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

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.

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.

The book jacket for Diary of a Mad Housewife describes the novel as “a classic of urban women’s fiction that gave a wry voice to the nascent feminist stirrings of the 1960s.” I’m not sure how I missed it on my mother’s bookshelf while growing up in the 70s, but she confirms that it was right there all along with prominent placement. This engrossing page-turner eventually became a popular Academy Award nominated film, and is full of extremes. Both hilarious and heartbreaking, Sue Kaufman’s best-selling novel paints a portrait of city life in the 1960s that demonstrates how much has changed and how much has stayed the same.

Despite how often characters telephone local shops and charge groceries to their monthly tabs, and a 200 dollar business suit described as an obscene expense, the novel reads as remarkably current. Kaufman’s take on the challenges of motherhood, identity, marriage, and sexual intimacy withstands the test of time.

We meet the novel’s protagonist, Betina (or “Teen” as her husband Jonathan calls her), when she decides to keep a diary as a fitful attempt to cope with the escalating pressures and chaos of her life as a Manhattan housewife. Betina hopes that journaling will help her make sense of her aggressive social life and growing discomfort with the family’s superficial trajectory. She knows she needs help and she finds reading as therapeutic (and comic) as journaling. D.H. Lawrence is among her comforts, as she enjoys the satirical timing while reading as her husband readies himself for bed:

“What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost it seemed to her, she married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.” I read it three times, and was going over it a forth when Jonathan came out of the bathroom and got into bed. I sat gripping the book, waiting: it was exactly the sort of ironic moment for him to propose a Roll in the Hay. It never failed.

Betina’s diary guides readers through excessive substance use, an extramarital affair, way too many taxi rides, and a slew of raucous cocktail parties that might make certain middle-aged readers feel a little bit boring! At its most depressing, the diary is testament to how easily financial success can lead families down a superficial and dismal path. But the novel’s conclusion feels modestly hopeful and alludes to the possibility that therapy can be worthwhile, even with a substandard therapist. Reading and journaling are, indeed, therapuetic, and authentic change is possible. This cheeky novel captivated readers when published in 1967, and can be healthy bibliotherapy for mothers navigating multiple relationship challenges.

Family therapists love a good genogram. For those unfamiliar with this term, a genogram is a comprehensive family history framed through the psychological lens of Family Systems Theory. Family Systems Theory is a relationally oriented approach to therapy emphasizing the formative importance of the family landscape. Systemic therapists believe that relational patterns are often passed down from one generation to the next and that early experiences shape adult patterns and choices.

In my work with therapy clients, our third and sometimes also our fourth session of therapy are entirely focused on a constructing a comprehensive genogram. I begin by drawing a map of circles and squares with horizontal lines connecting married couples and vertical lines between the married couples, connecting parents to their children. We discuss each family member’s role within the family unit, how siblings and parents get along, what parental relationships are like and what clients understand about what their parents’ lives were like growing up. I am particularly curious about grandparents and their marriages. It is surprisingly common to know very little about how one’s grandparents met or what their early courtship was like. I encourage clients who are comfortable doing so to ask their parents to tell them more about their grandparents. If grandparents are still living, I encourage clients to also speak with them and be curious to learn as much as they can about their lives. Family Systems Theory assumes that our grandparents’ stories are essential to our own, and that the human impulse to deny painful parts of a family history can be quite strong. The past is worthy of exploration as a gateway to deeper self-awareness and healing.

Tom Stoppard’s magnificent play, Leopoldstadt, is anchored through a meticulous genogram which is displayed for the audience in the middle of the playbill and also presented as a primary staging element of the play’s opening scene, titled “1899”. The horizonal and vertical lines track the 27 Austrian family members of the Merz and Jakobovicz family tree whose journey is traced through five scenes, each marked by the year – 1899, 1900, 1924, 1938 and 1955. Emilia and Israel Merz and Estelle and Solomon Jakobovicz are “machatunim” — a Yiddish term referencing that their children Eva and Ludwig are married to each other. But this sophisticated, cultured group are not likely to speak Yiddish. They have assimilated into Austrian life, and we meet them on Christmas Eve 1899 gathered around a festive, unYiddish looking tree. One of the gleeful children places the Jewish star of David atop the tree and is told to take it down. The family and the audience erupt in laughter as the families’ conflicts about their Jewish faith shine brighter than the rejected Jewish star. The tension for the survival of the Jewish people and the lack of a Jewish homeland are consistent threads of conversation. Some family members have converted to Catholicism and several tense conversations challenge the characters and the audience to explore how difficult it is to acknowledge and understand current events as they unfold.

Denial and repressed memories shape each scene. By 1955, a dapper young Leo is one of only three remaining family members. Like Tom Stoppard, Leo has only a vague sense that he is Jewish. Like Stoppard, Leo writes popular, funny stories. Like Stoppard, Leo has changed his name so that it sounds less Jewish. Leo’s demeanor reflects how temping it can be to avoid the past. Even as his pasts lingers within and shapes who he has become.

Leopoldstadt is running through January 31, 2023 at the Longacre Theater in Times Square. While obviously intense, this important story challenges audiences to confront the impulse to look away.

Of my pre and post-surgical reading, Sarah Polley’s Run Towards the Danger offered the most meaningful and memorable frame for navigating physical adversity. The book chronicles her fascinating career in film and television but focuses on the long-standing psychological impact of trauma and the challenges of recovering from traumatic a physical injury.

Polley is widely known throughout Canada for her childhood role as Sara Stanley in the wildly popular television series Avonlea (1990-1996). She has starred in several films including Terry Gilliam’s The Adventures of Baron Munchausen and Atom Egoyan’s The Sweet Hereafter. But it is Polley’s work as a screenwriter and director which fully showcases her astonishing talent.

She has written and directed two of the most realistic films about infidelity ever made. Away From Her (2006) won Polley the Canadian Screen Award for Best Director and demonstrates how one can forgive a spousal betrayal but may never forget it. Take This Waltz (2011) stars Michelle Williams, Luke Kirby, Seth Rogan and Sarah Silverman in a study of the human tendency to want what we don’t have. I often suggest one or both films to therapy clients who are navigating the discovery of a spousal betrayal.

Polley’s 2012 The Stories We Tell won the best film of the year award from the Toronto Film Critics Association. The film unpacks a family secret about Polley’s parents’ marriage years after her mother’s death. This unforgettable autobiographical documentary showcases the director’s depth and innate understanding of complex familial bonds and the power of denial. Interestingly, this film and its revelation are not explored in her book.

Polley also wrote a memorable New York Times article about Harvey Weinstein soon after the revelations surfaced about his predatory crimes.

Clearly, I am a fan of her work. So if Polley writes a book about how trauma shapes the body and her journey through multiple health challenges and a concussion that forced her to drop out of plans to write and direct the film Little Women, I am keen to read it regardless of my foot surgery.

Polley writes earnestly and honestly about the traumatizing underbelly of childhood stardom. Part of Polley’s appeal is that she may be the least vain, least materialistic film star with the smallest ego in entertainment history. She was breaking ground for female filmmakers way before it became a hashtag or a movement. Weinstein tried to seduce her by telling her he could make her an even bigger star, but even as a young girl, she did not want to be a star, she wanted to write and direct. This depth and resolve fuse her account of the myriad of trauma and adversity she faced as a child actor with somewhat absent parents, vicious scoliosis, dramatically lopsided breasts and chronic pain.

At times, it seems Polley may not fully appreciate the breadth of rare door openings her stardom affords her. But maybe that’s because she seems so profoundly disinterested in being a star. The book is full of powerful behind-the-scenes accounts of her experience as a young actor, as a patient hospitalized with a high-risk pregnancy, as an early member of the Me Too movement and a tireless activist. But it is her journey fighting to recover from her three-year concussion that resonates most with my therapeutic training. Polley works with multiple experts and specialists and remains largely incapacitated for several years. As the title suggests, healing comes only when she finds a doctor who insists she run toward rather than away from her pain. Diving into excruciating physical pain runs a parallel track with excavating her traumatic childhood history. The book reads as if it was necessary that she write it in order to fully heal. By running toward her danger, this strong woman comes out even stronger on the other side.

As a systems therapist, family roles and dynamics are an important area of exploration. Developing a deeper understanding of the roles directly or indirectly assigned in childhood helps therapy clients reflect on how such roles are internalized and carried into adult careers and adult relationships. Developing a grasp of how past roles play out in the present makes the space to cultivate the adaptive elements of such roles and to challenge the maladaptive elements.

In this mode, the term “parentified child” is quite common. A parentified child references a child in a family unit who is directly or indirectly assigned an adult-like role. This assignment represents a family’s effort to compensate for parental shortcomings, limitations, adversity or absence. Many children raised by alcoholics, for example, will describe memories of caring for drunken parents or being sent by the sober parent into mature missions such as extracting the inebriated parent from a bar. For obvious reasons, memories of a parentified childhood may be quite painful and traumatic. But like so much in human relationships and in memory, relationships are complicated, families are unique, and parentified childhoods might also be laced with genuine happiness, joy and love.

Best picture academy award winner Coda is a beautiful film on many levels. From a therapeutic perspective, it captures the emotional complexity of a parentified childhood. The term Coda is an acronym standing for a child of deaf adults. (The word coda is defined as a concluding passage of a musical movement.) Coda’s protagonist, Ruby, has deaf parents and a deaf older brother. The film opens aboard the family’s fishing boat. Ruby and her father and brother are reeling in the day’s catch and preparing the fish for market sale. Music plays loudly, but Ruby’s father and brother seem oblivious. Only Ruby sways to the rhythm of the robust tunes. Viewers soon learn that Ruby is needed on the boat each day to meet regulatory requirements. All boating vessels must have a hearing individual aboard who can respond to coast guard alarms and notifications. Each morning, Ruby sails before sunrise and then dashes to high school where she doses off in class and struggles to balance the demands of academics with her familial obligations.

Ruby acts as her parents’ translator, protector and price negotiator. She must accompany them to doctor’s appointments and union meetings. The family’s livelihood seems completely dependent on Ruby’s engagement and support. Ruby embodies the quintessential parentified child. Her accountability toward her family is extreme. And yet, what makes Coda such a captivating film is the deep rapport and love and depth of Ruby’s family bonds. As Ruby and her parents struggle with the essential task of separation, the strengths and the complexity of the family dynamics are as challenging as they are endearing.

Ruby signs up for choir and the revelation and expression of her musical talent is entertaining and elevating. But Coda’s more substantive contribution is the complex portrayal of the strengths and dilemmas imbedded in the characters’ familial emotional life. Ruby is overly-responsible for her brother and parents’ welfare and safety. She cannot realize her full potential if she remains fully devoted to this parentified role. But the bonds framing her parentification demonstrate how sometimes one’s most unfortunate family role simultaneously illuminate both beauty and pain. Coda challenges a conventional understanding of what it means to operate in the parentified role and celebrates that sometimes our heaviest burdens also illuminate defining strengths.

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.