Somewhere between the invention of fire and the invention of the photocopier, humans discovered two things:

1. Food tastes better when you know how to make it.

2. People are jerks about giving you that knowledge.

We like to think of recipes as acts of generosity—gifts, heirlooms, love letters in the language of butter and spice.

And yet, across cultures and centuries, there’s a long tradition of handing someone a recipe… and somehow making sure it won’t quite work.

It’s the culinary equivalent of giving someone driving directions that almost get them there.

Why Do Some Folks Sabotage Recipes?

You may think your cat loves you. Or at least likes you.

But here’s the sad truth of it: your cat is less like a loyal friend and more like that quiet neighbor who waves politely, notes your every move, and files the information away in a mental folder labeled Useful or Not Useful.

It’s not weighing your moral fiber — it’s weighing whether you’re worth standing up for when the tuna runs out.

Cat owners everywhere have wondered: Do cats judge people the way humans do? Or, more pointedly, does my cat secretly think I’m a terrible person? The answer is more scientific (and more selfish) than you might imagine.

Dog owners have been telling this story forever: “Oh, my dog can tell. He growls at bad people.”

It’s a warm, satisfying belief—our furry sidekick as a moral compass, able to sniff out shady motives faster than a human judge. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel both safe and smug.

But here’s the disheartening plot twist: when scientists actually tested whether dogs can judge character, the results came back flatter than a day-old tennis ball.

A new study in Animal Cognition suggests that pet dogs don’t reliably prefer generous humans over selfish ones.

In fact, they might be more interested in which side of the yard has shade than in who’s offering the snacks.

If you were anywhere near a bookstore in the late 80s or 90s, you probably saw The Dance of Anger staring back at you from a shelf — red cover, unapologetic title, and the promise that maybe your frustration wasn’t the problem, but the clue.

Harriet Lerner didn’t just write about anger. She reframed it. And she made sure women — and the therapists who treated them — stopped treating anger like a dangerous leak in the plumbing.

Today, in an era when a 30-second Instagram Reel can pass for “emotional education,” Lerner’s ideas feel more urgent than ever.

Can faith make you kinder to yourself? A new study says yes. But there’s a twist.

According to research published in Pastoral Psychology, Christians reported higher levels of self-compassion than atheists—but also slightly higher levels of narcissism, specifically the kind that craves recognition and admiration. Yikes.

In plain terms? Religious folks may be more likely to treat themselves with understanding and care, but they’re also a little more likely to think they’re morally or spiritually impressive.

If that sounds like a contradiction, welcome to the human condition.

It conjures images of samba dancers in Rio, spontaneous street fútbol, and long, laughter-filled meals.

But is this just a sun-drenched stereotype—or is there something deeper behind the Brazilian orientation toward the present?

The answer is yes—and it’s far more nuanced than a postcard fantasy.

Living in the moment, Brazilian-style, isn’t about escapism.

It’s a worldview shaped by history, social dynamics, spiritual traditions, and an uncanny ability to find beauty in chaos.

From psychology to poetry, from Carnival to Candomblé, Brazilians have cultivated what researchers call a present-hedonism culture—but one that’s as soulful as it is celebratory.

Let’s consider how and why this cultural ethos developed—and what it means today.

The Bullshit is Rising—and We Can All Feel It

Let’s not mince words: yes, we’re living in a bullshit emergency.
And we know it.

Not just because politicians dodge questions with Olympic-level agility.

Not just because your favorite influencer just pivoted from gut health to AI prophecy.

But because the truth itself feels like it’s gone into hiding.

In a world choked with soundbites, performative outrage, and algorithm-friendly nonsense, Harry Frankfurt’s 2005 philosophical essay On Bullshit has returned from the academic grave like a prophet in Birkenstocks.

And suddenly, it's the most relevant text on your bookshelf.

What Is Bullshit, Really?

What Is Pronoia?

If paranoia is the idea that the world is plotting against you, pronoia is the deeply suspicious feeling that the universe might actually be trying to help you.

That strangers are rooting for your happiness.

That fate has a soft spot for you.

It’s the belief that coincidences might be clues, that setbacks might be setups, and that your life might—just might—be unfolding toward something generous.

Sociologist Fred H. Goldner coined the term pronoia in a 1982 journal article as “the delusion that others are conspiring to assist one.”

He meant it skeptically—almost as a warning about overconfidence.

But the idea got its psychedelic wings thanks to Rob Brezsny’s cult-classic Pronoia Is the Antidote for Paranoia, which argued that this supposedly irrational belief might actually be one of the sanest, most emotionally resilient ways to move through the world.

Let’s begin with the quietest lie you ever learned.

Somewhere between your abuela’s rosary beads and your first quince dress, you absorbed a rule that was never spoken but always enforced:

“If you love them, you don’t say no.”

Now you’re married.

You’re juggling two jobs (one paid, one invisible), still remembering everyone’s birthdays, still being the translator of feelings, faith, and finances.

And when you try to say, “I can’t,” your voice cracks like it’s a sin.

This post is for you.

Imagine this: you’ve worked twice as hard for half the recognition, paid off student loans that others had forgiven by family, climbed every corporate ladder built for white men in boat shoes—and now, you’re being ghosted by a man who’s “intimidated by your LinkedIn.”

Welcome to the surreal romance economy facing high-achieving Black women.

This is not a dating issue. It’s a cultural pattern with historical roots, economic metrics, and psychological consequences. Let’s dig in.

Some couples come to therapy ready to fight for their relationship. Others arrive to find new ways to fight with each other. But every now and then, a couple walks in where one partner is already gone.

Not physically—emotionally, morally, existentially.

They’re still doing the dishes. Still picking the kids up from soccer. Still nodding politely during sessions. But the inner engine of mutual care—the moral fuel that drives the relationship—has gone cold.

This isn’t burnout. It’s not even contempt. It’s something quieter, sadder, and far harder to treat.

This is moral disintegration—a slow collapse of relational integrity, when one partner simply stops caring and the other keeps hoping while circling the drain.

And yes, it’s as bleak as it sounds.

When my son died on March 16, 2025, I was at his side. The world didn’t end—but something in me did. Not all at once. Not cleanly.

It was more like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface, quietly and then catastrophically, until the entire landscape of my life cracked wide open.

People reached out, of course. Friends. Clients. Even strangers. They said things like “I can’t imagine,” or “He’s in a better place,” or “Let me know if you need anything.”

They meant well. But none of it touched the raw truth: I had become a father whose child was no longer alive.

There isn’t a proper word in English for that. We have “widow,” “orphan,” but not this.

Not for a parent who has lost a child. Just a silence. A hole.

And then I came across a line that pierced me straight through:

“Grief is praise, because it is the natural way love honors what it misses.”
—Martin Prechtel

Grief is praise.

Not a flaw. Not a diagnosis. Not a personal failure to “cope.” But praise.

That stopped me in my tracks.