Faith Hill

If a dating app existed in the 1950s, you might expect it to look like Upward. On “chivalry mode,” users can establish that the man in a straight pairing will message the woman first. With “marriage timeline,” they can specify how soon they’d like to marry. In one promotional image, a man leans against a car; below him is the caption “Known to change a tire, not his feelings for you.” In another, a man smiles, coffee cup in hand: “Known to cover the reservation and the check.

Every dating app, formally or informally, has its thing. Hinge, with its earnest prompts, is wholesome. Tinder, with its quick swipes left or right, is horny. Feeld, with its 30-plus tags for communicating your romantic and sexual desires, is kinky. And Bumble, with its “women message first” rule, was meant from the start to be feminist.
In 2014, Whitney Wolfe Herd launched the platform to solve what she saw as a problem: an epidemic of aggressive men on the apps.

In the new film I Want Your Sex, characters are action figures in a staging of generational war.
On one side is Gen Z, its members portrayed as anxious little prudes. Twenty-three-year-old Elliot is bumbling and directionless. His high-achieving girlfriend is far more interested in studying than she is in him. (When he tries to initiate intimacy, she accuses him of “constantly draining my qi energy.

Rarely, as a romance reporter, am I confronted with breaking news. When I am, it can come in the form of a TikTok video. And in some cases, it’s a video of two people making out.
This should never have been news in the first place. But on Thursday, a TikToker posted a video of a pair kissing on a bench in New York City’s Central Park. “Get a room,” he tells them as he approaches, clearly filming. “There’s kids around.” By today, the clip had received 3.9 million views.

Can you remember the first time you heard about “tradwives”? I can’t, and yet I have the vague feeling that at some point a handful of years ago, all at once, the term became inescapable. On phone screens across the United States, beautiful women with glossy hair seemed to materialize en masse, flipping sizzling patties of meat and rocking impossibly calm babies. Conservative commentators embraced them as evidence that women want to stay home.

People like to say that American culture has a puritanical streak: one that entails, among other things, a certain haughty piousness, instilled by the killjoys who reached New England’s shores in the 17th century. Yet the Pew Research Center, in a pair of reports released last month, asked participants in various countries about a host of moral issues—and found few in the United States that were widely condemned.

Lanre Dokun, a psychiatrist in New York, has a lot of clients with financial anxiety. For the older ones, the stress is usually situational: Perhaps they’ve lost their job, or they’re worrying about medical costs. But for young adults, he’s noticed, the concern is downright existential. It’s a “chronic background stressor,” he told me, or even “a character in their lives.” Clients who are objectively on solid ground are worried they one day won’t be. Some are obsessive about budgeting.

Whitney Wolfe Herd has a vision for modern romance. More than a decade after founding Bumble, in 2014, she’s back at the dating-app company—and this time, she wants to get things right. For too long, she argues, people have been swiping in the dark: evaluating other multifaceted beings on the basis of a few pictures and superficial bits of description, being evaluated in turn, feeling judged and empty.

Until last Thursday, the team behind the app Tea Dating Advice was having an extraordinary week. They claimed to have amassed more than 2 million new users, making Tea the most popular free app in Apple’s App Store, after it stirred discussion on TikTok and Reddit.

When the poet Andrea Gibson learned two years ago that their ovarian cancer was incurable, the news marked a turning point; Gibson would often say it led to some of the most joyous moments of their life.
Before the terminal prognosis, they were always afraid. They had severe anxiety and chronic panic attacks; they were petrified of the ocean; they couldn’t bring themselves to eat nuts on a plane, in case they turned out to have developed a new allergy and might suffocate in flight.

The great joy of a reality dating show is watching couples evolve. You see two strangers meet and make stilted small talk. Then they loosen up, share a first kiss, look at each other with progressively gooey gazes—until they leave the show hand in hand, or one of them breaks it off and starts the process over again with someone else.

The idea seems so old-fashioned, so sentimental: that you could fall for someone “at first sight,” deeply and instantly. It’s straight out of the classic romance dramas—Jack’s gaze freezing when he sees Rose on the Titanic’s deck; The Notebook’s Noah lighting up and asking, “Who’s this girl?” when he spies Allie across the amusement park. As a general rule, the stuff of popular love stories is not the stuff of real life. We know this, right?
Not right, I guess.

If you’re a lonely adult in an American city, please know that people are trying very hard to help you. A few examples: The organization Project Gather hosts food-centered hangouts—potlucks, bake sales, mushroom foraging—across the country. The company Timeleft, operating in more than 300 cities, matches groups of five strangers for dinner every Wednesday. Belong Center offers “Belong Circles,” 90-minute gatherings led by “trained community architects.

Elena and her husband had plans for their retirement. They wanted to move to Wyoming; to meet new people, volunteer, hike the snowy, perfect Tetons. And they did move there—for about eight months. Then they got a call from their daughter, who was due to have a baby within weeks. She and her husband were on five or so different waitlists for day cares, and now she could see that they would still be waiting by the time she had to go back to work, six weeks after giving birth. She needed help.

Spending time on dating apps, I know from experience, can make you a little paranoid. When you swipe and swipe and nothing’s working out, it could be that you’ve had bad luck. It could be that you’re too picky. It could be—oh God—that you simply don’t pull like you thought you did.

When Shannon Coulter first started listening to Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear’s speech at the Democratic National Convention in August, she thought it seemed fairly standard. “All women,” he said, “should have the freedom to make their own decisions, freedom over their own bodies, freedom about whether to pursue IVF.” But then he said something that she rarely hears from political leaders: Women should also have “freedom about whether to have children at all.

Hypothetically, introducing friends from different social circles shouldn’t be that hard. Two people you like—and who like you—probably have some things in common. If they like each other, you’ll have done them a service by connecting them. And then you can all hang out together. Fun!
Or, if you’re like me, you’ve heard a little voice in your head whispering: not fun.

Karen Lewis, a therapist in Washington, D.C., talks with a lot of frustrated single people—and she likes to propose that they try a thought exercise.
Imagine you look into a crystal ball. You see that you’ll find your dream partner in, say, 10 years—but not before then. What would you do with that intervening time, freed of the onus to look for love?
I’d finally be able to relax, she often hears. I’d do all the things I’ve been waiting to do.

Tim Walz tells a compelling story. The vice-presidential candidate grew up working on a family farm. He’s a former high-school teacher and football coach. As governor of Minnesota, he passed laws lowering the cost of insulin and providing free school breakfast and lunch. He’s also been talking about something more intimate, though, in a way that few politicians do. Walz and his wife had their daughter, Hope, using in vitro fertilization.
So many different kinds of families exist because of IVF.

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If you were a college student in America a few decades back, chances are you engaged in a semi-regular ritual: You’d trudge to the nearest campus payphone, drop in some coins, and call your parents. That image kept cropping up as I reported this story.

In the world of American wedding etiquette, plus-ones are straightforward, officially speaking. According to Lizzie Post, the great-great-granddaughter of the manners icon Emily Post and caretaker of her dynasty at the Emily Post Institute, the rules go like this: Granting a plus-one to single guests, especially those who are traveling or who don’t know many other attendees, is nice—but not required. Inviting both members of a “serious” relationship, meanwhile, is absolutely essential.

This is an edition of Time-Travel Thursdays, a journey through The Atlantic’s archives to contextualize the present and surface delightful treasures. Sign up here.
“I wish I knew some young men!” the writer Eliza Orne White declared in The Atlantic’s July 1888 issue.

Psychologists occasionally talk about the “Michelangelo phenomenon”: Over time, romantic partners start to slowly change each other, like sculptors chipping away at blocks of marble. Could I help you find a therapist? one might ask their beloved. What if we started jogging together? Hmm, wearing the fedora again? Eventually—the hope goes—they’ll have chiseled a masterpiece of a companion. The result isn’t always a perfect David, but the point is that relationships mold people.

There are just some things you don’t do without preparation. You’re not meant to drive a car without taking lessons and passing a test. You aren’t supposed to scuba dive without certification. You can’t teach—or practice law, or therapy, or cosmetology—without first proving your knowledge. But you can become a parent without any training at all—and that’s a pretty high-stakes position.
Parents today arguably face steeper expectations than ever before.

Growing up in Maryland, Radha Patel didn’t see anyone in her area using a matchmaker. But she was aware that in India, where her parents had emigrated from, plenty of couples were fixed up—by relatives, respected elders, women in the community trusted to intuit good pairs. For some reason, the idea of it stuck in the back of her mind. It was still lingering there in 2018, when friends, frustrated with dating apps, started asking for help finding love.

The panic set in at the same point every semester: Whenever Ximena Arriaga, a psychology professor at Purdue University, got to attachment theory in her course on close relationships, the classroom grew tense. When she described how people who are anxiously attached can sometimes be demanding and vigilant—and that can drive their partners away—certain students looked disturbed. “I could just see in their face: I’m so screwed,” Arriaga told me.

A cancer diagnosis is a shocking blow for anyone. But you might imagine that someone like Timothy Keller, a Presbyterian minister who has spent years talking with people about mortality, would be well prepared to deal with that kind of news. Keller has sat at people’s bedsides as they died, and he’s written a book called On Death. Perhaps most crucially, he believes in God and an afterlife. And yet, when Keller received a diagnosis of Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, he was terrified.

The journalist and political satirist P. J. O’Rourke, who died today, had a knack for making serious subjects funny. In 11 years of writing for The Atlantic, he covered bleakness—Enron, war memorials—with skepticism and a dash of absurdity. (Explaining his wariness of lawmakers, he wrote: “A chilling characteristic of politicians is that they’re not in it for the money.