What if ten seconds of your heartbeat could predict not just who becomes a commando, but who stays married, gets promoted, or survives IKEA?

That’s the claim hovering over new research from the University of Haifa, published in Applied Psychophysiology and Biofeedback.

A quick measure of heart rate variability (HRV)—the subtle rhythm in the milliseconds between beats—may reveal who thrives under stress and who crumbles.

David Benatar, the South African philosopher behind Better Never to Have Been (Wikipedia), argues that bringing new people into existence is always wrong.

His case is stark: life inevitably contains suffering, nonexistence contains none, therefore the kindest act is not to procreate.

It’s philosophy as prophylaxis: the only foolproof way to prevent human suffering is to prevent humans. In other words, it has all the nuanced thinking of a Trojan condom.

For centuries we’ve been told that coupling is the ticket to happiness.

Fairy tales, romantic comedies, your aunt at Thanksgiving—everyone promises that life improves dramatically the moment you find “the one.”

But science, ever the party guest who insists on facts, has a more measured story: yes, relationships help, but mostly in a few predictable areas.

A new study in Social Psychological and Personality Science (Qin, Hoan, Joel, & MacDonald, 2025) suggests that entering a relationship does indeed boost well-being, though not in the miraculous way culture has long promised.

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.

Every couple fights. Some quarrels are trivial — the thermostat set to “monk’s cell” vs. “Miami Beach.”

Others are theatrical enough to scare the dog.

But the most toxic fights?

They’re the ones that corrode trust, hollow intimacy, and, according to the latest APA-cited research, even raise your inflammation levels.

Yes, the wrong argument can change your biology. Marriage: the only romance that doubles as a stress study.

If you’ve ever walked away from a fight feeling like it took more than it gave, this list is for you.

Here are the seven most dangerous marital arguments — the ones most likely to sabotage your health and your relationship.

Fighting is inevitable. The only couples who “never fight” are lying, repressed, or heavily sedated.

The rest of us fight about money, dishes, politics, sex, in-laws, phones, and whether the thermostat is set by science or sorcery.

In 2025, fights don’t happen in private. They happen in group chats, over family dinners, in multigenerational households, and sometimes with your AI scheduling assistant chiming in: “Would you like me to resolve this conflict for you?” No thanks, Siri.

This is not a call to avoid fighting. It’s a manifesto for fighting fair.

Every couple fights. The question isn’t whether you’ll fight, it’s how.

Some couples argue like trial lawyers, stacking exhibits and cross-examining witnesses.

Others retreat into silence like diplomats waiting for their visas.

Some cry, some slam doors, some negotiate like grown-ups at the U.N. And, infuriatingly, some laugh and make up before you’ve even finished your sentence.

Why the difference?

Often it’s not about the topic of the fight (“you left the dishes again”), but the attachment styles each partner brings into the relationship.

Attachment isn’t just about childhood wounds and therapy jargon. It’s the emotional blueprint that determines whether you lean in, pull away, or regulate together when the tension rises.

We’ve all heard it: “silence speaks volumes.”

In relationships, silence can indeed say everything — but sometimes it says the wrong thing entirely.

There’s the silence that soothes, that gives each partner space to breathe and self-regulate.

And then there’s the silence that burns: the stonewalling, the deliberate freeze-out, the “you’re dead to me until further notice.”

The first is a pause. The second is punishment.

One strengthens intimacy; the other corrodes it. And confusing the two is how couples slip from conflict into cold war.

Everyone’s heard it: “Never go to bed angry.”

It’s passed around at weddings, stitched on throw pillows, and quoted as if embroidered clichés can save a marriage.

The fantasy is tidy: hash it out, kiss, and drift off in blissful peace.

But reality—and neuroscience—say otherwise.

Midnight is not when love triumphs. It’s when your brain is cranky, your patience is frayed, and your words are more destructive than healing.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do for your relationship is to go to bed angry—and wake up with your brain restored.

Social media once felt like the mall on a Saturday — crowded, noisy, fluorescent, alive.

Today it feels like a mall in decline: the lights buzz, the escalator groans, and the only kiosk left is an AI screen trying to sell you sunglasses no one wants.

In 2025, Meta and OpenAI doubled down on this ghost mall.

Meta launched Vibes, an AI-powered short-video feed. OpenAI rolled out Sora, a TikTok-style platform where every single clip is synthetic.

If that sounds less like “social media” and more like a novelty conveyor belt, you’re catching on.

And just as they flooded the feed with auto-generated spectacle, people started slipping quietly out the side door.

Once upon a time, the great terror of love was adultery. Would he run off with his secretary? Would she fall for the man next door? Those fears, at least, had clear villains—flesh-and-blood humans with flaws you could name.

Today’s anxiety is quieter, but somehow sharper:
Will you look at me—or will the glowing screen in your hand win again?

This is what I call attentional infidelity. It’s the affair without a lover.

Taylor Swift has long been the poet laureate of American romance.

She has sung about heartbreak (All Too Well), revenge (Reputation), and dreamy reflection (Folklore). But in 2025, she gave us something refreshingly different.

“Wood”, from The Life of a Showgirl, is her boldest and cheekiest track yet—a song laden with innuendo, humor, and joy.

With its images of black cats, unlucky pennies, redwood trees, and “magic wands,” Wood celebrates the confidence Swift has found in her relationship with Travis Kelce.

It’s playful, raunchy, and surprisingly tender. And, like much of Swift’s best work, it’s also bigger than itself: the song taps into mythology, ritual, and the way Americans create meaning from love stories.