Infertility is rarely kind, but for LGBTQ+ couples, it’s a double bind.

You face not only the grief of cycles that don’t work but also the absurdity of some clinics that don’t recognize your family.

Queer infertility therapy isn’t a luxury—it’s how couples keep from drowning in both the science and the silence.

Infertility never arrives as a polite guest. It doesn’t knock, it doesn’t call ahead.

It barges in, drops its bags in the middle of your living room, and declares it’s staying for an indefinite period of time.

For most couples, infertility brings grief, financial strain, and awkward silences at dinner parties.

For LGBTQ+ couples, infertility drags along a second, less visible shadow: decades of systemic exclusion, medical erasure, and cultural suspicion of queer families.

The University of New Hampshire recently announced that the United States has 5.7 million more childless women than expected and 11.8 million fewer births since 2007 (Johnson, 2025).

Demographers call it the demographic cliff.

Personally, I think “cliff” is generous. A cliff suggests someone slipped. This looks more like a nation deliberately walking into traffic while posting a TikTok about “boundaries.”

Here’s a sobering factoid: In 2024, half of American women in their twenties and thirties had not given birth (Johnson, 2025).

In other words: for the first time in history, motherhood is less common than brunch. Yikes!

New sibling rivalry research overturns the old belief that men are naturally more aggressive, showing women often outpace brothers in family conflicts.

Aggression has always been handed out along gendered lines.

Men were assigned the part of the violent instigator—fighters, warriors, brawlers.

Women were cast as nurturers, peacekeepers, and emotional glue. Psychology, too, happily co-signed this story, reporting again and again that men were more aggressive than women, bolstered by reams of statistics from bar fights, playgrounds, and prisons (Archer, 2004; Bettencourt & Miller, 1996).

But stories are not science.

A new global study published in PNAS Nexus brings the myth to its knees. Surveying more than 4,000 people in 24 countries, the researchers found that women were just as aggressive as men toward their siblings—and often more so (Kenrick et al., 2025).

Aggression, it seems, is not simply male turf. Inside families, sisters often sharpen their elbows more than brothers.

Parenting has always lived somewhere between order and chaos. For decades, the standard approach leaned heavily on “because I said so.”

Lately, though, parents are experimenting with something closer to improv: Yes Day parenting.

The premise is simple. For one day, parents agree to stop saying “no.”

Kids make the decisions (within reason), and adults surrender control.

The idea is framed as a positive parenting strategy—one that builds trust, encourages child autonomy, and gives families a break from the daily grind. Of course, it can also go off the rails in spectacular fashion.

Divorce kills the marriage. It does not kill the parenting.

You may not share a bed anymore, but you’ll still share a Google calendar, a dental bill, and a child who expects both of you to show up for their science fair.

That’s where co-parenting counseling comes in.

Let’s be blunt: this is not therapy to rekindle romance. It’s therapy to stop your child from being collateral damage in your ongoing feud.

The research is consistent: children don’t suffer because parents divorce—they suffer because parents keep fighting (Gottman, 1994; Sandler et al., 2020).

Which means the real question isn’t, “Do we still need therapy together?” It’s “What kind of plan—or therapy—keeps our conflict from spilling over onto the kids?”

You think you’re remembering a golden moment: your toddler, grinning with applesauce on their cheeks, running toward you like a drunken Olympian.

But you’re not just remembering. You’re filtering.

And the filter was bolted into place decades ago, when you were small and depending on parents who either showed up or didn’t.

A study in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships (Perzolli, Arcos, Kerr, Smiley, & Borelli, 2024) confirms what most therapists already suspect:

Your ability to savor joy depends on whether your caregivers were emotional first responders or checked-out landlords.

For decades, acetaminophen—paracetamol to much of the world, Tylenol if you’re in a U.S. pharmacy aisle—has been the quiet, trusted companion of pregnant women.

A fever? Take two. A pounding headache? Same advice. Back pain in month seven? Doctors have nodded yes for years.

It’s not hard to see why. Nearly half of pregnant women in the UK and about two-thirds in the U.S. take it at some point. For decades, it was waved through as the “safest option.”

But now, researchers from Harvard and Mount Sinai are urging caution.

After reviewing more than 100,000 cases, their conclusion is sobering: prenatal acetaminophen use may be linked to higher risks of autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).

Not proof. Not a verdict. But the strongest evidence so far that this everyday drug isn’t as risk-free as we once believed.

We’ve long known that autism is shaped by both genetics and environment.

The debate usually circles around diagnosis — what increases the risk that a child will be on the spectrum.

But a new study asks a harder question: could a parent’s job affect how severe a child’s autism symptoms are?

Published in the International Journal of Hygiene and Environmental Health, the research suggests that parents’ workplace exposures to chemicals like plastics, phenols, and pharmaceuticals may influence not just whether a child has autism, but how intensely the condition shows up in language, cognition, behavior, and daily living skills.

For families already navigating autism, that’s a game-changer.

There’s something undeniably moving about men who decide, after years of waiting, to become fathers on their own.

The Atlantic recently profiled this growing group of “single dads by choice” — men who wanted families badly enough to endure the expense, the clinics, the contracts, and the raised eyebrows.

They could have given up; instead, they built homes where children now live and grow. It’s hard not to admire that.

But admiration doesn’t erase the questions.

Children don’t arrive by magic. They come from women — egg donors, surrogates — whose names often vanish into sterile phrases like “gestational carrier.” Without them, no “choice” exists.

And without mothers, these children are being asked to adapt to a story where absence is part of the narrative.

At the arrivals gate in Frankfurt, a teenage girl waits, scanning the crowd.

Her hoodie says Seoul, her sneakers are from New York, and the book in her hand is in Portuguese.

When her father waves from the baggage claim, she smiles — but she doesn’t switch languages right away.

It’s been two years since she’s seen him, and she’s deciding whether to speak English, the language they always used at home, or his native French, which she picked up during their last posting in Geneva.

It’s not that she doesn’t know which is “right.”
It’s that for her, right depends on which culture she’s in at that exact moment — and she’s in three at once.

I did not plan to leave. I rehearsed staying for years.

I tolerated the comments. I smiled through the guilt. I made phone calls I didn’t want to make and sat through dinners where my body vibrated with something I didn’t yet know was panic.

I came home on holidays because that’s what good daughters do. Good sons. Good children.

And then I stopped.

It was not a grand decision. It was a quiet breaking. A hairline fracture turned chasm. And then a choice, buried in the repetition: I will not go back into the house that taught me to doubt my own aliveness.

“We no longer speak,”my client hesitated.

She went on to tell me that there was no final fight, no slammed door, no ritual to mark the occasion. Just the cooling of something that had once burned.

First, the texts became short. Then late. Then none at all.

What remains is a kind of ambient mourning. Not a death. Not a divorce. Just a subtraction no one agreed to.

You learn, in time, how to stop checking their social media.

You learn how not to mention them at holidays. You learn to perform the part of the parent who is "giving them space," as if that were an act of generosity rather than exile.

But the truth is: you do not know where your child has gone. You only know that you are not invited.