So when a client tells me a book moved him, I listen. When several clients mention the same book, I consider it part of my continuing education. And when my adult daughter brings Heart the Lover by Lily King on vacation and can’t put it down, I pay attention.

I came to this novel without having read King’s companion book, Writers & Lovers. I will likely circle back. But Heart the Lover stands beautifully on its own—a work of elegant prose that captures both the innocence and the psychological complexity of young adulthood.

We follow a protagonist whose name is withheld until the final pages, a choice that feels psychologically intentional. Identity, after all, is not fixed in youth—it is constructed, tested, defended, and revised in relationship. Within an intoxicating circle of collegiate friends who both intimidate and inspire her, she becomes “Jordan,” a version of herself that feels braver, sharper, more socially fluent. She falls into a love triangle that ultimately crystallizes into something deeper: a connection between two ambitious, idealistic young people who want their lives to matter.
What unfolds is tender and devastating in equal measure. King captures something rare: the almost sacred intensity of first adult love. It is fragile. It is precarious. It is infused with longing and projection. And it is often unsustainable—not because the love is false, but because the people inside it are still becoming.

That is where the novel feels especially relevant to my work as a therapist.

Heart the Lover is not simply a romance. It is a study in development. It shows how profoundly we are shaped by our families—by what was spoken, and what was not; by what was expected, and what was silently demanded. The characters are intelligent and sincere. They want to love well. But wanting and being ready are not the same thing.

Many young adults carry into romance unresolved family dynamics, unexamined fears, and unconscious loyalties. The capacity for intimacy requires differentiation—the ability to remain oneself while moving toward another. And that capacity often lags behind longing.

What I admire most about King’s writing is her portrayal of the approach–avoidance dance so common in love: the simultaneous pull toward closeness and retreat from it. In one scene, the narrator waits at baggage claim for the man she loves. Her anticipation is electric; her body is alive with sensation. Yet she recognizes a quiet truth: if he fully understood the depth of her love, it would terrify him.
That moment captures something universal. Intimacy exposes us. To be loved is to be seen. And to be seen can feel dangerous when we are still uncertain of ourselves.

Alongside this exquisite rendering of young love, King writes with unusual clarity about existential awakening. Her characters metabolize pain in real time. They feel it in their bodies. They struggle with it. And through it, they become more conscious, more deliberate, more themselves.

As both a therapist and a mother of adult children, I find myself moved by that arc. Youthful love is rarely tidy. It can be misguided, misaligned, or mistimed. And yet it is formative. It shapes the nervous system. It clarifies values. It exposes vulnerabilities that must eventually be integrated.
In that way, heartbreak is not the opposite of growth. It is often its catalyst.

And perhaps that is why so many of my clients—and my daughter—pressed this book into my hands. It does what good fiction does best: it illuminates the private terrain of becoming.

The results are in: Mikey Madison has officially taken home the Oscar for Best Actress, capping off an incredible awards season where she also won the Independent Spirit Award and the BAFTA. In a historic night, Anora dominated the Academy Awards, proving that its raw intensity and indie roots were no barrier to Hollywood’s top prize. Anora is the film with the lowest budget ever to win best picture.

Directed by Sean Baker, Anora is a striking commentary on wealth, power, and sex work—a clear reminder that, despite progress, it is still a man’s world. Baker, known for his 2015 iPhone-shot indie hit Tangerine, once again spotlights the lives of sex workers with unflinching realism and respect. His protagonist, Anora, or Ani as she prefers, is a New York City-based stripper and escort. Her grandmother never learned English, so she speaks a bit of Russian. When Ivan, the reckless, entitled son of a Russian oligarch, requests a dancer who speaks his language, Ani is the obvious match. Their chemistry is immediate, but their connection—like so many modern relationships—is built on performance and illusion.

Ani presents herself as confident and agreeable, masking the harsh realities of her profession with a well-practiced charm. Ivan, meanwhile, embodies unchecked privilege, approaching his surroundings—both in terms of people and places—as a limitless playground. Their relationship escalates when Ivan offers Ani $15,000 to be his girlfriend for a week—a transaction she negotiates matter-of-factly. As their dynamic deepens, the film peels back their façades. Ani is not just a seductress; she is a vulnerable young woman in pain. Ivan is not just a playboy; he is an impotent child lost in excess. Together, they expose the thin line between self-deception and survival.

As a therapist who works with many clients navigating modern dating, what makes Anora especially compelling is how it mirrors common challenges of real-world courtship. Beneath the film’s exaggerated scenario lies a universal truth: in early relationships, people often wear masks. Ani feigns enjoyment of bad sex. Ivan convinces himself he’s falling in love. Their self-delusions unravel when reality—in the form of Ivan’s furious parents—comes crashing into town.

I often remind clients that rushing into intimacy can cloud judgment. The modern dating landscape makes slow, intentional connection increasingly rare. Ani and Ivan’s memorable, marvelous, heartbreaking story serves as a cautionary tale. Their circumstances may be extreme, but the emotional risks they take are all too familiar. In the end, Anora forces audiences to confront uncomfortable truths—about power, relationships, and the transactional nature of desire.

With its Oscar triumph, Anora is no longer just a critical darling—it’s an undeniable cinematic milestone. And Madison’s fearless performance has been rightfully celebrated as one of the most unforgettable in recent memory.
If you are interested, check out my original version of this post – pre-oscars, on Psychology .Today

Ann Patchett’s 2023 novel, Tom Lake, is a relationally-oriented therapist’s dream. A love letter both to northern Michigan’s cherry farms and to small-town family life, Patchett’s novel unpacks how greater emotional maturity is conducive to choosing healthier, more sustainable romantic partnerships.

The novel begins during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic while protagonist Lara is quarantining with her three daughters and her husband on their cherry farm in northern Michigan. With the world at a standstill, Lara’s daughters insist that she finally share with them the story from her early adulthood when she dated a young actor who went on to become the world’s most famous movie star. Lara’s three daughters worship the devastatingly handsome Peter Duke and demand that their mother finally give them the backstory. Reluctantly, and with strict and entertaining boundaries, Lara agrees.

What unfolds is a moving tale of a young, innocent and unassuming girl plucked from small town life in part because of her uncanny ability to portray small-town life through her performance in the lead role (Emily) in various productions of Thornton Wilder’s classic play Our Town. Lara’s youthful whirlwind romance with Duke is a classic Hollywood tale of innocence lost and how the spotlight of fame corrupts and contorts. Tom Lake’s plot toggles between Lara’s quarantine with her close-knit family and the complexities of life on the farm and Lara’s detailed description of her years as a young, unsuspecting, aspiring starlet. Heartache, sibling rivalry, and family love are concurrent themes, and Our Town’s cherishment of the wholesomeness of small-town life works as a convincing psychological template for emotional maturity and the beauty of healthy choices and a quiet, connected, authentic life.

Early adulthood is a rich psychological time when personalities develop more deeply, and individuals begin to cultivate what systems therapists describe as a more grounded sense of self. Early adulthood marks a wonderful but often fraught stage of life full of pondering, pain and possibility.

Illinoise, a stunning musical directed and choreographed by Justin Peck, takes an unconventional approach that celebrates this psychological stage of adulthood with reverence and abandon.

Set to Sufjan Stevens’s dreamy 2005 album, Illinois, the play contains no dialogue, and the plot is a moving and somewhat fluid series of dance movements that are both inspiring and humbling. Presumably, the plays title adds the silent “e” to the title to allude to the emotional “noise” of young adulthood. Lovers come together and move apart, relocation is a theme, cancer strikes a beloved friend, and each scene conveys meaningful coming-of-age milestones, challenges and heartbreaks. The music is performed by ethereal musicians and singers lingering in the air to stage right and stage left, dressed as butterflies. The choreography is moving and expressive, and the exceptional dance ensemble includes So You Think You Can Dance winner Ricky Ubeda.

Systems therapists understand that early adulthood is often accompanied with a surge of anxiety that is often triggered by a life transition (like graduation) that marks a passage onto a new path determined through one’s own choices, and no longer framed by a parentally dictated plan. Such freedom is important and developmentally necessary, but also a significant psychological leap, especially for individuals who have unfinished pain points from childhood. Each vignette is distinct, but each shares an unspoken understanding of the richness imbued in the stage of life when adults launch into the world and chart their independent course and solidify their distinct identities.

A friend recently introduced me to Bandle – an app that invites users to play name that tune with a twist. The app introduces only one component of the song at a time. With each failed guess, the app splices in one more instrument at a time. I’m a wiz with name that tune; unfortunately, I’m abysmal at Bandle. It turns out it is staggeringly difficult to name a song listening only to the opening snippet of its base – or guitar – or drums. My love of music may be strong, but my understanding of the moving parts involved in musical composition is pedestrian at best. Enter the Tony Award sweeping play, Stereophonic.

Loosely based on the composition process behind Fleetwood Mac’s legendary album “Rumors”, this sensational show takes the audience far behind the scenes of the technical, relational, and creative process of song production. The band members – Diana, Peter, Reg, Holly and Simon — are wildly talented and emotionally flawed. Their two-person tech team – Grover and Charlie – service the musician’s many needs and become an interpretive conduit between the audience and the band as their creations form and their relationships implode.

From a creative perspective, the play is groundbreaking on many musical fronts exploring the complexity of artistic process. Many excellent reviews and podcasts are covering why Stereophonic may become a long-running classic.

From a psychological perspective, the play also breaks unusual ground. When we go behind the scenes of the band’s music, we simultaneously peer behind the scenes of Diana and Peter’s fraught relationship. Diana resents Peter’s unbreakable drive for perfection and work ethic. (But this does not hold him back.) Peter resents Diana’s pure raw if not fully exercised talent. (And his relentless criticism beats her down.) Diana begs Peter to give her the affirmation she lacks from within. Peter refuses, instead impulsively hitting Diana where it hurts. And then, as so often happens following a bitter divorce, when Peter no longer has Diana as an outlet for his rage, it explodes and poisons all of his other important relationships along with the band.

Stereophonic’s creator,David Adjmi, understands the psychology behind dysfunctional intimate relationships as well as he understand the multitude of moving parts of a song. Many pained marriages allow an abusive partner to contain their dysfunction behind the walls of the marriage. If they lose the marriage, they lose a vital emotional dam. And when the floodgates open, the collateral damage can be catastrophic.

For song lovers and relationship therapists alike, Stereophonic is a master class on music and marriage.

Let’s say a therapy client is working on a pattern of choosing unhealthy relationships. These relationships are important to explore in terms of how the client chooses partnerships and what the client’s role may be in participating in these substandard relational patterns. In this mode, it is common to look back and remember someone kind from one’s past. It is not unusual to remember a possible partner who was suitable and available and who expressed interest and to wonder – what if? It is often clinically valuable to reflect on past experiences and to be curious why dating someone kind and engaging was not the chosen path at the time.

Intensive reflection on the path not taken is the central theme of Matt Haig’s number one NYTimes best-selling book, The Midnight Library. Haig’s acclaimed memoir, Reasons to Stay Alive, is a candid study of his personal struggle with depression. Haig continues this exploration of depressive disorder in this compelling, memorable novel. Following a horrible day, angsty protagonist Nora Seed finds herself in a mysterious library. It’s midnight and she lingers somewhere between life and death. A beloved librarian from Nora’s past offers her the chance to read from a selection of books lining the library shelves in order to explore a series of what ifs. Each book represents its own unique do-over. What if she had stuck with swimming? What if she had not quit her band? What if she had moved to Australia or stayed in college, and received her philosophy degree?

Parallel universes exist in the Midnight Library, and why shouldn’t they? As Nora explains:

“’Everything in quantum mechanics and string theory all points to there being multiple universes. Many, many universes…’”

Haig weaves principles of metaphysics and philosophy into a compelling backdrop as Nora glides earnestly from one universe to the next. Between each life, she returns to The Midnight Library to reflect and recharge. As she excavates layers of regret about various paths not taken, her discoveries form a tale reminiscent of It’s a Wonderful Life and The Wizard of Oz. Both of these classic films teach that the answer to many individual struggles is often located in one’s own backyard. These and many other lessons flow from Nora’s tale, making The Midnight Library a magnificent and engaging therapeutic tool.

As Nora learns, “you could be as honest as possible in life, but people only see the truth if it is close enough to their reality. As Thoreau wrote, ‘It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.'”

Lucy Barton, a relatable and compelling underdog admired by readers everywhere, is back for a third round in Elizabeth Strout’s magnificent continuation of a journey that began in a small New York City hospital room. Fans fell in love with Lucy reading the novel showcasing her name. My Name is Lucy Barton (2016) and the engrossing follow up Anything is Possible (2017) trace Lucy’s story and those in her orbit, as they navigate illness, betrayal, abuse and love. Some of us (myself included!) were fortunate enough to see a Laura Linney embody Lucy with abandon in the critically revered Broadway show based on the book (2019).

Oh William! (2021) picks up several years later as Lucy grieves the death of her adoring second husband. Despite widowhood, it feels satisfying to learn that Lucy finally knew intimate and fulfilling romantic love. And unsurprising that Lucy’s first husband and the father of her children, William, is on his third marriage which comes to an abrupt conclusion when his much younger wife suddenly moves out along with their teenage daughter. Lucy and William’s two daughters are both grown and married, and Lucy’s literary career has continued to blossom. While William is grappling with marital abandonment and the faltering of his career, he makes the shocking discovery that he has an older half-sister living in Maine. This nod to his mother’s mysterious past pushes William to seek solace in his amicable friendship with Lucy.

Lucy and William’s dual journey through their own grief brings them together, and they decide to travel to Maine to learn more about William’s mother’s past. Oh William! carries a plethora of insightful jewels along the way. The plot looks backwards contemplating the backstory about William’s half-sister and other unexplored chapters in Lucy and William’s earlier life together. Family secrets and betrayals are contemplated, and Lucy reflects on the devastating memories of uncovering William’s infidelity years earlier:

A tulip stem inside me snapped. This is what I felt. It has stayed snapped, it never grew back. I began to write more truthfully after that.

Despite terrific professional success, the traumatic nature of Lucy’s childhood continues to define and drive her. Stroud understands this tension and continues to cultivate the inner emotional life of her protagonist, still trying to grow and understand and learn from her mistakes.

About authority: When I taught writing – which I did for many years – I talked about authority. I told the students that what was most important was the authority they went to the page with. And when I saw a photograph of Wilhelm Gerhardt in the library I thought: Oh, there is authority. I understood immediately why Catherine had fallen in love with him. It was not just his looks, it was the WAY he looked, as though he would do what he was told, but no one would ever have his soul…And – slowly – I realized this: This authority was why I had fallen in love with William. We crave authority. We do. No matter what anyone says, we crave that sense of authority. Of believing that in the presence of this person, we are safe.

Oh William! continues a memorable journey that will leave readers longing for more. I can’t wait to reconnect with Lucy when she is in her Eighties!

AdaptationAdaptation tells two simultaneous stories. One is of Susan Orlean’s process of writing the book The Orchid Thief. Orlean is a quintessential New York intellectual immersed in an elitist bubble long before that term was in vogue. She is writing a story in The New Yorker about John Laroche, a toothless rebel who hunts rare orchids. Orlean mocks Laroche’s mannerisms while hosting sophisticated dinner parties while guests huddle alarmingly close together in her chic condo. But she finds herself obsessing over Laroche’s unrestrained passion and deliberate pursuit of floral perfection. In tandem, Kauffman tells a loosely autobiographical story of his personal struggle to adapt this magnificent book into a film. The screenwriter’s challenge is to capture a rapturous story about flowers and construct a film that reflects the simplicity of the book. Kauffman wants his screenplay adaptation to be about orchids — their life, their beauty, and what it means to cultivate a singular passion. This second plot is as colorful and arresting as the first, as the neurotic screenwriter struggles with severe writer’s block that mirrors Orlean’s struggles writing about Laroche. Meanwhile, pressure mounts from Hollywood to compromise Kauffman’s singular passion – artistic integrity – and make the film more gratuitous and marketable in order to give the viewers what they want.

The film’s title is also twofold. The plot traces the imaginative journey of the creative process of adapting a book into a film. The deeper meaning references the question of how humans and various life forms adjust and evolve in the face of environmental threats and challenges. The human capacity to change in the face of adversity and acquire new strengths and skills is central to this entertaining and memorable film.

John Laroche: You know why I like plants?
Susan Orlean: Nuh uh.
John Laroche: Because they’re so mutable. Adaptation is a profound process. Means you figure out how to thrive in the world.
Susan Orlean: [pause] Yeah but it’s easier for plants. I mean they have no memory. They just move on to whatever’s next. With a person though, adapting almost shameful. It’s like running away.”

As each character on the simultaneous plot tracks learns to adapt and evolve, viewers may discover that this film withstands the test of time and takes on new resonance in the face of our current universal challenge.

Rebecca Makkai’s The Great BelieversThe Great Believers explores life in urban Chicago during the mid eighties as a tight knit group of mostly fabulous friends navigate dating, careers, family and the spike of AIDS in their gay community. A young gallery worker named Yale manages his complicated love life and attempts to procure a rare and newsworthy donation and installation. The plot intersperses Yale’s experience with the journey of a Fiona, middle aged woman in the present day, searching in Paris for her estranged daughter. Fiona and Yale were close friends back in the day, and both were devastated when Fiona’s brother, Nico, succumbed to AIDS.

It can feel therapeutic to create diversion from one pandemic by immersing one’s self in the tale of another. Makkai’s characters are believable, especially in their complexity and contradictions, struggling to navigate sex and relationships during a deadly stretch when so little was understood about the virus. Reading about Yale and his contemporaries’ risks and losses while sorting out what social distancing will look like in the weeks and months ahead, this book takes on a deeper meaning.

From a psychological perspective, Makkai understands the powerful pull of inter-generational patterns. Fiona insists on cutting off from her parents because they were not supportive of Nico’s sexuality. They are ashamed of his cause of death. Fiona persists in her refusal to let them in to her life, even as they all grieve Nico’s passing. Fiona frantically scours Paris in search of her daughter Claire. Like Fiona, Claire has become a mother herself and does not want contact with her own mother. Fiona eventually realizes the irony:

Your mother was supposed to be there when you had a baby, was supposed to yell at doctors for you and make sure you were resting. If Fiona had allowed her own mother in the hospital, would things have gone differently? Would her mother have insisted on putting baby Claire on her chest, make sure they bonded as they slept? The thought hit her hard, right in the abdomen, and so did the realization that what Claire had done to her was exactly shat she’d done to her own mother.

If you are looking for an engaging and relevant quarantine read, The Great Believers The Great Believers will be good company.

Until theaters across the country went dark, the Tony award winning musical Next to Normal was enjoying rave reviews throughout its revival tour. The generous and electric performances of the six-person cast shine a light on the question of what “normal” looks like in the realm of mental health and grief. These questions feel even more relevant during the current coronavirus crisis.

But back to the play for a moment. Rachel Bay Jones won the Tony Award for her role as the angst filled mom Heidi in Dear Evan Hansen. In Next to Normal, Jones plays Heidi, the doting mother of two who seems full of life and spirit and energy until she doesn’t. The play opens with Heidi enjoying an exchange with her charismatic teenage son. But it soon becomes clear that Heidi’s energy is a deceptive and fleeting burst of mania. It also turns out that one of the two children she dotes on so lovingly has been dead for well over a decade. Her enthralling performance toys with the idea of what it really means to be or feel normal. Can doctors or mental health practitioners or even family members dictate what normal looks like in the face of loss? Can we place a yardstick up against the arch of grief and hold anyone to a clear-cut standard?

Next to Normal’s rhythmic and provocative study challenging these questions has stayed with me as I continue to work with therapy clients both virtually and in person. Each of us has a list of pressing concerns and a list of current losses. Deserted schools, virtual classrooms, canceled travel, worry for parents and grandparents, longing for life to return to “normal”. We are all wondering what “normal” will look like in our future.

The play emphasizes the power of human connection and the complex reality that humans process grief in unusual and unpredictable ways. Our collective communities will eventually acclimate and find a new “normal”. As we alter our social patterns and practice physical distancing, the ability to create intimacy through words, honesty and acts of kindness may be the best medicine.