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Prenups have gone from a tool of the ultra-wealthy, carrying a whiff of scandal, to a more widespread request for aspirational young couples with few assets. The staff writer Jennifer Wilson spoke with the celebrity divorce attorney Laura Wasser, and found that generations who grew up in the era of universal no-fault divorce “just don’t trust marriage” as their elders did; “they want it in writing,” and they have developed apps that make it easy. Clauses calling for non-disparagement on social media are a common feature. But the boom in prenups, Wilson tells David Remnick, has led to couples trying to negotiate even intimate issues such as frequency of sex and body-mass index.

Wilson’s “Why Millennials Love Prenups” appeared in the December 29, 2025 & January 5, 2026, issue of The New Yorker.

New episodes of The New Yorker Radio Hour drop every Tuesday and Friday. Follow the show wherever you get your podcasts.

The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

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U.S. intervention in other countries, whether overt or covert, is by no means new, and Daniel Immerwahr notes that the open embrace of expansionism by the President and associates such as Stephen Miller goes back to the nineteenth century. Immerwahr is a professor at Northwestern University and the author of the 2019 best-seller “How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States.” He discusses Trump’s disdain for international law, tensions between the U.S. and Russia and China, and the historical link between imperialism and appeals to masculine pride.

New episodes of The New Yorker Radio Hour drop every Tuesday and Friday. Follow the show wherever you get your podcasts.

The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

On a cool December evening in New Orleans, the romance writer Emily Henry sat in a black S.U.V., waiting to meet her public. She’d arrived at the Prytania Theatre for the début fan screening of “People We Meet on Vacation,” a new adaptation of her best-selling book of the same name. The hundreds of people filing into the small brick theatre had no idea that she was there; Netflix, which had produced the film, wanted to keep it that way. Henry was anxious, hungry, and a little carsick. “It’ll be the first time watching it with readers,” she told me. Her blond hair was curled. Her lips were painted red. Her rings were silver. Everything sparkled a little.

Henry, a BookTok phenomenon whose works have sold more than ten million copies, talks about “the readers” like a Beatle might talk about “the fans.” She was anointed by Reese Witherspoon’s book club; five of her six romance novels have been optioned, one of them by Jennifer Lopez’s production company.

The way these particular stars have aligned might seem like a cosmic sign. Once, in a golden era anchored by the girl-next-door charms of Reese and J. Lo, rom-coms reigned at the box office. By the twenty-tens, such films began to disappear from the big screen—but Henry brought her love for the genre to her own medium. In the car, she noted that she hadn’t read any romance novels when she started writing her first, “Beach Read,” nearly a decade ago. “I was playing with the sensibility of a rom-com movie, because that was what I was more familiar with,” she told me. Later, she named a heroine “Nora,” after Nora Ephron, one of her most significant influences. “I grew up watching those over and over and over again—so I think that the arc of that was all there in my brain.” Indeed, “People We Meet on Vacation” has a distinctly “When Harry Met Sally”-esque relationship at its core: in the span of a dozen years, Poppy Wright and Alex Nilsen, like Harry and Sally, go from bickering near-strangers on a long car ride to unlikely friends to—perhaps—something more.

A Netflix rep beckoned Henry out of the vehicle, and we were secreted through a tiny alley to a side door, where Brett Haley, the film’s director, and Emily Bader, the actress playing Poppy, waited. Tom Blyth, who plays Alex, sidled up a little late. As the audience settled into their seats, Haley emerged and took the stage. “Rom-coms are not only back,” he announced to the room. “They are cinema.”

These days, romance novels are widely touted as a billion-dollar industry. Hollywood has decided that it wants in on the action. A 2024 film adaptation of Colleen Hoover’s hugely popular book “It Ends with Us” grossed three hundred and fifty million dollars worldwide; it was swiftly followed by another Hoover adaptation, “Regretting You,” which was also a hit. In the past several weeks, “Heated Rivalry,” a TV show based on Rachel Reid’s romance series about two hockey players falling in love, has become a sensation on HBO Max.

Whereas Hoover’s work is dark and Reid’s is horny, Henry’s novels are characterized by a wry sweetness, gently twisting familiar tropes with a self-referential, even self-satisfied, irony. Her books are also obsessed with books: what they mean to people, what they reveal about people. The protagonists of “Beach Read” are both writers. In another of her novels, literally called “Book Lovers,” a sharky New York literary agent whose boyfriends keep leaving her for small-town belles is forced by her sister to vacation in rural North Carolina, where she falls in love with another sharky New York literary type who happens to be trapped there. Henry’s characters have impossibly adorable names; they’re conversant in mass culture and hyper-conscious of what “people in books” tend to do, bantering in a way that feels descended from Ephron, albeit with an extra shade of improbability. (After reading a review that criticized her dialogue as “unrealistic,” Henry’s mother called her up, indignant, to say, “This just sounds exactly like you and your friends.”)

When Henry finally stepped out to join Haley, her fans—her readers—thrilled. She waved a little shyly, smiled at the applause, and made her way to the mike. “I’m excited, I’m nervous, I’m sweating,” she said, picking at the sleeves of her button-down crop top. “I’m wearing multiple of those little sweat pad things.” It was the kind of joke that one of her heroines might make. The crowd laughed with delight. “You guys, this movie would not have gotten made if not for you all,” Henry told them. “The audience is what makes this kind of magic happen.”

Though this sort of lip service is standard at such an event, it also feels true to Henry (or EmHen), who has a fiercely reciprocal relationship to her acolytes. After the credits rolled—the name “Emily Henry” got a few extra hoots—fans spilled into the lobby in a tumble of bookstore totes and baseball caps, clutching hands, laughing, and posing for photos. Jodi Laidlaw, the manager of Blue Cypress Books, leaned against the concessions counter, a plastic glitter crown on her head. “Beach Read” had been her first Henry novel, and, she said, “it changed my life. I became a big romance reader, and there’s a direct line from that to the fifty people I know here tonight.” She’d brought many of them herself: Netflix had given her dozens of tickets to distribute to members of her romance book club, which now reaches some seven hundred people.

Laidlaw, a “recovering English major,” told me that the group began with book discussions, but soon expanded to themed activities, food drives, and crafts. (“If you make people use hot glue, they will eventually become friends,” she said.) For the release of Henry’s “Funny Story,” in 2024, they held “The Emily Henry Extended Universe Library-Inspired-Lock-In-Read-a-Thon Funny Story Release Party Extravaganza,” complete with friendship bracelets and on-site library card sign-ups. “Inherent to the work of the Western, English canon, whether or not you subscribe to it officially or consciously, is the belief that profound sadness and the weighty intellectual inquiry of it is somehow more important or more integral to the human experience than wondrous joy,” Laidlaw said. “And that is bullshit, as it turns out.”

One might argue that the best art captures the breadth of suffering and sanctity that life contains, or that literature should challenge our perceptions rather than coddle us. But Laidlaw went on to say, “One of the people here tonight just came from visiting another one of our good friends who had a baby three weeks ago, who we’ve all visited over and over again. There’s community in this room that would not exist if not for the freeing, beautiful vulnerability that we get from romance.” And it’s hard to argue with that.

As recently as five years ago, very few people had heard the name Emily Henry. She was a Y.A. novelist of modest success when, in 2020, she published “Beach Read,” which blew up on TikTok and became a Times best-seller. The book tells the story of a romance novelist whose imploding personal life leads her to move into a vacation house on the shore of Lake Michigan—conveniently situated next door to the home of a hot bachelor with a crooked smile who writes prize-winning literary fiction. In a light sendup of the enemies-to-lovers plot, the romance novelist and the Franzen-lite wunderkind end up swapping genres as a sort of dare, falling over the course of three hundred-odd pages into earnest love and even more earnest sex. Her prose never matches Ephron’s precision and verve, but she does have the same keen sense of what makes people tick. She can also be quite funny: one chapter of “Beach Read,” entitled “The Dream,” reads, in its entirety, “I dreamed about Gus Everett and woke up needing a shower.”

Unlike Ephron, Henry’s books frequently evoke the texture of suburban middle-class life—and one element of the fantasy they offer is that this milieu seems to be thriving. Familiar American brands are invoked like holy relics: Dippin’ Dots, Red Lobster, Olive Garden, Dunkin’ Donuts, Jell-O, Frappuccinos. The guileless product placement, rather than placing the products, places the reader: this is where you are (anywhere), this is who you are (anyone), this is the kind of book you’re reading (a book where anyone anywhere can be worthy of love).

The morning after the screening, Henry and I met at Café Beignet, on Royal Street, in the French Quarter. Jazzy holiday music played on the radio; plastic tinsel and lights wreathed the hobbit-hole-round kitchen doors. While we talked, a bird flitted in and out of the room. “He’s just had his morning cup,” she joked. It would be easy to feel that meeting over coffee and beignets in a tinselled New Orleans café in mid-December is the height of cliché, but EmHen’s project is granting permission to revel in the things that everyone loves to love. Whereas the night before she’d been silver, that morning she was gold: gold Möbius-strip earrings, one gold chunky ring, a thin gold wedding band.

Henry has been married since she was twenty-four. She doesn’t talk about her husband publicly; as she puts it, “He didn’t sign up for this.” She does, however, allow herself to talk about her parents, who also got married young—aged seventeen and nineteen—and who raised her and her two older brothers in nondenominational Christianity in Kentucky and Ohio. She attended Hope College, a Christian liberal-arts school in Michigan, in the early twenty-tens, before returning to Ohio, where she still resides today. “Hope and optimism and the value of love are the most beautiful parts of what I took away from a religious upbringing,” she told me. “I have friends who are, like, ‘Yeah, I spent the first fourteen years of my life just terrified every night that I was going to die and go to hell.’ And that literally never occurred to me.”

But there was a dissonance between the world she’d envisioned in childhood and the one she encountered in adult life. Around the time that Henry wrote “Beach Read,” she was experiencing a moment of crisis. “I was becoming cynical,” she told me. “I was trying to write this happy love story, and so much of it became about mistrusting the world and being hurt by it and being scared of it.” In the process of writing, she developed a “neat little thesis” that now animates all her plots: “The world can be so terrifying and heartbreaking, and at the end of it lies death—but here’s what makes it all worth it.”

Henry’s characters aren’t religious, as a rule. There are occasional references to priests, to churches, to religious parents. (Alex, the Ohio-born hero of “People We Meet on Vacation,” has a father who is characterized as a sort of reformed fundamentalist Christian.) But they are deeply moral and unflaggingly well-intentioned, even if they’re sometimes too short-sighted, or too flawed, to make the proper choices. Characters “pray,” without a hint of devotion, for planes to land and for secrets to stay hidden. Most often, their worshipful entreaties are directed at one another. In “Beach Read,” Gus breathes out the word “God” upon seeing his partner’s unclothed body. “Are you praying to me, Gus?” she asks. (“His inky gaze scraped up my body to my eyes.”) “Something like that,” he replies.

In her life and in her work, Henry steeled herself against the coldness of modern society by exchanging one sort of armor for another. “I think spending years of your life writing books that are, at their core, just about people falling in love and being loved, romantically and otherwise, is kind of putting a stake in the ground,” she told me. “It is really important to remind myself that cynicism is just an opinion. It’s not a fact.” Though she acknowledges that “the experience of reading or watching romance can be innately embarrassing,” she feels that it has a role to play. “Art serves the purpose of re-creating a microcosm of human experience,” she said. “That can mean anything. It can be about expanding your mind. It can be about having new experiences. It can be about healing!”

And Henry’s books are all about healing. Her work is premised on the belief that the people in our orbits can explain who we are, why we are the way we are, who we will be. The moral arcs of our lives are determined by the way others treat us, and any brokenness that results can only be undone—can only be healed—by other people, too. Henry says that she gives each protagonist one of her own “fatal flaws” (all venial sins, at most), and thus exorcises them on the page. Poppy, a rootless travel writer wounded by the bullies of her childhood, embodies Henry’s self-described “weird girl” energy. Alex, a repressed homebody, would seem an unlikely fit on paper—but Poppy’s openness eases his reflexive anxiety, just as his stability tempers her instinct to run away. Henry circumvents the problem of other minds by devising relationships that are mutually salvific. Believing in other people is a leap of faith. They exist to save us, and we to save them, in turn.

Henry describes her present relationship to religion as “figuring it out.” At the café, she told me, “The idea of a benevolent, loving universe is really deep in me, and I do still believe in that, and I do cling to that. And if that’s not accurate . . . I don’t know . . . I won’t find out.” She glanced at me sideways, as if to underline that, yes, she was talking about the finality of death sans afterlife. “All my books are just, weirdly, wrestling with the things that I find really hard about being alive and loving,” she added. Rain fell beyond the open wall at her back. “Look how hurt we get when we put ourselves out there, and look how much it devastates us when we lose someone. I have a healthy fear of death—not just me dying but accepting that every person that I love is going to die.”

“I’m a huge dog person, which means that I experience death somewhat regularly, with the most beloved creature in my life,” she went on. “Every time that happens, you tell yourself, ‘I can’t do this. I can’t open myself up to this kind of pain. Why would I bring home this animal, just knowing that this is going to absolutely ruin life in twelve years?’ ”

Henry teared up. “I always end up doing it, because the truth is, even in the depths of your grief, you wouldn’t undo the chance to feel that. It feels like an honor.” In her fiction, too, opening oneself up to the possibility of pain is the path to pleasure. Other people may be hell, but they’re also our only chance at heaven.

In some ways, Henry is just doing on the page what all of us must eventually do: working out how to reconcile the organizing principles of our past with something better suited to our present. Sometimes that means something as big as leaving behind a faith; in other cases, it just means reassessing what makes life worth living. Part of the appeal of her books is that they make all this feel remarkably attainable.

That evening, we met at Muriel’s in Jackson Square, where we were ushered into an ornate, high-ceilinged room. The waitress told us that it was built in the seventeen-hundreds, and brought us a sheet of paper that explained the burning down, reconstruction, and subsequent haunting of the establishment, where a ghost could allegedly be found in the Seance Lounge, on the top floor. (Drinks also available for purchase!)

“I did feel like I had to, like, come out to my parents as a romance writer,” she told me as we munched on table bread and salty butter. “I was, like, I do not want anyone I’m related to to read these books at all.”

This is a telling confession, because on the spectrum of representations of sex in romance novels, Henry’s lean dramatically toward the stylized—a far cry from ripped bodices or quivering members. One gets glimpses of body parts: mouth, tattooed biceps, “flat length of stomach,” hip bones. Consummation can take several hundred pages. The emotional intensity builds until everything—and everyone—climaxes (or, as Henry might put it, “unravels”), usually at the same time.

What gets them there can be hazy. Kisses are slow, descriptive; everything beyond that is a little slippery and diffuse. Characters have abs and asses, but no genitalia. (Somehow, they do manage to get “erections,” if only as an under-the-clothes indicator of interest.) “I obviously have repression,” Henry admitted. But when it comes to sex, she said, “people’s opinions and feelings and tastes are going to vary so widely . . . I don’t know. As a reader, I can really love a book, and I can get to a sex scene, and it’s just really not for me.”

This approach seems to appeal to an increasingly abstemious generation of young people; the supply of hot, considerate men is also a balm for a heteropessimist age. Henry’s characters are at once cheerfully sex-positive (condoms abound) and so pure in their aims that doing it is almost beside the point. In literary fiction, she said, sex is “usually unpleasant,” though she saw the merits; she cited Sally Rooney’s “Normal People,” approvingly, as a realistic depiction of “the way that people’s feelings about sex can complicate the greater picture of the relationship.” Henry has set herself a different task: making us believe in an almost-too-good-to-be-true connection. “It’s hard to write compelling happiness,” she told me. “Even though, in real life, happiness is so compelling. You know how to make someone cry: build up an attachment to a character, and then make them feel anguish by hurting that character, by taking something away from that character. But to make someone feel joy, with words on a page—it’s really, really hard.” Her sex scenes are designed as a heightened, fantastical, fun-but-chaste version of a thing we’d like to be able to celebrate, unencumbered by miscommunication or unfulfilled desires. In EmHen’s fiction, one’s heart and one’s body are always perfectly aligned. And maybe that’s something like having a soul.

After dinner, we pushed back our plates. “Shall we go see this ghost?” she asked. Soon, we were venturing up a dark and winding staircase shrouded, dramatically, in black cloth. The stairway held a portrait of Jesus Christ and plastic votive candles; eerie Gregorian chants echoed from a speaker. It seemed laughable at first—but when we arrived at the top and rounded the turn into the Seance Lounge, we were put off by a sudden shift in the atmosphere. “Oh, my God. This is incredible,” Henry said. “The air changed!” We snapped a few pictures, then hastily retreated. On the way back down, Henry told me about a friend who once lived in an apartment that she believed to be inhabited by a ghost who had a crush on her. “She had all these in-depth theories,” Henry said, smiling. She mimicked her friend’s insistence on the spirit’s gentlemanly manner: “ ‘He wouldn’t come into my bedroom. He always knew that was crossing a line.’ ” She shared the anecdote without judgment or too much gravity, casually pulling a trick that her readers love her for: taking the things that haunt us and making them feel familiar, unthreatening, feasible. In EmHen’s cosmos, it seems, even the dead want nothing more than to be loved. ♦

The Manhattan Theatre Club revival of Tracy Letts’s funny, ultimately heartbreaking psychological thriller “Bug” opens with Carrie Coon—who plays Agnes White, a lonely waitress holed up in an Oklahoma motel room—standing in front of a half-open door and holding a wineglass upside down, radiating isolation. Soon, someone picks up her signal: Peter Evans, a sad-sack drifter who has tagged along with Agnes’s honky-tonk buddy R.C. and then sticks around. Peter is a weird guy and a bit younger than Agnes, but he’s polite and willing to keep her company, to drink her wine and smoke some crack. (He won’t snort powder cocaine, though: that stuff is bad for you, he explains.) And then he wakes up with a bug bite. When Agnes can’t see a bug that he points at, frantically, he urges her to look closer. She does—and maybe she sees something.

Agnes learns that Peter, a veteran of the Gulf War, understands certain dark realities about the world—and suddenly these two strangers have everything in common. As she soaks up Peter’s paranoia about infestation and he swats away her skepticism, their conversation lights up, at once broadening and narrowing as they obsess about “plant aphids” and “coke bugs,” egg sacs and military implants. It’s a crisis that they can face together without ever leaving the room, which begins to feel like the only real place on earth. In the director David Cromer’s spare, intelligent production, the set hovers inside an inky blackness. Together, the pair build a cracked but genuine intimacy, a bond that escalates frighteningly in the second act, in a way that brought to mind the country song “Fade Into You,” which ends with the lines “There’ll be no trace that one was once two / After I fade into you.” By the show’s unnerving final moments, Agnes and Peter don’t even have to speak to know what to do next.

When “Bug” premièred, in 1996, the role of Peter was designed as a showcase for the handsome, cadaverous charisma of Michael Shannon, whom Letts met when Shannon was a sixteen-year-old launching himself into Chicago’s experimental-theatre scene. Shannon had played a trailer-trash fuckup in Letts’s early hit, the nihilist neo-noir “Killer Joe,” and for “Bug,” a more humane but equally dark-humored project, he channelled a different kind of intensity, a neuro-atypical, weirdo strength, all striated muscles and bug eyes. It made sense that Agnes couldn’t look away.

Namir Smallwood, an ensemble member at Steppenwolf, the Chicago repertory company where the new production originated, plays Peter as a much softer, more recessive figure. He’s a little sluggish, his volume turned way down. In early scenes, he exudes a puppyish, confused sweetness, and there is logic to this interpretation. His Peter is unthreatening enough for it to make sense that Agnes, who is hiding from her ex-con husband, lets him get so close to her—even after they sleep together, he seems less like a lover than like a lost child. There’s no frisson when they are naked together, as they are for long periods. He’s muted compared with the other, more intense figures in Agnes’s life: the vivacious broad R.C. (played with rangy, liberating hilarity by Jennifer Engstrom) and that mean ex. Over time, his sweetness darkens, then hollows out. When, at a key moment, Coon leaps into Smallwood’s arms in abandon, it feels like watching a person jump happily into an empty pool.

In Cromer’s framing, that hollowness begins to feel like the play’s sad theme: when someone is on a desperate hunt for meaning, the source of it ultimately doesn’t matter very much. It also turns the play into a story about Agnes, not Peter—her decision to believe, in “X-Files” terms. Coon, who is Letts’s wife, builds an Agnes who, despite her fragility and naïveté, also comes across as a sharp, observant woman—and the actress, with her pretty moon face and coltish legs sticking out of denim short shorts, has a natural likability, scoring laughs from a hundred tiny gestures, such as a skeptical glance in the mirror. Smallwood’s Peter gets a few deadpan comebacks, but by Act II he is less a seducer than a reply guy, a dedicated pattern finder pivoting to fend off challenges to his theories.

In a crucial scene, Agnes herself wonders out loud about this imbalance. “I don’t know why I love you so much. I don’t even know you very well,” she tells Peter plaintively, as they lie in bed. “I guess I’d rather talk with you about bugs than talk about nothin’ with nobody.” The reason for this is awful: everything else she could talk about is so much worse.

Maybe the strangest thing about this revival is how ordinary these characters are likely to seem to an audience in 2026, especially Peter, a figure you might stumble on in any Reddit thread. For the original production—which was staged at the Gate, the tiny experimental theatre in London—the script was written quickly by Letts as a nimble follow-up to “Killer Joe” and constructed to match the needs of an intimate space. The play has become a staple of small companies, with its one set (used brilliantly here, in ways not worth spoiling) and its series of febrile monologues, including a final one that Coon eats for breakfast. But, when “Bug” was written, it had a specific historical referent: Letts, who grew up in Oklahoma, was so shocked by Timothy McVeigh’s bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building that he looked for answers on the then rudimentary web, where he found conspiratorial rabbit holes, freshly dug. He studied psychosis and folie-à-deux madness, investigating how mental contagions spread.

Thirty years ago, Peter’s state of mind was likely bracing and exotic for audiences. Now, in the age of covid, QAnon, Pizzagate, and the Epstein files, it’s the substance we are all soaking in, our toxic Palmolive. Although it’s never remarked on in the text, casting Smallwood, a Black man, as the only actor of color in a drama set in Oklahoma works as an intensifier for Peter’s view of the world. When he talks about the Tuskegee experiment and the Jonestown massacre, these references carry extra weight—though it also seems unlikely that he wouldn’t bring up race and that his enemies, particularly Agnes’s crude ex, wouldn’t either.

There are moments in “Bug” that seem eerily modern, including an encounter in which Peter insists that a human being is a robot. It mirrored the plot of the gonzo film “Bugonia,” in which a pair of wack jobs kidnap a C.E.O. they believe is an alien, and of the nutso ending of “Eddington”—I could go on. Contemporary culture is a delirium of both conspiracy-mongering and conspiracy-puncturing, in every medium. On television shows from “Severance” to “Stranger Things,” the people who believe the worst are inevitably correct, either because in a serialized thriller it makes sense for each sinister revelation to climb higher up the ladder—or because sometimes the head is where the fish is rotting from. The superfan mind-set can feel uneasily adjacent to a QAnon fixation.

But mystery is just as interesting. That was the subject of HBO’s “The Leftovers,” in which Coon gave one of her best performances to date, as a woman who had lost her entire family to an inexplicable extinction event, forcing her to build a new self from scratch. Her Agnes is up to something similar, this time as a team sport. At the heart of “Bug” is a romantic craving—to be with someone and not be judged for your craziest thoughts. It’s a play about painkillers of all kinds, but also about how much easier grief is to handle when it’s reimagined as a battle to be won. Terrible things may be happening to you and your partner, but you’re at the center of it, together.

Even in an era in which paranoia has become the default setting, “Bug” feels more pungent, more punishing, and—for all its perversity—more crushing than similar stories, precisely because it’s about how people “catch feelings,” not just ideas. In Coon’s openhearted, subtly joyful portrayal, Agnes is not a broken person who is tricked into faith; she is someone who makes a series of choices to get something she needs, a glue to fix a broken world. In her final monologue, this all becomes clear: it’s liberating to see a pattern in your pain, instead of a nightmare that makes no sense. Who among us wouldn’t bite at the chance? ♦

In season two of “The Pitt,” the Emmy-winning drama that returned to HBO Max on Thursday, a middle-aged man named Orlando Diaz wakes up in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. His wife and daughter are at his side; a cannula is delivering oxygen into his nose. “How’d I get here?” he asks softly.

“You fell at your construction site,” Samira Mohan (Supriya Ganesh), a medical resident, explains. “A co-worker brought you in.”

Mohan, an unfailingly compassionate physician, tells the family that Diaz has a serious complication of diabetes that will require him to be hospitalized for days. Diaz exhales sharply. Then his wife pulls Mohan aside. “The thing is,” she says, her voice breaking, “we don’t have health insurance.” Diaz eventually admits that he’s been rationing insulin to save money. He and his wife work several jobs, but none of them offer health coverage; the family makes too much for Medicaid but too little to afford insurance through Obamacare. The hospital agrees to give Diaz a “discount,” but the bill is still expected to run in the tens of thousands of dollars.

A few hours later, Mohan spots Diaz heading for the exit, still in a hospital gown. He’s removed his oxygen and asks her to take the I.V.s out of his arms. “Every minute I stay is a meal, shoes, school supplies,” he says. Mohan persuades him to wait until she can pack a bag of medications and supplies—a stopgap measure that could nonetheless save his life. But, by the time she returns to his room, he’s gone. Instead, she finds Jack Abbot (Shawn Hatosy), a gruff military veteran and a senior emergency-room doctor at the Pitt who volunteers as a medic for SWAT teams. He is shirtless, self-treating an injury he sustained in the field. “My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot quips.

“Shit,” Mohan says. “I got him everything he needed for home care.”

“So Uber it to his house,” Abbot suggests.

“Is the hospital going to pay for that?”

“I’ll pay for it.”

The scene is “The Pitt” in a nutshell. We see the everyday heroism of health-care workers, whose devotion to patients often comes at the expense of their own well-being, as they labor to keep a medical system from going over the brink—barely. Paradoxically, a place full of misery and pain, the emergency department, ends up feeling soothing and safe. No matter how bad things get, you can take comfort in knowing that you’re in competent hands.

What’s special about “The Pitt” isn’t that it’s medically accurate, although it is. (I even learned a few things about how to insert an emergency chest tube.) What’s special about the show is that it offers a kaleidoscopic view of how societal problems have come to pervade medicine. In recent years, I have written about E.R. overcrowding, the toll that caregiving takes on families, the physical consequences of global warming, language barriers in health care, discrimination against patients with sickle-cell disease, corporatization in medicine, and the promise and perils of artificial intelligence. “The Pitt” handles each of these themes, and many more, with nuance and grace. It’s as if the show’s creators absorbed every important conversation in health care today—and somehow transfigured it into good television.

“The Pitt” easily could have felt like one long sequence of overstuffed, heavy-handed scenes. It’s a testament to the show’s artfulness that, most of the time, it doesn’t. Instead, we learn to care about issues that might otherwise feel abstract because we see them affecting characters’ lives. An anti-vax mother fights the doctors treating her son for measles. A resident’s health-equity research is defunded by the Trump Administration. A social worker talks with a child whose parents have been deported. A doctor encourages a woman to share a story of abuse by divulging her own.

“The Pitt” is not above a dose of cliché. In the first hour of a shift, a medical student passes out, earning the nickname “Crash.” Another keeps changing his scrubs because he (and he alone) is repeatedly doused with patients’ bodily fluids. The show also packs a year’s worth of unusual emergencies into a single shift. A patient’s heart seems to stop beating every fifteen minutes or so. (Even in the busiest E.D.s, this might happen once a day.)

And yet, if I had to pick one show to explain the challenges of my profession, this would probably be it. I felt, while watching, that I had worked with versions of virtually every character: eager medical students, knowing nurses, cavalier surgeons. There are trainees whose confidence exceeds their abilities and those whose abilities exceed their confidence. In one scene, a patient is told that many people who report penicillin allergies don’t actually have one, which needlessly restricts the antibiotics that they can be prescribed—a point I often raise with my own patients. In another, viewers learn that Medicare generally requires someone to remain in a hospital for three nights before it will cover a stay at a skilled-nursing facility. Hospital administrators keep reminding doctors that if they exhaustively document the care that they deliver, the hospital will be able to bill for it at higher rates. Violence against health-care workers is on the rise; midway through the first season, an angry patient punches a nurse in the face.

Michael “Robby” Rabinowitz (Noah Wyle), the grizzled head of the emergency department, tells one doctor, “We are a safety net, but nets have holes.” Doctors must accept the limits of what they can offer. Later, a resident protests the injustices faced by a patient of hers. “It’s not right,” she replies.

“A lot of what happens to people around here isn’t right,” Robby replies.

To the extent that “The Pitt” is a kind of public-service announcement, it delivers a complicated message. By leaning heavily into the heroism of nurses and doctors, the show reveals how much of the system is kept afloat by the dedication of health-care workers. But this emphasis suggests, as well, that the system can persist largely as it is if only doctors and nurses work hard enough. In reality, such heroism softens—but is also eroded by—a broken system. Real clinicians are often forced to cut short conversations with patients to catch up on mountains of charts; it’s common for doctors to stop recommending potentially useful treatments that they know insurance won’t cover. The many instances of camaraderie, courage, and self-sacrifice I witnessed during the pandemic have largely given way to a grinding routine: prior authorizations, burdensome documentation, heavy patient loads, an increasingly skeptical public. “The Pitt” excels at capturing medicine as it is. We witness deeply engaging and committed characters trapped in a dysfunctional system from which they can’t extract themselves. But, as a result, viewers can’t extract themselves, either. In this sense, the show’s greatest strength is also a significant limitation.

What would it mean to heal a system that serves as the destination for so many of society’s ills? The challenge feels impossible. Even if you solved the insurance crisis and workplace violence and frivolous malpractice suits, there would still be child abuse and xenophobia and climate change and vaccine hesitancy and the endless box-checking of the electronic health record. Even when the show’s characters gesture at possible solutions—universal health care, a strong social safety net—these ideas tend to be met with cynicism rather than conviction. The mere notion of a nurse getting a raise feels like a wry joke.

Still, “The Pitt” underscores that a good place to start—in the show and in life—would be to adequately staff health systems. Much dysfunction and dissatisfaction is downstream of the fact that often there are simply too few professionals caring for too many people. Disgruntled patients wait for hours in a triage area before boarding for days on a stretcher in the emergency department; doctors are torn from one patient to tend to a second, and then a third arrives. In the show, Robby’s requests for more nurses, more beds, and more security are repeatedly denied. In the real world, research has found that staffing shortages, which are often exacerbated by corporate ownership of hospitals and practices, place patients at higher risk of falls, infections, and death. Meanwhile, clinicians who feel stretched have lower morale and are more likely to quit. One of the most dispiriting things a doctor can feel is that she could have helped a patient if only she’d had the time.

I binged “The Pitt” over the holidays, during an especially busy stretch in my hospital. Practicing medicine by day and watching medicine by night was surreal. I found myself grappling with the peculiar way that doctors toggle between the quotidian and the extreme. In one room, you joke with a patient about the Mets; in another, you tell someone that their cancer has spread. With time, you start to forget how strange this is. But “The Pitt” did what good art often does: it allowed me to see my reality more clearly.

Back at work after watching a batch of episodes, I was amused to find myself trying to be as casual and witty as the show’s characters, instead of keeping up the usual formality of the hospital. One morning, on rounds, I ditched my white coat and asked patients to call me by my first name. The experiment may have deepened my rapport with some patients—although one told me, “I like my doctors to be ‘Doctor.’ ” Sometimes I felt that the show was reminding me of the doctor I used to be. Throughout my years in practice, I have surely gained skills, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve also lost something. Early in my career, if a patient was hospitalized on their birthday, I’d try to pick up a balloon from the gift shop. On occasion, if someone was struggling through a prolonged hospitalization, I’d ask them for their favorite cuisine and bring them takeout from a local restaurant. At some point during the pandemic, I stopped. Subconsciously, perhaps, the flaws of “the system” became an excuse for a thinning of empathy. “The Pitt” reminded me that it doesn’t have to be this way. Watching the show, I thought: Dr. Abbot found a way to preserve his humanity. Can I? ♦