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.

Families, relationships, and communities shape us in ways both obvious and invisible. Jonathan Spector’s This Much I Know explores how our personal histories, inherited beliefs, and the stories we tell ourselves collide—sometimes painfully, sometimes with unexpected insight. In this beautifully acted play, competing truths coexist, challenging us to sit with ambiguity and consider how context shapes conviction.

Therapists understand that children can grow up in the same family and yet experience profoundly different childhoods. A couple can weather the same adversity and later remember it as if they lived through two separate realities. In therapy, two competing truths can share the same space—though it is rarely an easy space to inhabit.

The question of competing narratives frames This Much I Know, which recently left a successful run at Theater J in Washington, D.C., for New York’s 59E59 Theaters. A superb trio of actors fluidly inhabit multiple roles through subtle shifts in costume, accent, and setting, creating a world where memory, identity, and ideology overlap.

We first meet Lukesh (Firdous Bamji), a psychology professor whose dry humor and knowing detachment come through as he asks the audience to silence their phones and launches into a lecture on confirmation bias. His wife, Natalya (Dani Stoller), wrestles with the aftermath of a traumatic experience, channeling her turmoil into research for a book about her grandmother—who fled Russia and was rumored to have been a childhood friend of Stalin’s daughter.
Natalya leaves Lukesh early in the play, while Harold (Ethan Rapp), a university student, faces a reckoning of his own when a news story exposes him as the son of a prominent white supremacist. He insists he doesn’t share all of his father’s beliefs, but no professor will sponsor his thesis—except Lukesh, who reluctantly agrees. Their charged exchanges about truth, bias, and belonging become the play’s intellectual core, while Natalya’s search for her grandmother’s story, and her portrayal of Stalin’s daughter, add layers of haunting symmetry.

Questions of ownership, blame, the butterfly effect, genetics, and epigenetics weave through the dialogue. This Much I Know resists easy answers and refuses to label narratives as right or wrong. Instead, it invites the audience to sit with ambiguity—to consider how context shapes conviction, and how difficult it is to break free from the gravitational pull of family legacy.

Like therapy itself, the play offers no tidy resolution. It asks us to tolerate complexity, to listen for truth in stories that contradict our own, and to recognize that understanding—like healing—requires curiosity more than certainty.

“Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other’s gold.”

That lyric came to mind as I watched ART, the hit Broadway revival now playing at the Music Box Theatre. The show, starring Bobby Cannavale, James Corden, and Neil Patrick Harris, layers a conversation about art and taste into a deeper meditation on what it means to sustain friendship over time — to keep the “gold” even as life offers us plenty of “silver.”
Set in Paris, Serge (Harris) is over the moon about a new piece of art he’s just purchased and can’t wait to show it off to his longtime friend Marc (Cannavale). Marc’s reaction is tepid at best — and when he learns the staggering price Serge paid for what appears to be a minimalist white canvas, he’s downright offended. He confides in their mutual friend Yvan (Corden), and from there, a witty, poignant debate unfolds about taste, loyalty, and the strain of changing perspectives within lifelong friendships.

We all have those friends who’ve known us forever — the ones who remember our childhood pets, our parents, our first heartbreaks, and our most embarrassing moments (like maybe spraying fart spray in the high school hallway just to see what would happen). As we grow and our lives diverge, those relationships can be tested. ART captures that tension with humor and heart: What do we do when a friend’s choices seem shallow, foolish, or foreign? Can affection outlast judgment? Can shared history withstand wounded pride?

I still remember my high school chemistry teacher — a man with wild, Einstein-esque hair who looked like his last experiment had gone awry — telling our class that the most important thing to remember wasn’t chemistry, but friendship. He reminded us that these early relationships, though sometimes distant later in life, are embedded in who we are. Like gold, they don’t tarnish easily.

Corden steals the show as Yvan — the most humble of the trio and the least “successful” by conventional standards — yet he’s also the most soulful. His frantic monologue about an upcoming wedding invitation is one of my all-time favorite moments in theater. It’s a reminder that friendship, like art, isn’t about perfection or prestige. It’s about recognition — seeing and being seen — and remembering the gold that endures even as we collect new silver along the way.

Psychological takeaway:
Friendship is one of our most powerful emotional regulators. It anchors us in identity, softens anxiety, and reflects our capacity for differentiation — the ability to stay connected without losing ourselves when disagreements arise. ART reminds us that the tension between closeness and individuality isn’t a flaw in friendship; it’s the heart of it.

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.

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.

As a therapist, what the review leaves out that will be relevant to viewers in therapy, is its exploration of grief, traumatic loss and depression. A lot has changed since the 1970s — during which the film is set and captures magically — but the shame and secrecy that plagues so many with depressive disorders remains. And the Holdovers treats this topic with seriousness and sensitivity.

Sadie is a gifted, determined, Jewish mathlete making her way in a man’s world where the gamers dominating the field often embody as much toxic masculinity as the characters in their games. Sadie’s grandmother is a holocaust survivor. Sam and Marx are both half Asian. In addition to being mixed race and estranged from his biological father, Sam has a chronically ailing foot that leaves him crippled and eventually amputated. Otherness and trauma are thematic threads that bind this gaming trio.
The book is also a love letter to artists – the title itself a Shakespeare reference alluding to the artistic elements necessary to create any truly great work of art including a meaningful video game.

What makes this love story most unusual (and somewhat heartbreaking) is its focus on what it means to be professionally in love as souldmate collaborators who do not consummate a romance, but rather engage in a relationship that lives and breathes in the creative realm rather than the romantic. What does it mean to make magnificent wholly original creative work as an authentic team. What is it like to love, live and breathe the work – without consummating a romantic path? Sadie and Sam meet and befriend one another while playing video games as children in a hospital game room. And Sadie’s somewhat OCD betrayal of Sam leads to a multi-year estrangement that is interrupted when they run into one another as college students in Boston. Gaming once again brings them together. Their collaboration lasts decades and includes all sorts of slights and pain points and highs and lows that mimic the arc of a married life.

The therapist in me can’t help but root for the romance, but the book’s captivating appeal challenges conventional psychological thinking about love, marriage, careers and relationships. Gabrielle Zevin successfully tells a flourishing, memorable love story that is a true original.

This phrase – despite and because of its grammatical flaw – was written and spoken and repeated by several social work professors in my early graduate training. A willingness to refrain from my own agenda in order to respect and deeply probe the psychological space and experience of my therapy clients is essential to my own clinical practice. Clinicians employ therapeutic strategies that allow us to challenge and guide and inject theory. But at the core of effective therapeutic work, the clinician must possess the emotional flexibility to respect each client’s unique reality and perspective.

Atul Gawande’s magnificent bestselling book,Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End” frames an approach to end-of-life decision making and care that respects this essential social work guiding principle. A surgeon and staff writer for The New Yorker and a professor at Harvard Medical School, Gawande has authored several bestselling books. Being Mortal explores how the trajectory of modern medicine’s success revolutionizing the dangers of birth and management of disease has evolved to a pattern of extending life above all else. Sometimes life is extended with blatant or even negligent disregard for patient preferences and priorities.

The problem with medicine and the institutions It has spawned for the care of the sick and the old is not that they have had an incorrect view of what makes life significant. The problem is that they have had almost no view at all. Medicine’s focus is narrow. Medical professionals concentrate on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul. Yet – and this is the painful paradox – we have decided that they should be the ones who largely define how we live in our waning days. For more than a century now, we have treated the trials of sickness, aging, and mortality as medical concerns. It’s been an experiment in social engineering, putting our fates in the hands of people valued more for their technical prowess than for their understanding of human needs.

Gawande masterfully challenges this default experiment. He points to creative approaches to senior living like infusing care facilities with plants and pets and farm animals. He does a deep and illuminating dive into hospice care and calls for providers to take the time to explore and respect each patient’s priorities. He features the palliative care specialist Susan Block as a moral compass with the potential to reframe the approach to end of life care:

“You have to understand,” Block told me. “A family meeting is a procedure, and it requires no less skill than performing an operation.” One basic mistake is conceptual. To most doctors, the primary purpose of a discussion about terminal illness is to determine what people want – whether they want chemo or not, whether they want to be resuscitated or not, whether they want hospice or not… “A large part of the task is helping people negotiate the over-whelming anxiety – anxiety about death, anxiety about suffering, anxiety about loved ones, anxiety about finances…” No one conversation can address them all. Arriving at an acceptance of one’s mortality and a clear understanding of the limits and the possibilities of medicine is a process, not an epiphany…The words you use matter. According to palliative specialists, you shouldn’t say, “I’m sorry things turned out this way,” for example, it can sound like you are distancing yourself. You should say, “I wish things were different.” You don’t ask, “What do you want when you are dying?” You ask, “If time becomes short, what is most important to you?”

Gems of knowledge like the above quotations are laced throughout Being Mortal’s brave mining of the difficult topic of terminal illness and the near taboo topics of dying and death. This difficult, illuminating, transformational read enhances my clinical skills and reminds me that being where the client is at is a lifelong, essential goal.