• My 12-year-old is pushing for more independence, and I'm learning to adjust.
• We've set clear rules and boundaries to balance freedom with safety.
• I'm letting go gradually, even when it feels uncomfortable.

Over the last couple of years, my 12-year-old has started pushing for greater independence. In the past couple of months, he's pushed harder than ever.

I expected it. He's entering adolescence, and, developmentally, it's normal for him to want to explore without his mom always around.

Even though it was expected, it still came as a shock to my system. How have I got a child who is old enough to do anything without me?

With his push for independence, have come a myriad of sit-down conversations about what he wants, what we are comfortable with, and what we deem safe and age-appropriate.

It's early days, but together with my husband, who very helpfully has always worked with young people, we've developed a plan that works for right now — a mix of guidelines, rules, and boundaries.

Walking home from school

For the last two years, our son has walked home from school. This was his first taste of independence. Before this started, I walked the route behind him, watching how he moved on the sidewalks and studying to make sure he safely crossed a couple of busy streets.

He did this for two years without a phone. I knew if he wasn't home by 3:55 p.m., then I'd go out looking for him.

This 10-minute walk was the springboard to further independence. If we could trust that he was road-safe and responsible, we could give him more independence later on.

Walking to the convenience store

Having built our trust by walking home from school, we then allowed him to walk to the convenience store down the road to either buy us things like milk and bread or to use his own money to get himself a treat.

This gave him yet another taste of freedom. When friends came over, we'd ask their parents for permission to walk to the shop. This gave them something to do together and got them off screens.

Wandering around the park

There is a lovely park a 10 minutes' walk down the road from our house. He used to walk through this park on his way home from school, so I knew he felt comfortable in it and knew his way around.

He often asks if he and his friends can go cycling, walking, or scootering around the park, and we've said a resounding yes.

In a world where technology dominates, I love that he wants to explore outside with his friends.

There are risks, as with any location, but I am willing to let him take them. We mitigate these risks by ensuring he has his phone and by downloading an app that lets us track his location in case of an emergency.

If he does get injured, he knows how to call me and how to ring emergency services.

There are things we can't do and places he can't go

While we have allowed him more freedom recently, I limit what he can do based on what I know about a particular area and the risks it presents.

At times, I can sense he feels resentment when his friends are allowed to do things he isn't. We remind him that all families are different.

Instead of just saying a blanket "no," we once again reconvene and explain why we, as his parents, have made this decision.

There are plenty of freedoms he'll be allowed in the coming years, but these will come with his maturity and our increased trust in his ability to make wise, safe decisions.

I feel like we're walking into a minefield that every other parent of a teenager who has gone before us has already walked in. And yet it feels like we are the first ones. We're just doing the best we know how, one conversation at a time.

• At first, in-game purchases felt like such a waste of money to me.
• Letting my son spend his money was an effective and safe way to help him make financial decisions.
• Open conversation, rather than control, is helping us encourage his independence.

When we first stepped into the world of kid-oriented apps and online gaming, my husband and I saw in-game purchases as nothing more than buying nothing.

Our 11-year-old son has always been careful with his money, perhaps to a fault. As he grew increasingly willing to spend more and more of his allowance on Robux, V-bucks, and Minecoins, we were alarmed.

The whole thing irks me. I really struggle with virtual "cosmetic" purchases. Buying Skins, special emotes (expressions and dance moves, I think?), and expensive Nikes for your avatar?

I can't wrap my frugal mind around it.

At first, we tried to steer our son away from gaming purchases. We talked about the lure of instant gratification and impulse buying. But we also listened to his side of the story. And we realized this was simply a world we did not understand.

In the end, our son's logic about his gaming purchases helped us hand him the reins to make his own spending decisions.

Gaming purchases encouraged our son's financial responsibility

We give our two kids an allowance of $5 a week. Their only other source of money comes from relatives' gifts. Our main purpose with allowance is to let them practice spending their own money, make their own mistakes, and learn how they want to interact with money in adulthood.

While our son is tirelessly methodical, our younger daughter lives for a blind box. As with everything else, our parental approach to their spending varies between them.

With a few years of making his own spending decisions under his belt, our son has grown skeptical of gimmicky offers that require urgency and any deal that sounds too good to be true. He is getting a taste of the real world in the digital age.

He's become more strategic with his money, too. Fortnite recently increased the price of V-bucks — its in-game currency — so our son asked for my advice on his plan to stock up before the price jump. I told him that is exactly what I would do if I knew the price of something I love was about to go up. He decided to spend a little more than he normally would, reasoning it was better to buy now to save later.

Since we don't pay for any gaming-related purchases outside Christmas or birthday presents, our son also budgets for an annual $80 PlayStation Plus subscription, which he researched as the cheapest option. It's a cost he has to cover to do what matters to him.

I believe these in-game decisions now will pay off in adulthood.

When we stopped policing our son's gaming purchases, it made it easier to have open conversations about money. He is proud to tell us about his purchases and sees them as savvy decisions. When he makes a mistake, we strive to meet him with respect and support, without fixing it for him.

It's in these conversations that I've realized that gaming is an essential part of our son's social life. Most of his purchasing decisions revolve around gaming with friends — from the PS5 subscription to buying the latest game his friends are playing, and even gifting skins or Roblox items to friends so they can have more fun together.

Thinking about it this way, it makes sense that he would rather spend money on gaming than on the toy aisle. And really, is one any more gimmicky than the other?

When I asked him what he would advise other parents to do for their kids, he said, "Remember that it's not just silly little outfits or superficial things. Sometimes it can buy fun experiences. So if they're spending their own money, let them go nuts. They'll find consequences sooner or later."

Much to our surprise, in-game purchases are teaching our son that spending money on experiences with others — even virtual ones — is often more worthwhile than spending money on stuff. That's a value my husband and I have built our lives on, and one I'm glad our son is learning on his own.

• I left behind my plans in Poland and moved to the US after falling in love with my American husband.
• It took a while to adjust, but I eventually built a career and a life that I loved.
• Now, my husband wants to move to Poland — so we compromised and decided to eventually retire there.

When I first moved from Poland to Austin, Texas, for a short-term internship in my mid-20s, I never intended to stay.

As a new graduate, my goal was to get some hands-on experience in international business practices before returning home to work with my dad and teach fitness classes on the side.

Then I met the man who would become my husband. We crossed paths in downtown Austin, both waiting for a taxi after a night out. We started talking, felt an instant connection, and from that night on, kept finding reasons to see each other.

When the internship ended, I returned to Poland as planned. A long-distance relationship wasn't easy, but we made it work. One month after I left, he flew to Poland, proposed, and suddenly, the life I thought I was building there no longer felt possible.

I left behind a clear-cut path and rebuilt my life

When I moved back to the US and we got married, I left behind more than my country. I walked away from a defined career path, my family business, and the comfort of knowing exactly where I belonged.

Starting over as an immigrant was harder than I expected. As soon as I got my work permit, I took the first job offer I got. I felt pressure to prove — to my family, my friends, and myself — that I was succeeding in America.

Getting a job quickly felt like validation. In hindsight, it was a mistake. The role wasn't right, but I stayed longer than I should have. As a new immigrant, I didn't think I could afford to be selective.

When I became pregnant with my first child, I quit my job and made a difficult but necessary decision: I went back to college. I earned a degree in computer information technology and eventually started a new career in tech.

For the first time since moving to the US, I felt stable again. I had rebuilt my confidence and proven to myself that starting over didn't mean starting from nothing.

Still, something was missing. In Poland, I had always envisioned myself running a business. That dream never disappeared.

Alongside my tech career, I started my own fitness coaching business. Through it, I met inspiring women in the US — entrepreneurs, mothers, immigrants — who helped me rediscover my ambition and sense of purpose.

It took nearly 10 years, but slowly, the US started feeling like home.

While I was building a home in Austin, my husband was falling in love with Poland — but we've found a compromise

Just as I felt rooted, my husband started dreaming of the life I once left behind.

Throughout our marriage, we traveled back to Poland often. Over time, my husband fell for the things I once took for granted: the slower pace of life, the food, the walkable cities, the mountain views near my hometown, and the old architecture layered with history.

Eventually, his curiosity turned more serious. He began talking about what daily life there might look like, bringing up how it would feel to enjoy slower mornings and spend more time with my family. After one memorable visit last year, he asked if I'd be open to planning a future in Poland.

The idea no longer felt abstract. I agreed to start looking at property — maybe a piece of land, or even a small house — sometime in the next year or two.

We had a lot of conversations. We discussed our careers, finances, children, and what we wanted our future to look like.

In the end, we compromised: We'll stay in the US for the time being, but buy property in Poland within the next year or two. We'll visit as much as we can and plan to eventually retire there, about three decades from now.

Moving countries for love taught me that rebuilding takes time, and clarity doesn't come all at once. It also taught me that home isn't just about geography, but choosing each other, no matter where you are.

• Before I had kids, I didn't put much thought or prep into my travel plans.
• A few encounters while abroad have made me change my ways now that I often have kids with me.
• I now travel with apostilled copies of their birth certificates and a letter from their father.

Before kids, I traveled the world alone with nothing more than a backpack and a worn guidebook. I rarely made plans in advance and enjoyed the spontaneity and surprises that were a part of globetrotting without much advance planning.

Once I started traveling with my children, that approach seemed irresponsible and, at times, downright dangerous. Now, I put a lot more care and thought into my trips before leaving home.

As someone who has taken my kids to 30 countries on six continents, I've found that a little advanced planning goes a long way. Here are the four steps I always take before traveling with my kids to help ensure that our trips go smoothly and that we all stay safe.

I always look up the emergency number for wherever we are.

Once, while driving in Canada with my kids, I got lost in a dark, industrial neighborhood at night. No one was around, and I started to feel uneasy, unsure if anyone was lurking in the shadows.

At home, I knew I could call 9-1-1 for assistance in an emergency. However, as my panic level started to rise, I realized I didn't know who to call for help in Canada. (I've since learned the number to dial is actually 9-1-1, but that's not the case for most other countries.)

Eventually, I found my way back to civilization, no worse for wear. However, now I always look up the emergency number to call when I land.

On a subsequent trip to Paris, an Uber began veering wildly off course. It turned out the driver had detoured due to construction, but I was glad I knew to dial 1-1-2 instead of 9-1-1 if I thought my kids were in danger.

I double-check that my health insurance covers us wherever we are going

When I was young and reckless, I assumed I would never get sick or injured, especially on a trip. In hindsight, I was remarkably lucky that I never caught more than a mild case of Montezuma's Revenge abroad.

After a health scare on a trip to Jamaica, I no longer take any chances. Midway through what was supposed to be a relaxing trip, my son developed a fever and started vomiting. The resort where we were staying called a doctor who suspected appendicitis. I panicked, wondering if our insurance would cover a pricey operation or medical evacuation.

Fortunately, my son recovered quickly with an antibiotic, but now I always double-check that our health insurance will cover us abroad, including to far-flung destinations like Antarctica. If not, I will look into buying travel insurance that will cover medical care and evacuation. Before travel, I also check that my children have all the recommended vaccines for our trip.

I always pack my children's birth certificates

My first trip abroad after becoming a mother was to a destination wedding in the Caribbean. I was allowed in easily with my infant son strapped to my chest. However, leaving was not so easy. When trying to return home, a border guard questioned me extensively, asking for proof that I was the baby's mother. I managed to convince the agent that I was indeed my son's mother, but the situation rattled me.

To avoid a similar issue, I now carry official copies of my children's birth certificates when we travel abroad. For good measure, I had the documents apostilled by the Secretary of State for Washington, DC, where they were born. An apostille is a type of verification similar to notarization, but it is recognized in more than 125 countries worldwide, making it a better choice for international travel.

Although this may seem like overkill, I have been asked for proof that my children are mine twice, once when entering the United States and once when entering the U.K. Although I likely could have proven my children are mine without these documents, I don't want to take any chances, and having them on hand made the process much easier and faster.

I get a notarized letter from my children's father stating that I have permission to travel with them

Although my husband and I are happily married, his demanding work schedule often leaves me traveling solo with our kids. On several occasions, immigration officials have asked me for proof that I had my husband's permission to take my children abroad.

Once, I was asked for the same documentation when returning to the United States. Now, I always carry a notarized letter of consent signed by my husband. I use a free template I found online and update it with the specific dates and location for every trip, then I take it to my bank to have it notarized for free before we go.

Although carrying additional documents can be a pain, I remind myself that additional paperwork is for my children's protection because it helps combat child trafficking and kidnapping.

• When I was a kid, I thought adults follow the same path: fall in love, buy a house, and have kids.
• By the time I was 30, I hadn't reached any of those milestones.
• I've slowly realized the life plan never worked for me, and I'm OK with where I'm at now.

I have been a hopeless romantic for as long as I can remember. Not just in relationships, but in how I imagined my life would unfold.

Growing up in Mexico, I had a very specific idea of where I would be at 30. I thought I would be married with three kids, living in a big house in my hometown, surrounded by family and a stable routine.

Sometime in my 30s, I realized I had built a life completely different from the one I had planned. And that's OK.

I built my expectations based on what I saw growing up

As a kid and teenager, adulthood felt structured and predictable. The path was clear. You studied, built a career, found a partner, and settled down. Most of the adults around me followed or aimed for the same sequence. It created a sense of certainty.

My family reinforced those ideas in practical ways. Stability and staying close to home were important. Building a life that looked familiar to previous generations was seen as success. There was no formal pressure, but the expectations were always present in conversations, decisions, and examples.

Pop culture added another layer. Movies and television consistently showed people reaching major life milestones by their early 30s. Marriage, children, and home ownership were presented as the natural progression of adulthood. It made it feel universal.

For years, I made decisions assuming I was moving toward that outcome. I focused on education and career choices that would give me stability. I saw my 20s as preparation for the life I expected to have in my 30s. I did not question the plan because it felt like the only one available. But something started to feel off.

The further I went, the less the plan made sense

The shift did not happen all at once. It came through a series of decisions and realizations over time. Looking back, a lot of it came from following a playbook that was not written for me. It was shaped by a different generation, in a different economic and social context.

The more I tried to apply that model to my own life, the less it worked. The markers of success I had grown up with did not feel as accessible or even as relevant. Still, I kept moving forward, thinking that if I did enough of the right things, I would eventually arrive at the life I had imagined.

That belief shaped major decisions. I traveled around the world, moving from Mexico City to New York and later to London, partly driven by ambition and partly by the idea that progress meant getting closer to that version of adulthood.

But each move did the opposite. It created more distance from the life I had originally planned, while also exposing me to entirely different ways of thinking about work, relationships, and success.

By the time I reached my 30s, the gap was clear. I was not married. I did not have children. I did not own a house in my hometown (or anywhere else). At first, that difference was difficult to ignore. I compared myself to the timeline I had in mind and felt behind. Letting go of that comparison took time, especially because it was tied to how I had learned to define success growing up.

The differences forced me to define success on my own terms

Over time, I realized that the life I had planned was not actually built for me. It was assumed that my priorities would stay the same and that the world around me would not change. In reality, both had shifted.

Those decisions changed me. I am not the same person who dreamed of that plan. I no longer rely on inherited playbooks to guide my choices. I became more intentional about how I spend my free time and who I spend it with. Relationships became less about proximity and more about effort. Career decisions became less about following a linear path and more about building something sustainable and meaningful.

I also started to measure success differently. Instead of focusing on specific milestones by a certain age, I began to look at whether my daily life reflected what I valued. That included the type of work I was doing, the relationship I was building, and the environment I was living in.

My life is less predictable than I expected it to be at 30. I do not have the fixed structure I once associated with adulthood. However, I have more control over my decisions and a clearer understanding of what works for me. I know who I am. And I have peace. That's the best thing that could ever happen to me.

• Every spring break, I travel with five of my friends and our kids for a quick getaway.
• This year, we rented a huge cabin in Branson, Missouri, and had a great time.
• The kids don't always get along, but we solve issues quickly, and split costs and chores.

Every spring break, I travel with my two sons, five college friends, and all their kids for a short getaway. This year, we rented a cabin near Branson, Missouri, for three days and nights of sleepovers, swimming, and hitting the parks. In total, six moms and 16 kids, ranging from 3 months to 11 years, attended.

The kids enjoy their time together, and so do the moms

It's such a special experience. The age gaps among the kids foster special friendships and mentor-like relationships. And because we're all together for an extended amount of time, the moms also get to know each child better. It's sort of an all-moms-on-deck situation, and kids simply look to the nearest mom to ask for something. It's a situation of instant closeness and confidence, and it creates incredible bonds with kids I don't get to see often enough.

Then, once the kids go to bed, the moms stay up talking, having a few beers or glasses of wine, and playing cards. One night, we hooked an old drive to the TV and swiped through 15-year-old pictures while laughing hysterically.

We all live between 20 minutes and 3 hours apart, but Kansas, where we live, has a statewide spring break, so despite covering six school districts, we're all off the same dates.

We started doing it to make it easier to see each other

It started four years ago, when one of my friends began planning to spend spring break visiting all our homes. She was scheduling play dates and sleepovers at multiple stops. However, it turned out to be a challenge, and there were too many changes to the itinerary to make it all run smoothly. She ended up cutting the trip short after two stops. The next year, she thought we should all go someplace neutral. We'd all book a place together.

This year, we found a cabin with seven king-sized beds, a bunk room, and 6.5 bathrooms. It also came with a huge kitchen, two large dining tables (one was used strictly for crafts), a movie theater, and a game room.

We split costs, as well as tasks like cooking and cleaning

We all work in middle management and midlevel careers, so we're also in a midlevel budget. This was our most expensive trip, at around $150 per night per family for the accommodations. For food, we order in groceries — pizza, chicken nuggets, tons of snacks — nothing gourmet, we know the audience. We plan the menu together, then split six ways and Venmo. This year, we spent around $500 on food, with plenty to take home after all was said and done. In total, each mom spent just over $530, plus gas.

While we were there, we had plenty of fun by swimming or heading to the park. We also brought games from home and did activities like crafts, bracelet-making, and coloring. Some kids are allotted screen time, and others aren't, though we did have a movie night with popcorn.

As for cooking and cleaning, it's a house full of working moms: things are done in almost no time because everyone chips in. It's actually easier than at home because there are way more hands doing the job. One evening, my husband called, and after a 10-minute phone call, I returned to find dinner put away with a spotless kitchen and living area.

The kids get along — for the most part

Logistically, it works like this: the mom closest by is in charge. Though we vary slightly in parenting styles, our similarities make this possible in the first place. We spoke in advance about how we get along and what we allow. (A real text exchange outlined rules for fart jokes.)

The kids absolutely fight — it's three days in a shared space. They didn't want to take turns playing games, couldn't agree on a movie, and there may have been a joke or two made that someone else took personally. Normal kid stuff. However, there are enough activities and enough kids to play with that they were easily redirected. Besides, learning to get along is a life skill.

Meanwhile, it's fun to see which ages and personalities flock together, and not always the ones you expect. They find shared hobbies and interests while creating close-knit friendships with kids they otherwise rarely get to see. All while I get quality time with my friends. It's an experience I can't praise enough, and I'm thankful it's one we get to continue.

• I caught myself criticizing my body in front of my 18-month-old daughter.
• Seeing her watch me made me rethink how I speak to myself
• I now try to model self-acceptance, so she learns to do the same

A spring doesn't go by that I don't think about a pivotal moment I had in a Macy's dressing room.

I'd ventured to the mall with my then 18-month-old daughter, desperate for a new swimsuit before pool season began. I maneuvered the stroller, piled high with promise, into the family dressing stall, my daughter's little head peeking out from a sea of nylon and hangers.

The fluorescents were predictably stark as I began to disrobe and jimmy myself into the first option. Looking up at my reflection, I visibly shuddered at what I saw staring back — an involuntary reflex, followed by an audible groan.

Then the negative self-talk started.

My daughter was watching me

Oh. My. God. Look at that cellulite! Are you kidding me?? I do CrossFit, for God's sake. That is just not OK.

Shock, then disgust, gave way to a cacophony of muttered insults and curses. I'd transformed into a lunchroom mean girl, hurling insults at that horrible excuse for a human being in the mirror.

You should not be wearing a bathing suit AT ALL. Those legs. How can you show those legs?

Just then, my eye drifted beyond the horror show unfolding in front of me. I caught my little girl's eye in the mirror and realized she was watching me. Taking me in. Taking all of this in.

Oh, no, I thought. I'm saying these things out loud.

It was under my breath, yes, but loud enough to be heard. And even if I wasn't, I knew my body language was speaking volumes. Self-loathing. Shame. And there's my beautiful, blank-slate angel, drinking in every moment.

I wasn't being kind to myself

I suddenly surged with anger. This was not what I wanted to model for my daughter.

As a feminist, I'd always believed I had a responsibility to be kind, generous, and encouraging to other women. Yet there I was, treating myself worse than I'd treat any stranger on the street.

I wouldn't perpetuate this. If my child hadn't been there in the room with me, I might have missed the moment entirely — because until then, I hadn't even been aware of this toxic inner dialogue.

I wanted so much more for my baby girl, who would one day stand in front of a mirror as she shopped. I wanted her to feel proud of what she saw, not become her own worst enemy, measuring herself against an impossible beauty standard that doesn't even exist in real life. She did not deserve to learn this kind of shame.

At that moment, I decided to consciously press "pause" on my thoughts and think this through. I began coaching myself up.

I changed the tone

I imagined someone else, someone stronger and bolder and more evolved than me, standing there. I imagined this woman's self-acceptance, self-approval, self-love, as she gazed back at herself with pride.

"Damn, I look good!" I said to myself. The voice was quiet. I wasn't quite sure I believed it, but I continued. "I'm burning up the place!" I whispered, this time with more conviction.

Right there, standing in that small, windowless room in a leopard-print bathing suit, I practiced seeing myself with new eyes. I intentionally reprogrammed my negative self-talk. I befriended myself.

A smile started to curve at the edges of my lips as I continued gazing in the mirror, if not in full belief, then at least with amusement. This was kind of fun. I could do this.

And then something strange happened. Suddenly, I wasn't totally hating what I saw in the mirror. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't too bad either.

I imagined I was a good friend trying on this bathing suit. How would I react to her? I wouldn't focus on any one aspect of her body, I'd take in the whole package. I'd admire her sense of style. I'd notice if the color was eye-catching. I'd make sure it was a good fit.

I actually liked what I saw

So, I stopped zeroing in on the jiggly skin and dimples, and finally saw the full me: shiny dark hair, wise golden eyes, a sturdy frame housed in a spunky, modestly sexy one-piece. I stopped obsessing over all the things I disliked and allowed myself to see the big picture.

Just then, I caught my daughter's eye in the mirror again. She was still watching me. She beamed at me proudly.

From that day forward, I pledged never again to bully myself in front of my daughter.

I don't always get it right on the first try. I could have a wonderful time out with my family, only to later scroll through the photos on my phone and feel that familiar gut-punch when I spot an unflattering shot. The difference is, I notice it now. And as soon as I do, I deliberately choose to redirect it. I challenge myself to find three nice things to say. Kind things. True things. Things I would say to a friend.

Because the way I speak to myself will one day become the voice my daughter hears in her own head. And I want that voice to be as strong and empowered as the woman I see in the mirror now.

• My husband and I spent nearly three years traveling the country in a camper van.
• I got pregnant earlier than expected, forcing us to make a decision quickly.
• Letting go of vanlife helped us realize what we actually wanted in our next chapter.

I sat in the bathroom staring at the blue cross sign on the pregnancy test, as expletives leaked out of my mouth in a whisper. Disbelief sat around me like the 4 a.m. dew outside our window.

We always wanted kids. Traveling in a camper van was our "last hurrah" before pivoting toward parenthood. But that wasn't supposed to happen yet.

The shock bubbled away, and excitement found home in my body. I smiled and covered my hand over my mouth.

We don't always get to choose our own timelines. I rushed to my husband, John, to wake him up.

This was our one last adventure before having kids

My husband and I were both busy with the 9-5-and-working-odd-jobs hustle. We lived in a large house that we would someday fill with kids. There was a whole world we wanted to see before we tied ourselves down with the responsibility of child rearing. We chose to say goodbye to the life we were told to settle for in pursuit of a life we wanted to celebrate.

Partially on a whim, mostly on adrenaline, we sold most of our belongings and built a 1996 Chevy Express conversion van into a tiny house.

We wanted to explore the country coast to coast before we took on the role of parents. We also wanted to see what our options were for where we would settle down. Do we want to raise kids in a city? In the middle of nowhere? East coast? West coast? Mountain town? Rural Midwest?

We buckled ourselves into our van with our pups and hit the road to rediscover ourselves without the chains of our previous life and to find where we'd like to replace our anchor.

From April 2017 to April 2019, we discovered the magnificent, hidden corners of almost every state. We camped in humid Florida, snowy Vermont, busy California, and sleepy Wyoming.

Every pocket we investigated had something remarkable that ignited our excitement and something tricky that made us second-guess a home there. Each area brought us one step closer to our end goal.

Everything shifted overnight

In March 2019, we were back in St. Louis to visit our family. My period had been irregular ever since I had experimented with hormonal birth control, so we could never quite pin down my cycle.

We were planning our next departure, and I took a pregnancy test to prove I was not pregnant, for our own peace of mind.

This wasn't the timeline we had planned, but one thing living in a van had taught us was to find comfort in the unexpected. Flexibility is one of your greatest tools when you travel full-time. You never know what obstacles are going to throw you off course.

Giddy with excitement, John chose to scrap our plans we had laid out for the rest of the year. We now needed to make our most important decision. Where do we want to have this baby?

Life made us decide which path we wanted to take next

Throughout our travels, we found ourselves returning to New Mexico. The warm sun, the dry air, the beautiful winters, and the towering mountains all took our breath away. It was diverse, eclectic, artistic, and inspiring. We joked it was like Colorado, but without any of the people. We both felt the call and picked up the phone.

Shortly after the positive pregnancy test, we lost the baby. Grief filled the van as we stared at the fork in the road.

We had to decide what we wanted now. Do we want to keep traveling? Or do we want to stay on this new path? The contemplation was minimal. The excitement and the loss had shown us what we wanted. We were ready to grow our family.

Trading in four wheels for four walls

We spent that summer exploring various properties. There was an unexpected grief in the search for a new residence. The van was our home. The road, our driveway. The wild, our backyard. Our identity was tied to the title "vanlifers", which meant we were constantly moving and on the go.

But now we were settling down and growing roots.

We outgrew our lifestyle quicker than we had planned, but we unlocked a new and exciting chapter when we bought an off-grid home on 40 acres. We weren't pumping the brakes on an adventurous life. We were just shifting gears.

• I've been searching for my first full-time role since I graduated last May to no luck.
• I've had to rely on my parents to stay in New York City, which has made me feel guilty.
• Despite the countless rejections, I'm not letting it stop me from enjoying life.

Last May, I graduated with my bachelor's degree from The New School, a relatively large private institution in New York City.

I knew competition postgrad would be competitive, but I did not anticipate a grim job market and AI takeovers.

As a Dean's List student with a 3.9 GPA and multiple extracurriculars under my belt, I figured I'd be a top candidate for my first entry-level job.

Boy, was I wrong.

Moving to New York City was my dream for as long as I can remember

I figured graduating would mean freedom from the confines of a classroom. But when I followed my dream to New York City, that freedom was paralyzing. I quickly learned that I still had a ways to go before I could start living my life.

I found myself stuck behind a counter working my part-time job as a barista and questioning everything from why I went to college to why I feel so passionate about staying in one of the most expensive places on earth. Additionally, I felt guilty for relying on my parents to pay my rent and help keep me here away from my home state of North Carolina.

I felt like an idiot for leaving my family, even though I always knew I was meant for more than what my hometown could offer, and yet the city remains financially challenging for someone like me with student loans and only a part-time job. Thankfully, I have a cushion should I need it, but I expected to be financially independent by now.

Navigating a competitive market

Since graduation, I have applied to roughly 200 positions, ranging from internships to entry-level to contract and temp roles. And while that number doesn't seem like much compared to the other grads who've sent out 500+ applications, I like to think I'm playing the market strategically by applying to roles where I'm a decent fit. I'm also attempting to set up informational interviews.

However, regardless of my strategy, I keep getting ghosted and rejected by automated no-reply emails months after applying.

When I discovered that I wasn't the only one struggling, it began to make sense. However, after dealing with COVID interruptions in high school, worker strikes in college, and mental health struggles surrounding personal issues, I was burned out.

As a result, I had forgotten why I went to school in the first place. As I began applying, I found myself flexible to take just about anything and started to lose myself in the process.

Seven months into underemployment, I got laid off from the café, but thankfully found another part-time job with a friend's help.

A month later, in January, I got my first interview for a job in my field. Followed up three weeks later, only to be told they were still in the first round and haven't heard back since.

A month after that, I hired a career coach to help me navigate the market. She rewrote my résumé, reviewed my LinkedIn profile and portfolio, provided industry insights, and redefined my career path.

I then got another interview, this time for an internship. I haven't heard back from that either.

What frustrates me the most is the silence. Anxiously waiting to know whether or not I got the job, or at least an interview, is soul-sucking. It makes me doubt myself and my skills. It makes me feel like a failure.

Learning to overcome what you can't control

New York is already an incredibly lonely place, and lately it's been a lot lonelier when I've been confined to a room applying to jobs away from home.

At only 23, I feel like I failed despite working my ass off in high school and in college, only to get "Unfortunately, we have decided not to proceed with your candidacy at this time, but we appreciate the time and effort you dedicated to the application process."

I have no idea what's next for me or when I'll get a full-time job, but one thing I've learned about being underemployed is you've got to make the most out of it because life is unpredictable, and you shouldn't let it slip away because things are uncertain or stagnant.

And if you need help from your parents, whether it's a roof over your head or an allowance, there's no shame in that. This is an extremely unprecedented and scary time for everyone. Even if you're not job hunting, we could all use a little support.

• I'm a freelancer, and being self-employed makes family planning difficult.
• I don't have parental leave, and I often wonder how other freelancers do it.
• My husband and I also don't have family nearby, which makes it even more difficult.

When I worked a typical, corporate 9-5 job, I dreamed of the day I could freelance. I so badly wanted to be my own boss and feel a sense of autonomy and ownership around something I had built from the ground up.

Now that I'm living the freelance life, while I don't take a second of it for granted, like any job, it's not perfect. Besides the constant struggle of figuring things out on my own — like the daunting task of taxes, which are much more complex as a freelancer — there's also the constant mental gymnastics of what time off work really looks like.

And it's not just vacations or sick days — the idea of family planning is something that's constantly swimming around in my mind.

I don't know what family planning looks like for us

This kind of planning is certainly not the kind of advice that shows up in articles about how to be a freelancer, or the 500-word LinkedIn think-pieces about the freedom of self-employment. It does, however, show up for me at 1 am when I'm lying awake, wondering about what the future holds.

Personally, of course, but also professionally.

My husband and I are both at the point in our careers where taking extended time off isn't something either of us wants for ourselves. He's a medical resident, so his schedule is its own beast, and certainly not his own. He gets two weeks of parental leave until the pager goes back on and doesn't stop. And I get exactly as much parental leave as I negotiate with myself. Which, in a perfect world, is as much as I'd need, but in reality, is probably closer to not much at all.

There are a lot of perks to freelancing, but it's hard to plan for our future

The freelance world offers so much that traditional employment doesn't: flexibility, autonomy, the ability to work in my pajamas from the couch without anyone judging me. So when I'm up at night stressed about the future, I feel a sense of guilt. I shouldn't have anything to complain about. I work from home, I can choose my own hours, and the list of perks goes on.

But there's also no HR department to walk me through a leave policy, there's no short-term disability coverage that kicks in, and there's no one to absorb my workload while in the newborn fog.

Not having family nearby complicates things even more

What makes planning for a family even more difficult is that we don't have any relatives in the same town. There are no grandparents 20 minutes away. No sister who can pop over. The village that everyone says it takes is something we have to build ourselves.

I find myself wondering how other freelancers navigate this. Do they save money aggressively for a year first? Take on more retainer clients to create a steadier income? Just take the leap and figure it out after? None of these options is wrong, none is easier than the others, and I don't know which is right for my family.

What I've come to sit with is something I've heard over and over again when it comes to starting a family: there's no perfect time, and there's no perfect plan.

As a freelancer without a safety net of parental leave or family proximity, I can only control what I can control, which is being more intentional about clients, savings, community-building, and having honest conversations with myself and my husband about what we can actually sustain.

The freedom of freelancing is real. I do love it. But the complexity is also real. Somewhere in the middle of those two truths, a lot of us are just figuring it out as we go.

• Harry and Susan Jones own Bridge Avenue Berries, a blueberry farm in Allenwood, Pennsylvania.
• The farm became USDA organic certified in 2021, boosting customer traffic and interest.
• If they had bought the farm 30 years ago, they would have likely grown a more diverse set of crops.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Harry Jones, 63, who owns and runs Bridge Avenue Berries with his wife, Susan, in Allenwood, Pennsylvania. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to run my own business, but it never quite came together. I tried starting a small tree nursery business, but we couldn't compete with the big nurseries and had to close it.

Then, a blueberry farm that my wife and I had been picking berries at for years went up for sale. When I first mentioned buying it, she said, "Absolutely not."

A few months later, we were there picking blueberries, and the farm still hadn't sold. We started talking with the owner and purchased it in March 2018.

We didn't have much time to figure it out. Blueberry season starts in early July, and we had about four months to get ready.

That first summer, it felt like we were drinking from a fire hose. We were learning everything at once — pests, soil, customers — mostly the hard way.

I wasn't starting from scratch, but owning a farm still surprised me

My background is in horticulture. I have an associate degree in nursery management, and I spent years designing landscapes. So, I've been around plants most of my life.

Still, running a blueberry farm is a different kind of challenge.

We have about 7 acres of blueberries — roughly 3,800 plants — and we harvest around 18,000 pounds a year.

The catch is that it all happens in about a 30-day window in July. That month is intense, but the work doesn't end with the season. The rest of the year is spent on preparing for the next one.

I've kept my full-time job in the lumber industry through all of this. We tend to call the farm my self-supporting hobby, but the truth is, even a small farm like ours struggles to make a dollar.

By the time you pay for inputs, repairs, improvements, and all the other costs that come with a small business, there's not much left.

If I were younger, I'd do it differently

At this stage of life, I think differently about what the farm should be. If I were 25 or 30 years younger, I wouldn't run it the way I do now.

Right now, we're heavily focused on one crop. If I were starting earlier, I'd cut the number of blueberry bushes down — maybe from 3,800 to about 2,000 — and use the rest of the land for other crops. Strawberries, raspberries, pumpkins — something to stretch income across more of the year.

That's the biggest challenge with what we do. When you rely on a single crop and a short season, it's hard to build a stable living.

We've found ways to spread out the income a bit. We freeze blueberries — about 1,900 pounds a year — and sell them through the winter at local markets and to restaurants.

Becoming USDA-certified organic was a game changer

We started farming organically from day one in 2018, but it took time to make it official. To become USDA certified organic, we had to go through a required three-year transition period — documenting everything we did, from fertilizers to pest control, and proving we were following the standards.

We finally got certified in spring 2021, and once we could call our berries "USDA organic," we saw more customers, more traffic, and even people driving an hour or more to pick our fruit.

But over time, the downsides started to add up. The certification cost us about $1,400 a year — a big expense for a small farm — and required inspections and paperwork during our busiest season. More importantly, I grew frustrated with what I saw as inconsistencies in the system.

In early 2024, we gave up our USDA certification and switched to Certified Naturally Grown, a smaller, farmer-led program. It costs about $350 a year and still holds us accountable to the National Organic Program Standards, but in a way that is more transparent and aligned with how we actually farm.

We know we won't do this forever

Realistically, we'll probably run the farm for another three to five years and then look to sell it, so that we can have more freedom to travel and visit our three kids and nine grandchildren.

I think about what a younger person could do with this place. It's a productive farm with a lot of potential. Someone with more time and energy could take it further than we have.

Even knowing what I know now, I'd still buy the farm.

We're happy with what we've built. It gave me a chance to finally run my own business and to work with something I've always loved — plants. And it's been meaningful to us to see people come here, enjoy the farm, and tell us how much they like it.

• I'm a college admissions expert, and I noticed this Ivy Day was the most competitive in history.
• I realized that colleges aren't admitting the top students anymore.
• The earlier a student prepares for college, the better.

This year's Ivy Day was brutal, and the admissions numbers prove it.

Yale admitted a record-low 2.9% of regular decision applicants from a pool of nearly 55,000 students, the second-largest in the school's history.

Columbia received 61,031 applications — the largest pool in its history — and admitted just 4.23%. Brown admitted 5.35% from a record pool of nearly 48,000 applicants. Harvard and Princeton withheld their official data, but estimates place their acceptance rates at approximately 3.7% and 3.9%, respectively.

I teach at Harvard Summer School and have spent years helping students from around the world navigate the college admissions process. Four out of five of my students got into Yale. Four out of five got into Stanford. Yet one of the strongest applications I've ever guided got waitlisted everywhere. That surprised me, and after watching this cycle up close, here's what I learned and some other surprises from a tough year.

Getting to the top of your class matters less than you think

One of my students admitted to Stanford this year was ranked in the 91st percentile at her high school. She was not at the top of her class, and not even close to achieving valedictorian. Yet she got in. Several classmates ranked above her were rejected.

This isn't an anomaly. Admissions officers at the most selective schools aren't ranking applicants from smartest to least smart and admitting the top tier. They're looking to confirm admitted students can handle the academic rigor.

Once you've demonstrated that, they stop looking at your rank. Being in the top 10% of your class with competitive test scores is the threshold. Crossing it further often doesn't help you as much as families think it does.

The personal statement is not a one-draft exercise

Among my students with the strongest outcomes this cycle, we averaged just under 19 drafts of the personal statement. Those are not small revisions, but almost 19 complete drafts.

The goal of a great personal statement isn't to impress. It's to make an admissions officer say, "I want to have lunch with this kid."

The best essays I worked on this year were built around a contradiction, something unexpected about the student that made them genuinely thought-provoking. One student's essay was about busking in Europe. It wasn't impressive in the traditional sense. It was courageous and revealing. She got into Yale, Stanford, and Princeton.

Starting early creates options

Some of my students who get individual coaching start working with me as early as 8th grade. I help students find their core values, instead of trying to check boxes that admissions counselors may or may not want to see.

Even if you didn't start college prep early, getting a jump start on your essays can help. This year, all of my rising seniors began essay work in June, months before applications opened.

Starting early isn't just about having more time. It's about having the space to find the real story, not the first story.

Even exceptionally strong students get rejected

This is the most important thing I learned. One of my students applied to Brown, Harvard, Stanford, and Yale. If you had asked me before decisions came out to rank my students by likelihood of admission, I would have placed him near the top. His application was strong by every measure.

But he was waitlisted or rejected at all four.

His family is disappointed. I'm disappointed. And yet, he now has an offer to an honors college with his first-year tuition fully covered. When you watch how he processes this, including his thinking, regrouping, and planning, you can see clearly that he is the kind of person who will be successful no matter where he goes.

That is the point. The students who handled disappointment best this year had something in common: they had genuinely built lives around their core values. No rejection letter could take that away.

This process is not fully within anyone's control. The best thing any student can do is become someone worth admitting, and then trust that the right door will open.

Steve Gardner teaches Leadership and Impact at Harvard Summer School and is the founder of The Ivy League Challenge.

• As a professor at Harvard, I encourage my students to use AI on every assignment.
• My students can use AI as a research tool and editor, but AI cannot do the thinking for them.
• I teach my students how to use AI to make better arguments, and that's where the use should stop.

I still remember the November when ChatGPT came out, and the exam period that followed.

As a professor at Harvard, I had B+ writers submitting essays with em dashes and Oxford commas, as if they had just signed with Penguin. Just as their writing magically improved, their voices began to blur into what we now call "AI slop."

Yet, as one of the earliest victims of the AI slop tsunami, I refuse to give in to the Luddism that led institutions to shut the door on AI entirely.

Instead, I've chosen to invite AI into every corner of my classroom because anything less will soon feel like a dereliction of duty.

I think Gen Z needs to be taught to use AI responsibly

Every generation struggles with entering the workforce, but few have had it as hard as my Gen Z students. Reading the news, you would think their struggles boil down to a mixture between laziness and entitlement, forgetting that we have been blaming the youth for all that ails society since Aristotle.

In reality, they're struggling because we're asking them to excel at two things that are foreign to them at once.

Not only are they stepping into institutions without answer guides or gradebooks, but they're doing so at a time when the tools no one is teaching them are redefining how the work itself gets done.

When AI is taking over the workplace, you don't respond by pretending the tools don't exist. You respond by teaching people how to use them well.

I now ask students to use AI in every assignment

The most important lesson I teach my undergrads is the same one I teach in my executive education classes: Use AI responsibly, with a personal growth mindset, not an output-oriented one.

I begin by asking my students not to lie to themselves about the kind of AI user they are becoming.

Are they centaurs, with half their essays spliced from ChatGPT, or cyborgs, with AI agents writing their emails while they sleep and automatically reviewing their Uber Eats orders?

Perhaps they're artisans, clinging harder and harder to what little humanity is left in us?

Whichever route they choose, the practice of using AI for growth couldn't be simpler.

There are some ground rules they have to follow

We begin by acknowledging one of AI's greatest strengths: its ability to quickly synthesize across large bodies of knowledge and connect ideas across disparate silos. Students get comfortable with ChatGPT's deep research, Perplexity's searches across academic journals, and Gemini's ability to poke holes in their arguments before typing a single word.

Should they find particularly challenging pieces, as they often do in my economics classes, they are allowed to use AI to help them "explain it like I'm five" and apply the insights directly, instead of getting a Ph.D. to understand what they found.

But when it comes to drafting the arguments themselves, my number one rule is that we put AI on pause. The goal is to capture their thinking in its rawest form and to give their thoughts a function before they obtain a form, even if it means leaning on voice notes to move our arguments along.

Only once my students know what they want to say, does AI return to help them, this time as an editor and a critic.

I ask students to submit their argument chains to AI so it can identify gaps, suggest further reading, and help finish concepts that were pulled from the oven a bit too soon.

This way, the argument improves, but the thinking remains theirs.

Where I draw the line

Even in a classroom where AI is as fully integrated as mine, this is where the boundary must lie. AI cannot do the thinking for us, and as teachers, we must help students avoid the temptation.

When students feel pressured to achieve perfection, the temptation to hand over the entire process to AI can become too strong to resist.

As I reflect on the essays I received now and those of December 2022, the lesson couldn't be clearer.

The best students aren't those who avoid using AI. Instead, they're the ones who know when and where to stop using it.

• I booked a trip to an important work conference to network and meet with potential clients.
• When I got to the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, I saw the long TSA lines and waited hours.
• I missed my flight and the conference, which cost me business opportunities.

This wasn't just a missed flight. It was my path to a room full of investors at the Transform conference in Las Vegas. It was the kind of access that matters when you're building a new coaching business, and every connection could change your trajectory.

The night before, there was a moment that now feels like eerie foreshadowing. My husband asked what time to set the alarm for so he could take me to the airport. He thought my flight was at 7:35 a.m., not 7:35 p.m. We laughed it off.

In retrospect, we probably should have gone with his plan. If I had gotten there 12 hours early, I might've made that flight. Instead, I did what most of us do. I planned carefully.

Before leaving, I asked my 17-year-old to check TSA wait times. He said it was 45 minutes. I smiled, thinking that sounded too good to be true. From experience, a posted 45-minute wait usually means closer to two hours. I accounted for that.

What I didn't account for was five.

The TSA line wrapped around baggage carousels

By the time I reached Hartsfield-Jackson Airport on Sunday afternoon, the line was too long to be just 45 minutes. It wrapped around baggage carousels and thickened into a dense, slow maze past carousel nine.

I tried to be patient, but none of us was going anywhere. I kept checking the time on my Fitbit, then on my phone, as if one might offer a different reality. I was trying to make sense of what I couldn't control.

That's when something shifted. I couldn't move the line, but I could choose how I met the moment — whether I spiraled into frustration or grounded myself in what I could still impact.

While still in line, I pulled up the Delta app to rebook. Every flight to Las Vegas on Sunday night was sold out. At the same time, I started texting with Delta customer service. They advised me to go to the baggage help area and request that my luggage be removed from the plane.

They submitted the request. I waited, hoping there was still time. Then the status on my FlyDelta app changed to "On board."

I never made it to the gate, but my bag did. While I was returning home, my bag was in Vegas, living its best life without me.

This wasn't just any trip; it was a room I needed to be in

For someone building a new coaching business, the kind of access I would have gotten at the conference is essential.

Transform is a conference focused on the future of work. This year's theme, centered on the Human + AI equation, brings together founders, investors, and leaders to explore how organizations are evolving in real time.

Through curated meetings, hands-on sessions, and structured networking like FastPass, conference attendees are matched with the right people rather than the casual introductions many conferences offer. That was the part I was most excited about.

I had four pre-planned meetings scheduled. Those were conversations that could have turned into partnerships, clients, or long-term collaborations.

I also invested time and resources into being there. While my conference ticket was covered through a volunteer role and I now have a flight credit with Delta, I am still working through hotel charges and other trip expenses I never completed. I rescheduled existing clients to make space for the trip, which means a delay in guaranteed revenue.

More than that, I can't stop thinking about the potential revenue and relationships that could've come from simply being in the room. As an entrepreneur, those moments matter. They are often where momentum begins.

These TSA delays are affecting all of us in different ways

What I experienced isn't unique. Long security delays are causing people to miss flights and opportunities that may never come back. Those impacts show up in the quiet ways our lives are rerouted: a room we never enter, a conversation that doesn't happen, or a deal that doesn't get made.

We call delays inconveniences, but sometimes they cost access. And in business, access is everything.

Behind every long line is a real cost: time lost, plans disrupted, or opportunities missed. We don't always see those costs. But we feel them.

• My oldest got her first job, and I quickly realized I needed to teach her about managing money.
• She's learning how to budget, save, and splurge from time to time.
• She now pays for her own drinks at coffee shops and I charge her for rides to and from work.

I was absolutely thrilled when my oldest child got her first retail job. Within a few weeks of starting, she was sometimes working 20 or more hours a week, bringing home a solid paycheck at just 17.

However, I quickly realized how little I'd taught her about money management. Judging by the number of Amazon packages arriving on our porch, addressed to my daughter, I knew we still have a lot of work to do, but I wanted to be careful in the way I guided her.

We tried to talk about money early

When our four kids were young, we used a jar system for their allowances. They would divide their singles and fives among the jars, which included one for savings. Then, they would place their spending money in their wallets. This system was simple and it worked for a time. When they received money for their birthdays or Christmas, we would deposit those funds into their savings accounts to instill the idea of saving for future expenses or for a rainy day.

I guess time got away from me. In the blink of an eye, my sweet elementary school girl who spent her days creating art and dancing is now approaching high school graduation. With her sudden and bountiful-for-her-age income, it was time for a crash course in budgeting.

We had to decide how we would handle her new income

My husband and I suddenly had so many decisions to make. What should our daughter's financial responsibilities be at this age? Which essentials and wants should we continue to pay for? How much should she place in her savings account versus how much of her check should she be able to freely spend?

I decided that I wanted my daughter to learn through trial and error, with support.

There were times I cringed when I saw another Amazon order arrive on our doorstep, the package addressed to my daughter, or I knew she'd decided to get Starbucks for herself and treat her friend who wasn't working. But, isn't it ok to enjoy the fruits of her labor? I felt as if I were in one of those old school cartoons, an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. As a parent, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be teaching her.

She's learning that money flow is dynamic

She's been at her job for almost six months now. Her hours wane and increase based on the store's busy and slow seasons. She's had large paychecks, as well as paychecks for only a few hours of work. Learning to adjust with every pay cycle has been challenging. As a parent, I know my job isn't to fix my child's feelings that naturally come with every challenge. Rather, my job is to hold space for frustration and encourage her to process and problem-solve.

What I've found is that there is no end-all, be-all guidebook to teaching our kids about money. Every family dynamic and financial situation is different and ever-changing. I personally value having healthy food at home over eating out, I like buying quality clothing at a deep discount, and I am not one to do much extra for myself, like get my nails done. My values, however, don't have to be my child's — not now or even in the future.

Instead, I want her to have basic financial competency and confidence. I also want her to understand the value of a dollar, which is why she now has to pay some of her own expenses, such as any eating out at coffee shop, as well as her favorite press-on nails, or (yet another) stainless steel water bottle that she just has to have. We also charge her $10 (much less than an Uber would cost) for a roundtrip ride to and from work, preparing her for putting gas in her own vehicle in the near future.

She has opted to save around 75% of each paycheck, no matter how many hours she worked that week. That was her choice, and her father and I are pleased with it. She is slowly learning to spend wisely, to pause and ask herself, "Do I really want this beyond just this moment?" She is truly living and learning — and so are we.

• I wanted to be a writer, but my parents told me I should be a professor or lawyer.
• I resented them for not supporting me, but now my kid is in college studying film.
• I'm worried about my kid's future, especially in the world of AI.

I used to hold a quiet grudge against my parents for the way they handled my creative dreams.

It wasn't the kind of loud, dramatic grudge that shows up at therapy and needs a name. It was more like a low hum in the background of my ambitions. It was a recurring thought that quietly whispered: They didn't believe in me.

They knew of my love of writing. They saw the journals I filled, the essays that came back marked with glowing commentary from my teachers, and the stories that I'd start and never quite finish. Their response was essentially: that's cute, but what's your real plan?

"Go get a master's in early childhood education," they advised. "So you can teach. Or better yet, law school so you can be well-paid and respectable."

My creative writing talent wasn't something they could see me turning into a career, so they looked away from it. I resented that for a long time — until I became a parent.

When my kid went to college, my feelings got complicated

Decades later, I sent my firstborn off to an expensive liberal arts college to major in film studies, and that grudge got a bit more complicated.

I have spent nearly two decades pouring intentionally into my child's development. There were the Mandarin immersion programs, piano lessons, and summer workbooks, a grade level ahead, all carefully cultivating their unique sense of self. I wanted them to know that their interests mattered. I wanted them to feel they were allowed and encouraged to follow what lit them up. I said it explicitly, and I meant every word.

But now I'm sitting with the liberal arts tuition bills next to the economic reports of millions of jobs disappearing, and the daily AI takeover alerts.

I finally understand what my parents were thinking when I went off to college back in 1999.

My parents had done the math

They weren't dream killers, but time travelers. They were standing in my present, looking ahead to my future, and doing the math that I was too young and hopeful to do myself. Now here I am doing the same math except the numbers are scarier, and the variables have multiplied in ways none of us saw coming.

It's not just the job market I'm watching. It's the wholesale dismantling of creative industries by artificial intelligence. I think about my child studying film while screenwriting rooms go dark, entry-level editing jobs evaporate, and graphic designers, photographers, and copywriters quietly lose relevance to tools that work for free and never sleep.

The very field my child is pouring their passion into is being restructured in real time, faster than any syllabus can keep up with. I find myself wondering: Are the professors teaching the industry that exists, or the one that existed? Are film classes in 2026 preparing my kid for the future or elegantly preserving the past?

My father graduated from college before his profession was invented

I think about my father, who got his electrical engineering degree in 1971. The computer systems he would eventually spend his career managing did not exist yet when he was sitting in those lectures. He was studying for a future he couldn't fully see.

I studied English and History, majors that seemed, on paper, equally impractical, right up until social media rewrote the rules, and handed a girl with the gift for language a whole new kind of career. Neither of us could have studied our way directly into what we became.

I don't have a clean answer. What I'm learning in real time is that good parenting in an era of radical uncertainty might just be the refusal to let your fears become hand-me-downs you pass on to your child. That lesson is costing me bandwidth I don't have. It is one more weight on the already heavy bar of midlife, where caregiving, career, and reinvention all compete for the same depleted reserves.

And so I meditate, do my breathwork, enjoy my sound baths, and pray. I pray my child will forge something I can't picture yet, the way my father built systems that didn't exist in his textbooks, and the way I built a business on platforms that launched after my graduation.

I pray the instinct to bet on yourself and answer the deep inner call that tugs at your heart turns out to be the one thing no algorithm can replicate.

• My daughter planned to attend Brown, an Ivy League school, but was rejected.
• She ultimately decided to attend Fordham, a school that had never been on her radar.
• At Fordham, she found her true passion and lower tuition, so I'm glad she never got into Brown.

"I'm glad my daughter was rejected from an Ivy League college," I told a friend recently.

Her daughter is a high school junior, currently in the thick of curating a list of reach schools. My friend was surprised by my words. I know I'm supposed to want the best college for my kid, but it's been years, and I see things differently now.

It's also that time of year when many high school students are hearing decisions from the colleges they applied to, so I thought back to when my daughter received her own news.

My daughter was rejected from Brown

Three years ago, my daughter applied to Brown University with early decision, meaning the commitment was binding. If she had been accepted, she would have gone there.

When she first applied, she knew the odds were slim. But the rejection was still disappointing for both of us. On paper and in person, it looked like a perfect fit.

Besides the allure of an Ivy League school with like-minded students, the college checked every box: It was only an hour from home, offered art classes at the prestigious RISD, and, best of all, had no core requirements.

She has always been a "free spirit" who doesn't like being required to take classes, especially when it comes to learning. Losing out on a school that aligned so well with her personality felt like a setback.

It reminded me of the time when my husband and I wanted to purchase a house, only to lose it to another offer.

Fordham crept to the top of my daughter's list

Fordham wasn't even on her radar during her college search, but now she's a junior there. It made the list because it was her twin brother's first choice.

Since he wanted to go there and she had a free application code, she figured, why not just add it to her Common App?

But even after she got in, she still wasn't interested and didn't want to tour the campus. I had to convince her to tag along since her brother was already planning to enroll.

Once she saw the beautiful grounds and the students in Fordham apparel, the college moved to the top of her list. Despite that intense core curriculum, she decided to join her brother.

My daughter is saving money by not going to an Ivy League school

I'll never know if she would have received financial aid at Brown, but since they don't offer many merit scholarships, she likely would have paid full price.

Because she was a high-achieving student at the top of her class, Fordham offered a large merit scholarship to entice her to enroll. It worked. Paying less in tuition means fewer student loans, and in the long run, that matters more than an Ivy.

She found her true passion at Fordham

Freshman year, she started as a biology major. The intense pre-med vibe wasn't what she had in mind for college. A core requirement English class ended up being a game changer.

She took a placement test before the semester started and qualified for an advanced class. After excelling in it, the department chair wrote her a letter to recruit her to the major. I imagine that kind of personal recognition is harder to come by at an Ivy League.

Switching to English also opened her schedule. Without the heavy lab requirements of a biology major, she had room to double as an art major, which is another subject she has always loved.

Her success in the major led her to apply for the selective creative writing concentration, which required submitting writing samples. When she found out she was accepted, knowing how competitive it was, she was really happy.

It all worked out for the best

Her senior-year schedule is already set. She's most excited about taking classes with two English professors she already knows, including the one who first recommended her to the department chair.

If you ask her, she's still not a fan of the core requirements. But she'll also tell you that the class she was required to take is the reason she's an English major.

That's what I'd tell my friend's daughter, too. The school that feels like a perfect fit on paper isn't always the one that changes your life. Sometimes the rejection is the best thing that can happen. Missing out on purchasing that house also meant we bought one we liked more.

As the saying goes, "When one door closes, another opens." In her case, as the Ivy door slammed shut, she just had to wait for the host to reveal what was behind Door Number Two: a better major, a lower tuition, and her twin brother. That's a win in my book.

• British billionaire John Caudwell has eight children, ranging in age from 2 to 47.
• From flying coach to wearing Zara, he's intent on raising grounded and hardworking kids.
• Here's Caudwell's approach to parenting — and his biggest piece of advice.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with John Caudwell, the British billionaire founder of mobile phone businesses Phones 4u and Singlepoint, both of which he sold. Caudwell is raising three children with his partner, former Olympian Modesta Vžesniauskaitė, and now focuses on his childrens' charities and real estate investing. The following has been edited for length and clarity.

My family life is very dynamic. I have eight children, one of whom I'm the stepfather to. My youngest kids are 2 and 5 years old, and my oldest is 47.

I grew up in a little terraced house in the middle of Stoke-on-Trent, and I had next to nothing. I don't want my kids to have next to nothing, but I don't want to overcorrect the way that some rich people do.

For my older kids, when I was building my businesses, there was less time on a day-to-day basis, but it was quality time. I've always made quality time an absolute priority: almost never missing a sports day or prize-giving, things that were important.

Now, we do most of the parenting and don't have nannies. I have two housekeepers who help out, but school is the real answer, from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. That gives them discipline, entertainment, interest, and education.

Flying economy and shopping at Primark

Everybody wants to be spoiled, but it's very important that we keep our kids' feet on the ground, so we are very controlled about how we approach luxury.

For instance, when we go on the superyacht for a family holiday, that's mainly a treat for me. The adult children have to make their own way to the boat. The younger ones travel in economy with Modesta — I'll take business class most of the time — and we take the budget airline easyJet. We have to demonstrate to them what normal life is like.

They have virtually no designer clothes — maybe some that they got as presents, but we buy them clothes from Zara and Primark. If you go to Gucci and pay a thousand pounds, are the kids any happier? No, they're not. Do they end up having a very spoiled attitude? Yeah, they probably do.

When we take them to a restaurant, they'll have chicken nuggets and chips, and the younger ones share a plate. I hate wasting food. I always remember, when one of my daughters was young, we went to a restaurant, and she asked, "Daddy, would you really mind on this occasion if I had steak and chips?" You see kids out there just ordering lobster, and my kids would never dream of it.

When it comes to spoiling, one early mistake we made was buying them too much at Christmas. Not expensive gifts, but too many of them. They'd scramble through all the boxes and end up playing with a cardboard box. Now, we take a much more frugal approach; two or three Christmas presents are more than enough.

Our financial support is a very frugal help line that encourages them to achieve their own success. It supports them while they're in school so they can focus on being good students. It doesn't pay for them to go out to nightclubs or have expensive meals. My support is very much related to the effort they put into their lives.

My adult children are all busy making their own careers. One of my daughters is a psychotherapist, one works in real estate, and another works at a bank. One of my sons is a musician, writing and producing songs, and another is getting his real estate license.

The golden rule

The one thing I always do is that no matter what happens in your child's life, you're constantly telling them you love them.

No matter how much I have to punish them, it's always followed by, "Well, of course, I love you, darling. I love you very much, but I have to discipline you because you have to grow up to be meaningful, good people."

That's been consistent: I don't really want anything from them in life other than for them to be happy and leave the world a better place than they found it.

What does it matter if they're rich, if they're unhappy? What does it matter if they're an Olympian, if they're unhappy?

If every kid could grow up to aspire to those goals, which of course is very difficult to achieve, what a wonderful life for our children, but also what a wonderful place for the world to be.

• I returned from maternity leave; my performance review went from "exceptional" to "successful."
• That same year, I struggled to be both a good mom and a good employee.
• It took time for my body to heal after giving birth, and I wish I had better support at work.

I opened up my annual performance review and gasped. For the first time, I was seeing the words "Successful Contributor" instead of the "Exceptional Contributor" I'd earned the previous two years.

So what changed? I became a mom.

It wasn't just about the words. It was also that future promotions were tied to them, and my annual review was now stored away in an HR file as a reference point for any raise opportunities.

As our family's primary earner, my salary covered our health insurance, mortgage, and new life as a family of three. I couldn't afford to let this slide.

It was a difficult year for me

The year I went from "exceptional" to "successful" was also the year I hemorrhaged two liters of blood during delivery. I spent my first hours of motherhood watching a nurse stick a tube down my baby's throat because he needed help breathing. I visited him in a wheelchair in the NICU in between iron infusions and pumping sessions since I couldn't breastfeed him with his tubes.

Because of my blood loss, I returned home anemic. But when night came, rather than sleeping, I'd panic that my baby would stop breathing. When I wasn't panicking, I was nursing.

Despite it all, I returned to work part-time at 10 weeks. When my baby was 4 months old, I went back to full-time work. I was timing calls around pumping sessions. Some days, I'd have so many calls in a row that by the time I made it to the pump, I was breathing through the discomfort, as my breasts exploded with milk, leaking through my shirt.

I was working 8 hours a day on 4 hours of sleep, pretending it wasn't destroying me. I was doing the best I could; I just didn't do it exceptionally.

I kept pushing forward without changing anything

After having a baby, I felt caught between being a great mom and a great employee. I was overwhelmed, trying to be everything for everyone, and I started questioning if I was doing anything well.

But I dove back in — analyzing, optimizing, producing — expending all of my energy in my 9-to-5 to prove myself. I smiled outwardly, as though nothing had changed, but everything had changed.

Time went by, and I settled into my new normal. I constantly felt like I was failing, desperately trying to claw my way back to that exceptional status. I didn't know how to verbalize my struggles.

One day, during a work call with a partner from Canada, I mentioned that I had a 9-month-old baby. "Wait, what are you doing working?" she asked, shocked. Then she remembered, "Oh, that's right. You're in the United States."

My organization gave me 12 weeks of paid parental leave, very generous compared to most in the US. It felt like I was supposed to be grateful for the time I was given off with my baby. But the truth was, I didn't feel fully physically recovered until seven months postpartum. Even then, I was still figuring out my postpartum body and how to care for it.

I was working hard for a system that wasn't working for me

A 2024 survey conducted by Parentaly found that only 20% of expecting mothers in the US receive career support from their manager throughout the parental leave experience.

Even with my "generous" leave time, there wasn't a structured transition plan in place for me before I left and when I returned. When writing annual goals for a new mom, don't assume a 12-month work schedule if you're only going to be there for nine.

The things my annual report didn't take into account: I grew and fed a human with my body, I made my way out of my postpartum anxiety and sleep-deprived fog, all while making work calls on time, meeting deadlines, managing another employee, and finding my new rhythm as a working mom.

I'd call that pretty exceptional.

• My friends and family thought I was making a mistake when I moved states for a new relationship.
• At first, I felt homesick, but my partner supported me in a way that validated my decision.
• Now, we're married with kids, and I'm so glad I took a risk on love.

When I was 21, I fell in love for the first time.

Tim and I met online before it was cool. An avid fisherman, sports fanatic, and gifted salesman, he wasn't my usual type — but he was charming, funny, awkward, and sweet. I fell for him, hook, line, and sinker.

There was only one problem. Tim lived in Minneapolis, and I lived in Chicago.

We made long-distance work for as long as we could. On the rare weekends I wasn't waitressing, I traveled to Minnesota for ice fishing and bar hopping. When Tim's schedule allowed, he visited me at my parents' house for family dinners and nights out with friends.

Our time together was fun and exciting, but after seven months of constant travel, we knew we had some decisions to make.

When Tim and I decided to take the next step, I moved to Minnesota

After a four-year collegiate stint in Michigan, I'd sworn to myself that I'd never leave Chicago again. Not only were my family and friends there, but it was comforting and familiar. It was home.

Tim understood my love for Chicago from the moment we met. He was early in his dream career as a salesman, and I hadn't yet decided what I wanted to do professionally. Even so, he reassured me that I would never have to move — that, instead, he would find a way to relocate for me.

The more reassuring he was, though, the more I began seriously considering moving to Minnesota. Logistically, it just made sense.

My family and friends were just as charmed by Tim as I was, but they were skeptical, too. They cautioned me against moving, reminding me that Tim and I hadn't known each other that long.

The more I thought about beginning a new chapter, though, the more right it felt. Whether or not Tim and I lasted, maybe an adventure was exactly what I needed to kick off the adult chapter of my life.

Despite their warnings, I began searching for a job in Minneapolis. When I found a new job and a new roommate in the same week, it felt like fate.

I struggled with homesickness at first, but Tim supported me

My life in Minnesota wasn't what I had imagined. Living away from home was difficult, and I was miserably homesick for weeks. I was also adjusting to life in my first apartment, along with a new, very demanding job.

I was thrilled to be closer to Tim, but the struggles I was experiencing overshadowed much of my joy. Despite these difficulties, Tim remained patient, sure of our relationship, even when my confidence wavered.

On Halloween, my family's favorite holiday, Tim dressed up as a giant piece of pizza to cheer me up. When the first snow fell that season, Tim was waiting in my new apartment with a Christmas tree in tow.

By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, bringing with it chocolate-covered strawberries and three dozen white roses (my favorite), most of my homesickness had faded.

I realized that Tim was my future, wherever we lived

After six months, I finally began to find my footing. My roommate and I developed a strong bond, and I began to branch out into new social circles.

I fell in love with Minnesota in the summertime. I even learned to fish! Turns out, Tim was an excellent teacher.

Tim was my constant, in good times and bad. As the months continued to pass, I began to realize that maybe, this wasn't just the beginning of a new chapter — maybe it was the beginning of forever.

One evening, eight months after I first arrived in Minnesota, Tim invited me out for a casual dinner. I accepted, thinking nothing of it, not even questioning the fact that he wanted us to explore an antique store 15 minutes before our reservation.

I was sifting through a pile of old postcards when I realized that Tim was nowhere to be seen — until I rounded the corner and there he was, on bended knee, a tiny box in his outstretched hand.

We were married that December in Chicago. We spent another year in Minnesota after that, before returning to my hometown for good, putting down roots a few miles from my childhood home.

Thirteen years and six children later, I'm forever grateful that I ignored well-meaning warnings from my friends and family. I may have risked it all on love, but in the end, it was worth it.

• I smiled through holidays as the "cool aunt" while quietly grieving the life I thought I'd have.
• A friend's offhand comment made me see that my child-free life had real benefits, not just loss.
• Presence doesn't require parenthood — my niece called it "the aunt influence" before leaving for college.

In my 30s, I was the only one of my three siblings who wasn't married or starting a family. At holidays and birthdays, I smiled through it and lead into becoming the cool aunt to my nieces and nephew. On Mother's Day, however, I began bracing myself.

Each year, my mom would give me a card that said something like "Happy Mother's Day from the dog." It was meant with nothing but love. She wasn't trying to minimize what I didn't have — she was trying to include me. Still, each card landed like a small, unexpected dagger.

A reminder of the life I thought I was supposed to be living, but wasn't.

I always imagined I'd be a mom

My mom would gently explain that I was a huge influence on my nieces and nephews. That they looked up to me. That mothering my dogs counted, too. And in a real sense, she was right — I wasn't ready to accept it. I loved my dogs deeply — they kept me grounded and accountable. I was present in my nieces' and nephews' lives in meaningful ways, with time and energy to play with them.

But privately, something still felt unfinished. I had always imagined I'd be a mom — driving a carload of kids to and from sports practices. Instead, I was the kids' biggest fan, attending every hockey game or soccer match I could. At that stage of life, it felt like I was standing on the outside of a world I wanted for myself. For years, I held two truths at once: gratitude for what I had, and grief for what I didn't.

That tension softened slowly over time — through perspective and by watching the realities of parenthood up close rather than the polished version in my head. I now understand those Mother's Day cards differently. I see my mom's big heart for what it is and always has been — her way of saying: "You matter. You belong. Your life counts, too."

I saw the benefits that came without having kids

When I once confided to a friend that my only regret in life was not having children, he said, "Yeah, but look at all you've done. You might not have been able to do those things if you'd had kids." His comment shifted something. For the first time, I allowed myself to see that not having children came with benefits as well as loss.

My siblings are wonderful parents, and their kids are thriving. But even when everything is going well, parenting adult children carries a constant low-grade stress: worries about their happiness, careers, relationships, health, and the world they're inheriting. There's an ever-present sense of responsibility that never fully goes away.

I care deeply about my nieces' and nephew's happiness, but I don't carry that same weight. Instead, I live with a different set of trade-offs. The consequences of my decisions fall on me alone. That freedom has allowed me to further my education and take risks I might not have taken putting kids first, like: leaving full-time jobs to finish a TV pilot, jumping into dock diving my lab, and chasing a new dream of owning a quarter horse rescue and competing in reining.

I can say yes to opportunities that would be impractical for someone juggling school calendars and tuition bills.

I'm the cool aunt

And I still get to show up for the kids I love. Being the cool aunt turns out to be its own form of parenting — from a distance, without daily responsibility but with real influence. My role is lighter, but it's not insignificant. Recently, my niece decided to attend the same college where I earned a graduate degree. Before she left, she told me: "Yes, the aunt influence is real." It was said casually, but it landed deeply. Proof that presence doesn't require parenthood. That modeling a curious, creative, and independent life can be just as formative as enforcing rules or paying for that college degree.

There's a peaceful relief in releasing the version of adulthood I once carried guilt for not achieving — that lingering expectation of a conventional family life.

I still think about the life I once wanted. But I no longer see it as the life I failed to have. It's simply one path among many. And the one I'm on now — dogs, dreams, creative risks — feels intentional. I've kept those Mother's Day cards because they remind me that I have the very best mom. Her words and belief in me have taken decades to fully embrace but now that I have, I know: there is more than one ways to nurture, more than one way to matter, and more than one way to build a full life.

• I studied at universities in both the US and China, first in 2015 and again in 2025.
• Experiencing Chinese higher education at two different times showed me how different the system is.
• The differences in cost, campus culture, and career pathways made me rethink American universities.

I've done something quite rare: I'm an American who attended college in both the US and China.

I completed my undergraduate degree in political science at a state university in New York and studied abroad in Wuhan, China, during the summer of 2015. Ten years later, in 2025, I returned to Shijiazhuang, China, while completing my second graduate degree in global health, interning at a medical university.

Experiencing Chinese universities at two distinct points in my life, a decade apart, gave me a rare view of how the system operates and how it has evolved.

I didn't meet any Americans studying in China most recently

During my first trip, I was in a group of about 30 American college students. The second time, I was the only person from my cohort to go.

Since the pandemic, the number of US students in China has dropped, according to NPR. In fact, I didn't meet a single American in the three months I was in the country most recently.

Both times, I met lots of African students, though. They were heavily invested in and integrated into the Chinese learning and working systems.

I've noticed China sets the international students I met up for success

Many of the international students I talked to in the US told me how hard it was to integrate and find a pathway to work after school in New York.

In China, I noticed there's a pathway for international students who want to stay, particularly those who have developed strong Mandarin skills.

The Chinese government and universities are actively trying to entice international students to come to the country, while also investing in ways to retain graduates.

Campus life looks very different from what I experienced in the US

The internet firewall in China can make research difficult, and I've seen doctors smoking in classrooms between lectures.

Student life also reflects a different set of norms. There is low tolerance for drugs and alcohol on many Chinese campuses. After class, I saw friends playing badminton rather than drinking beer.

Technology and security are also visible on campus. Students on the campuses I studied entered by scanning their faces and were tracked by cameras.

Politics also felt more openly present in academic life. Most of the professors and physicians I worked with were active members of the Communist Party and often wore pins on their lapels to signify it.

As one local friend put it, "having one state party means policies don't change every four years," which, in their view, can create a certain level of stability for universities.

Chinese universities are far cheaper and more specialized

The two universities I studied at in China didn't have the fancy sports facilities most American colleges do, but many students I met weren't going into debt to study either.

Tuition in China is subsidized by the government, especially at public universities. That means it's relatively affordable compared with many Western countries.

Housing and food costs are also inexpensive in my experience. I was eating a healthy lunch on campus for $1 a day. My American campus used to sell a single banana for $1.05 in 2015.

I also spent a year taking general courses in America. While I loved taking a class on Bollywood as a political science major, the specialization offered by many Chinese universities helped better prepare me for the real world. I also saved money by not taking general courses while in China.

Studying in both systems changed how I think about education

I didn't just earn my degrees in multiple countries; I learned about the culture of education. I learned how the government impacts who can study what and if they will be successful.

I'll always be partial to the American scholastic mentality of questioning everything and forming opinions, rather than the rote memorization I saw in China, but I'd prefer not to be launched into the working world with so much student loan debt.

I hope more Americans can form their own opinions of China's educational system, which has rapidly evolved and will only continue to grow in its unique way.

• My wife and I moved to New York City with hopes of building a vibrant community.
• When my son was born, our priorities shifted, and we eyed a house near my in-laws in Delaware.
• We left New York City behind and couldn't be happier.

Two years before our son was born, my partner, Liv, and I moved to New York City to immerse ourselves in the city that never sleeps. She was working full-time and pursuing a master's degree at Columbia, while I was figuring out what it meant to be human after I quit my tech job.

We dreamed of the community and opportunity that awaited us in that glorious place of concrete and glass. After the loneliness COVID brought, I fantasized that we'd meet other adults who shared enough of our values to create a tight community in New York City, one that was more than just friends.

But everything changed after our son was born.

We moved to New York City to live our dream life

My sister-in-law, her boyfriend, and a handful of friends already lived in New York City. The region's high population density came with the promise of new close relationships.

Within six weeks, we sold our house in suburban Maryland and moved into a New York City apartment, sight unseen.

Living in NYC is like gripping life's volume knob with both hands and cranking it up past the breaking point. The city offers an unmatched variety of sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings to the privileged people who can afford it.

Some nights over the next year, I sat on our windowsill, admiring the twinkling cityscape teeming with life. I was making new friends, but I wasn't seeing a path to the fantastical relationships with other adults that I thought would come easily.

The question of whether or not to expand our biological family also hung heavily in my mind.

After an errand to the Financial District, I shared a transformative conversation with a tourist couple from rural Germany. We talked about their children, and I revealed my ambivalence about having my own.

The man's response was warm and adamant: Having children is the best. There's never going to be a right time. Just do it.

We hugged, took a selfie, and parted ways. Six months later, having learned countless lessons from the city and its people, Liv was pregnant with our first child.

Our priorities shifted after the birth of our son

Shortly after our son was born and I became a stay-at-home dad, our family reached a decision point. We could not afford to live in New York City and enjoy our preferred lifestyle. We needed more space and more help.

A house in my in-laws' neighborhood was put up for sale at an attractive price. Liv's desire burned for this home and the comfort of neighbor-parents, but I was unconvinced. Leaving my community and moving to Slower Lower Delaware felt like a massive downgrade.

As our son's eyes opened and he began to crawl, my priorities shifted toward my growing family. Whenever my mother-in-law trekked up to the city to help with childcare, I felt rested and loved. If we moved, her love and nurturing spirit would be just down the road.

I chose to be excited about the move, focusing on the reasons it felt good, like the familial help, lower financial pressure, and quieter calm.

We bought the house and moved after our son's first birthday.

An unexpected step toward a dream come true

I am fortunate enough to both love and like my family, including the family I inherited from Liv. With this type of love comes a web of commitment to the well-being of all members of our system. Societal norms make the depth of this commitment far more accessible to family than it is to friends.

In an alternate universe, there's a version of myself whose hyperlocal community consists of friends and family, where our children have sprawling chosen families and roam freely between homes. In this imaginary village, shops and services are walkable, and what we make transcends money. I thought we might make this happen in New York City. Maybe it can for others, but it didn't for me.

Perhaps that idealized universe is actually this one, only set a few years in the future. The open-door policy we happily share with my in-laws is a part of the dream made real.

• At the weekend reading retreat I attended, our intergenerational group bonded over more than books.
• We had thoughtful discussions, did a guided meditation, and went on a hike in the woods.
• I came home inspired by the other retreat members and our shared connection.

In my 30s, I joined a book club but soon dropped out. Between juggling work and family, the last thing I needed then was another deadline, even a read-for-fun one.

Flash forward decades: I'm in my 60s now, the kids have flown the nest, and I have more downtime and love all things outdoorsy.

So when a friend suggested All Booked, a luxe reading retreat for women in New York State's Catskill Mountains, I was excited to try book clubs again, especially this one-off weekend version.

When I signed up, I imagined lengthy chats surrounding the retreat's featured trending book: "Mother Mary Come to Me," a memoir by prize-winning author Arundhati Roy. We certainly had those.

But what made the literary getaway especially meaningful were the casual connections we shared as total strangers — eight women in our 20s to late 60s — about life, love, and living with intention.

The retreat's luxe cabin was the perfect place for book chats and a reset

Tucked among 12 wooded acres in Windham, New York, the weekend retreat's luxury log cabin was straight out of Airbnb central casting, complete with pine exposed beams, stone floors, and a dramatic great room with soaring vaulted ceilings and cozy reading nooks.

The first night, we met our host, Suzanne, a former New York City journalist who headed to the Catskills a few years ago and never left.

We introduced ourselves with a favorite book recommendation over an Indian-inspired dinner of delicata-squash salad and curry-marinated chicken, a nod to featured author Roy, who calls New Delhi home.

After changing into our PJs, we gathered on yoga mats in the cabin's loft for a guided meditation before padding off to our log beds.

Introductions continued the next morning over a breakfast of blueberry scones and homemade granola.

Among us were two 20-something bookstagrammers, each with her own daunting stack of extracurricular romantasy novels to speed-read.

Their tripods and ring lights triggered the multitasking question that seemed to trail many of us these days wherever we went: Should we turn an experience into shareable content or power down and just enjoy it, conceivably leaving likes, followers, and revenue (from somewhere) on the table?

Aside from planning to snap a few photos, I am Team Commune with Nature.

Our multigenerational group bonded over books, nature, and a lively debate

After a morning of quiet reading time, our group met at the Windham Path for an afternoon of forest bathing, which turned out to be a slow-motion hike led by Beth, our certified forest therapy guide.

Beth, who left a corporate job to embrace her calling as a forest therapist, invited us to wander off and "connect with a tree you are drawn to."

After appreciating the bark, treetops, and stillness, we reunited with a tea ceremony. Beth poured tiny cups of tea steeped from pine needles from an insulated kettle.

Before sipping the sour reddish liquid, we were instructed to pour some on the ground to give back and thank the forest for its sustenance.

During Saturday night's dinner, Suzanne moderated our discussion of "Mother Mary Comes to Me," about Roy's complicated relationship with her mother, Mary, which eventually led to this question for the group: Is it OK to go no-contact with your parents if they upset you?

The 20-somethings were Team No-Contact, while those of us in midlife and beyond disagreed because bad-parenting moments come with the territory, and well, family is family.

Our POV tracked with the memoir's theme: Roy remained stubbornly devoted to her mom despite their lifelong turbulent relationship.

The connection and community I found that weekend reminded me that life is full of possibilities

The next day, I came home intoxicated with pine-scented fresh air and nurtured by the experience.

Confession: In this chapter as an empty nester, I often feel nestless. It's almost like I'm back in my 20s, asking fundamental questions again, such as: What should I do now? Where should I live now that I don't have to be tied to a good school system?

However, spending the weekend with retreat members, including Suzanne and forest-bathing Beth, who've made bold midlife moves, reminded me that life is an open book, filled with exciting possibilities.

Meanwhile, I've been really noticing the trees during my daily walks, brushing up on my vlogging skills (inspired by the bookstagrammers' industriousness), and seeking out even more ways to meet new friends of all ages.