romantic. But it is precise and accurate.

It is also the best news couples therapists had in years.

Because it finally exposes the one thing long-term couples do better than almost any other species: forgetting to appreciate the person standing three feet away doing half, or more, of the labor.

You don’t marry a highly sensitive spouse.

You slowly come to understand that your partner is running a more advanced operating system than anything you’ve ever owned, and frankly, you’re not sure you would’ve passed the compatibility test if someone had administered it beforehand.

At first, it’s charming.
Your spouse notices things.
How thoughtful.

They point out the tension between your two friends at dinner.
They say that your mother “seemed off.”

They pick up on “an undertone” you absolutely did not hear—largely because you were focused on buttering a roll.

But then one day you realize they’re not overreacting; they’re over-perceiving.
And it’s not mystical, either—it’s rooted in what we know from the foundational research on sensory processing sensitivity as a temperament trait, described in Elaine Aron’s original work in Journal of Personality and Social Psychology.

Highly sensitive spouses aren’t fragile.
They’re observant to the point of being haunted.

And living with someone who notices everything—especially the things you’d prefer went unnoted—is an intimate education in how much of your life you assumed was occurring off-camera.

Folks sometimes ask me why science-based couples therapy is important.

They ask it casually, the way you might ask whether you really need car insurance or whether the smoke alarm is just being dramatic.

Let me be as clear as mid-century America was not:

Because the field began as a polite, televised disaster.

The 1950s were not the golden age of marriage; they were the golden age of men with clipboards and no credentials issuing decrees about women’s lives.

It was a decade that successfully turned gender ideology into therapeutic doctrine—an impressive feat, if you ignore the human cost.

To understand why evidence matters, you have to see what filled the vacuum before evidence existed.

December arrives with such theatrical promise—lights twinkling, cookies cooling, the cultural insistence that this month be “magical”—that it’s almost unfair how quickly it exposes the cracks in a relationship.

Couples don’t plan to fight in December. Really they don’t.

They just sorta drift into it the way people wander into snowstorms they should have seen coming.

If November is the month you pretend everything’s fine over turkey, December is the month the emotional bookkeeping comes due.

And couples do fight. A lot.

Not because something is wrong with them individually, but because something peculiar happens collectively: December elevates their expectations and depletes their capacities at the exact same time.

It’s the only month where joy has a deadline. Yikes.

If you want to understand a marriage, don’t watch how the couple behaves on a random Tuesday. Watch them on Thanksgiving.

Watch who opens the wine at 2:30 p.m. “just to breathe.”

Watch who side-eyes the bottle of Chardonnay that seems to be evaporating.

Watch who volunteers to “check the turkey” every fifteen minutes because the basement freezer happens to contain a bottle of vodka no one else remembers buying.

Thanksgiving is the annual stress test of the American relationship.

Family arrives. Expectations bloom. Childhood ghosts reappear with uncanny punctuality.

And alcohol—always the agreeable resident of the holiday table—slides in to help smooth the proceedings, inflate them, or detonate them, depending on the marriage.

According to a comprehensive review in Substance Abuse and Rehabilitation, what determines whether a couple will survive not only Thanksgiving but the ordinary grind of a shared life isn’t simply who drinks more. It’s whether they drink in sync.

Researchers call this the drinking partnership.

There is a moment in a troubled marriage when the arguments stop having edges and start having consequences.

Not the dramatic kind—no slammed doors or clever insults—but the quieter, more existential kind where every gesture feels charged and every decision feels like the wrong one.

This is the emotional double bind: the relational configuration where every available choice injures something essential, and both partners begin to realize—silently, resentfully—that they are trapped inside a psychological geometry not of their making.

A double bind is not the same as a fight.
Fights have content.

Double binds have architecture instead.

There comes a point in many marriages when the noise stops but the suffering doesn’t.

The shouting fades, the arguments flatten, and the couple begins to live together like two exhausted nations engaged in a negotiated ceasefire—no longer fighting, but no closer to peace.

This is Emotional Gridlock: the quiet catastrophe of a relationship that can’t move forward, can’t move back, and can’t bear to stay where it is.

Gridlock is not about dishes, or tone, or who asked more generously last week.

Those are merely the costumes worn by a more existential drama.

Gridlock is what happens when the marriage loses its shared emotional language but continues speaking anyway, like two translators arguing over a text neither of them has read.

It is the stalemate between meaning and fear.