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.

Last weekend, at a friend’s suggestion, my husband and I watched the 2013 film The Lunchbox—a surprisingly moving and unexpected love story that unfolds through something almost quaint by today’s standards: handwritten notes.

The premise is simple and quietly heartbreaking. Ila (Nimrat Kaur) wants to recapture her husband’s dwindling attention. Sensing they’ve fallen into a rut, she hopes that elevating his daily lunch—once routine, now carefully spiced and lovingly prepared—might awaken his affection.

The film is shot on location in Mumbai, where the city’s legendary dabbyawallas deliver fresh, homemade lunches from household kitchens to offices across the city through an astonishingly precise delivery system. In a rare error, Ila’s lunch is mistakenly delivered not to her husband, but to Mr. Fernandes (Irrfan Khan), an older, isolated widower nearing retirement after more than thirty years as an insurance claims officer. His work is methodical, lonely, and as monotonous as his personal life.

When Ila’s husband complains about “her” cooking—which is actually the mediocre takeout Mr. Fernandes typically receives—Ila realizes her lovingly prepared meals are landing in the wrong hands. She slips a note into the lunch container to explain. When Mr. Fernandes replies, a tender and witty correspondence begins. Over time, the two strangers become confidants, sharing longings, disappointments, and the small details of their inner lives.

(With today’s explosion of food delivery apps and single-use plastic, the dabbawallas’ clean, reusable metal lunch containers feel like characters in their own right—and a quiet, compelling alternative vision of care and sustainability. But that may be another movie, or at least another conversation.)

The Lunchbox understands that loneliness is a disease of both heart and soul—and that it can exist both inside and outside of a romantic partnership. Ila’s aunt insists that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and the film plays gently with this idea. Ultimately, though, it is the written word—not the food—that becomes the most loving gesture of all.

There is something deeply nostalgic about how true the film feels. It reminds us that not so long ago, writing—slow, intentional, written by human hands—was a primary way we reached for one another. In a world now dominated by instant, disposable messages, The Lunchbox offers a quiet reminder: being seen, named, and responded to may be the most sustaining nourishment of all.

It’s not every day that a series dares to explore female sexuality with honesty—and even less often does it do so in tandem with the realities of terminal illness. Hulu’s Dying for Sex manages both, telling a bold yet intimate story that invites us to think differently about what it means to be alive. Based on the real experiences of Molly Kochan (1973–2019), the show fictionalizes the podcast and book she created with her friend Nikki Boyer. Michelle Williams plays the role of Molly, whose terminal breast cancer diagnosis sparks an unexpected, deeply personal sexual and emotional awakening.

We first meet Molly in therapy, visibly on edge while her husband, Steve (Jay Duplass), laments that her illness has dampened his desire and compromised their sex life. His tone is self-pitying and oblivious—he’s technically supportive but emotionally absent. When she learns her cancer has returned and is no longer treatable, Molly quietly but definitively walks out: of the therapy session and of her marriage.

Stepping into the emotional and logistical void is Molly’s best friend, Nikki (played with radiant depth by Jenny Slate). Rather than chase a standard “bucket list,” Molly decides to reclaim her sexual self. She turns to dating apps, hoping to reconnect with pleasure and presence. The sexual adventures that follow range from awkward to absurd: one man insists on saying “clasp” repeatedly, another won’t remove his puppy costume—even at chemo appointments. Some moments edge into caricature, though they also highlight how surreal modern dating can feel, especially under extraordinary circumstances.

Still, these escapades aren’t where the soul of the story lives.

What makes Dying for Sex so affecting is its portrayal of emotional intimacy, not just sexual experimentation. Molly’s real transformation unfolds in the spaces where she drops her armor: in group therapy, in tough conversations with her mother (played with haunting grit by Sissy Spacek), in her growing rapport with a next-door neighbor (Rob Delaney), and most poignantly, in her evolving bond with Nikki. Her terminal diagnosis intensifies her life force. She begins to confront her history of sexual trauma, to inhabit her truth with startling clarity, and to allow connection where before there was guardedness and inhibition.

In this way, Dying for Sex isn’t primarily about sex—it’s about awakening. The show refuses to look away from the ordinary and sacred elements of dying. Its quietest scenes often carry the most weight, like those involving a compassionate hospice nurse who feels like the show’s spiritual center. As a therapist, I was especially struck by the series’ invitation to reflect on how grief, mortality, and intimacy are deeply entangled.

Rather than pit death against desire, the series suggests that the two can coexist—and that, in fact, real intimacy often blooms in the shadow of our most finite moments. Many will press play for the edgy premise, but it’s the honesty, vulnerability, and deep humanity that will stay will resonate long after the final credits.

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.

The late Shirley Glass, a prominent infidelity researcher, encouraged an ideal script at the outset. Her suggestion is that when a married person notices a spark with another, it is highly advisable to discuss this spark with one’s spouse. To say something like:

“I was having coffee with Lucy today and I felt surprised that our conversation quickly became both personal and flirtatious. I was also surprised that I enjoyed it. It reminded me of how you and I used to be with one another, and I want to try to get that back. Can we work on that?”

If only more married adults chose to run this script.

Elizabeth Stroud’s latest novel, Tell Me Everything, is one of her very best. In a showcase that feels something like a finale, she allows her beloved, previously unacquainted characters from her various critically acclaimed series to intersect and collide with one another in the small town of Crosby, Maine. Set during the later part of the pandemic, the novel begins with the meek, brilliant novelist Lucy Barton having recently befriended the angsty attorney Bob Burgess. The friendship has become romantic, though Lucy and Bob remain in denial of their palpable romantic spark. They believe they are good friends and insist their frequent walks are covid-friendly and purely platonic. Quirky local fixture Olive Kitteridge (of Stroud’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel of the same name) understands the blossoming romance between Lucy and Bob and easily sees straight through their blind spots. Olive’s friendships with Lucy and Bob animate the novel as does the plot’s unfolding murder mystery.

Stroud understands that intimate life happens in the small quiet moments rather than the large romantic gestures. Lucy and Bob cherish their deep unfiltered conversations. Lucy calls Bob a sin eater because she understands that Bob has sacrificed to much for others, especially his older brother. Lucy opens up about her impoverished and abusive childhood:

“But I don’t remember feeling envious a lot, Bob, and I don’t understand that. You would think, I would think, that I would have been envious of people from the start, all these mothers who seemed to love their children as they picked them up from school, all those kids who seemed to have normal lives, but I just somehow understood: That’s not my life. And I was always inside my head, and I remember thinking: I’m glad this is my head.”

Even Bob’s bad haircut illuminates the intricacy and hilarity of the human connection. He and Lucy both agree that it makes him look like a twelve-year-old with a man’s face, and their dual experiences of this unfortunate new style represent their powerful connection and the unexpected path forward.

Bob loves his wife, the minister of their local church. And Lucy loves her ex-husband William. Lucy and William reconnected during the pandemic and are giving it another go. Despite these satisfying unions, the chemistry fueling Lucy and Bob’s conversations anchor the plot and transfix these two central characters.

Emotional repairs, infidelity, betrayal, sexual abuse, neglect, isolation, therapy and memory are all important themes explored with rich emotional intelligence. And yet, as a therapist, what stays with me most about this beautiful story is its exploration of the road not taken.

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.

Freudian theory has many limitations and a lot of the original ideas are so sexist they are not even worthy of serious discussion. Nevertheless, Sigmund Freud was the very first to identify and explore the existence of the unconscious mind – a concept that has become central to modern psychology and to understanding human motivations and intimate relationships. Streaming Richard Linklater’s new film, Hit Man, I found myself thinking about the unconscious mind and contemplating a central Freudian concept – projective identification. A projective identification refers to an unconscious defense mechanism in which a person attempts to rid themselves of some part of their being that they find utterly unacceptable. They do so by identifying this problematic trait in another person and focusing on where it resides in the other. Projections – to use the term’s shorthand – can be useful in understanding what might motivate racism. A racist person might refuse to face some part of themselves – let’s say laziness, dishonestly or limited intelligence – and instead they direct their unconscious internal resentment and angst toward an entire group of people, criticizing their supposed (though unlikely) embodiment of that very same unacceptable trait.

But, back to the hilarious and entertaining dramedy Hit Man. Early in the film, we meet Gary who is an unfortunately dressed professor who lives alone with his cats and likes birding and motivational psychology. His ex-wife has moved on and is expecting her first child, and she wishes that Gary could learn to cultivate more passion and try to move on from their relationship and maybe even go on a date. To earn additional income, Gary does some tech work for the New Orleans Police Department and when an unexpected event forces Gary undercover, he begins accessing new corners of his personality that are as unexpected and thrilling to him as they are to the colorful cast of felons he encounters. The subversive criminals spark his inner bad boy – and he likes it!

(Hit man is loosely based on a true story!)

Gary relishes the chance to become Ron, as his subversive journey demonstrates an innate understanding of human psychology and the unconscious mind. Ron’s experience with love interest Madison illuminates what some Freudians understand as a deeper and more complex meaning of a projective identification. Some clinicians believe that projecting is more than a straightforward albeit unconscious defense against an unacceptable impulse. Instead, a projective identification can take the shape of an unconscious contract between intimate partners. According to this more niche corner of the theory, sometimes one person makes an unspoken agreement to take an unacceptable trait away from the other and to hold it or embody it in service of the other and in service of the relationship. Rather than become a spoiler – let’s just say that if you want to develop a deeper understanding of the fascinating concept of a projective identification, this film is worthwhile viewing.

Years ago, I worked with a therapy client who reached out when she learned that her twenty-three-year-old daughter was addicted to opioids. Remembering early days of motherhood, my client sobbed recalling her struggles to balance a demanding career as an academic with her daughter’s pleas for attention and affection. Her daughter’s needs were obviously understandable. Nevertheless, life as a young working mother felt incredibly overwhelming and clashed with her understanding how women are socialized to envision motherhood.

“I would give anything to return her hugs now. And to play with her with abandon on our messy apartment floor. At the time I felt suffocated. I resented how much she needed, and I have so few memories of letting go and enjoying it.”

Streaming The Lost Daughter on Netflix yesterday, I naturally remembered this client. During our work together, she was able to drop everything and help her daughter become clean. But as a very young mother, her daughter’s pleas that she drop anything felt torturous.

In her directorial debut, Maggie Gyllenhaal adapts Elena Ferrente’s novel exploring the complex emotional experience of motherhood with depth and honesty. Olivia Coleman plays the protagonist, Leda, who has rented a Greek seaside apartment for an extended visit. Viewers quickly discover that Leda is awkward, elegant, distant and strange. She becomes transfixed with a young, glamorous, bikini-clad mother, Nina (Dakota Johnson), and her young daughter who are close to her beach chair. Leda longingly eyes Nina frolicking in the sand, while Nina’s daughter clings to her mother’s taught body like an oversized choker. Late one afternoon, Nina’s daughter is lost on the beach, Leda finds her, and the two begin an odd and captivating acquaintance.

Nina’s manner with her daughter stirs Leda’s memories of young motherhood, and the film then begins to toggle between young Leda (Jessie Buckley) in her early twenties as a mom and present-day Leda (Coleman) in her mid-forties. Gyllenhaal does not look for tidy solutions or conclusive explanations. This is a messy film that asks deep questions about motherhood, freedom, sexuality and vitality. I found myself curious to know more about Leda’s own mother and her childhood experience. But the film works best in the contrast between what taboos it is willing to unpack and what it fails to explain.