• I promised my sons a trip to the World Cup. Sixteen years later, I couldn't afford to make it happen.
• After I wrote about breaking that promise, a stranger offered to fly all three of us to the match.
• I was so sure it was a scam that I reported it to the FBI.

For sixteen years, the same photo has been my Facebook cover. It's me and my twin boys, Charlie and Thomas, then 3, in matching Australia jerseys, taken before I flew to the 2010 World Cup. I crouched beside them shortly after my marriage ended and promised that when they were older, I'd take them to a World Cup of their own. They were too young to understand, but I meant it.

We talked about it for years, always aiming for 2026. But when I priced the trip, it stopped being a holiday and became a house payment. I sat them down, showed them the cost, and asked if they still wanted it. They said no and meant it. I was the one who couldn't let go of the dream.

So I wrote about it. Then, everything changed.

A stranger sent me a message

A few days after the article ran, a man named Avi messaged me on LinkedIn. His profile had no photo and 21 followers, and I almost ignored it. He'd read the piece and asked if it was true. When I said it was, he offered to fly the three of us from Australia to Seattle to watch Australia play the US, and to cover the flights, accommodation, and tickets.

I thought there had to be a catch, so I searched his name. Google revealed him to be a business founder, which was enough to give me hope. I sent him photos of our passports.

My family told me I'd been scammed

Then the messages stopped, and my excitement turned into dread. I had sent copies of my children's passports to a random stranger. I pasted the messages into ChatGPT, which stated there was a 100% chance it was a scam. I called my bank, the passport office, and the police. I even emailed the FBI, who surely had better things to do.

My wife said what I already knew. Nobody would offer a free trip to a stranger. "You're stupid," she told me. I had to agree.

Even so, a small part of me thought there was a 1% chance it was real. For the next eight hours, I swung between the certainty I'd been played and the small hope I hadn't.

I couldn't believe my eyes

Avi messaged back. I told him I wanted to FaceTime, sure this would be the moment of truth. He called. Avi told me he was a father too and knew what my promise meant. He wanted to do something good with no strings attached.

Soon after, he messaged to say the airfares were booked. I typed in the confirmation number on the United website, expecting nothing. Three confirmed seats appeared on the screen, under my name and the boys'. It was past midnight, which made it my birthday. I just sat there staring at the screen.

In the morning, the match tickets were transferred to my FIFA account. When they hit my account, I told the boys we were flying to the US in two days. They reacted the way I had, certain it was too good to be true.

When it came time to pack, the only things they put in their bags were soccer jerseys. Even heading to the airport, I was unsure if this was still happening. It was only when the cabin doors closed that I let myself believe it. We were crossing the Pacific and back for four days, all for a single match.

In Seattle, my boys led the chants

We made every hour in Seattle about the tournament, because I wanted my sons to feel what I felt in South Africa in 2010. We visited fan sites and watched every match.

On the morning of the game, we crammed into Victory Hall with thousands of other Australians. I had a beer in my hand at 7 a.m. because I'm an Aussie and it was a match day. Grown men in green and gold, belting out songs, drinking beer out of their shoes, drums banging. My boys had never seen anything like it.

From there, the streets turned into a moving crowd. Singing, chanting, people spilling toward the stadium in waves. Charlie was on crutches, weeks after knee surgery, refusing to slow down. His brother stayed beside him the whole way, leading the chants.

It usually takes an act of God to get a teenager to show that kind of joy in public. Both of mine were grinning the entire way. Walking into the stadium with my arms around both of them felt unreal. For a moment, the three of us just stood there. I thought about the photo from 2010, and how long I'd waited to take another one. Then we took it, the same three faces, same positions, and the same grins. Except I was now the shortest one.

I sent the photo to Avi, who replied: "I'm just so glad I had the balls to do it."

Seventy-two hours earlier, Avi was a stranger with no photo and 21 followers. A man I had never met had spent thousands of dollars so two teenagers he would never meet could be happy. I made a promise to two 3-year-olds who had no idea what I was saying. Sixteen years later, a stranger made it happen in three days.

Now I can change that Facebook photo.

• I have my own child, but having other people's kids in my home has always been overstimulating.
• When other children are in my home, I feel anxious and responsible for their safety.
• As a neurodivergent family, having other kids over can feel overwhelming.

With all the ongoing rhetoric surrounding where kids do and don't belong, it feels a bit uncomfortable to admit that I don't like having other people's children in my home. Most kids are small, noisy chaos agents that leave a mess in their wake, mine included. And since I already have one wreaking havoc on my home regularly, adding more can feel overwhelming.

Prior to becoming a mom, I spent years working with children. While there were parts of it that I enjoyed, it was also overstimulating, and I was relieved to come home and have kid-free time. Beyond the noise and energy levels, it also felt like a huge responsibility to care for other people's children and look after their safety and well-being.

Having other children in my home makes me anxious

The toddler years, when I was worrying that my daughter might choke on a too-small toy or too-large grape, are now behind me. But when younger children come into my home, those worries crop up again. Especially because my daughter now has an extensive collection of Legos and other toys with tiny pieces that are annoying, but not potentially dangerous, most of the time.

It's unnerving going through her things to determine what needs to be hidden away. In the past, I've ended up having to leap across the room when something I missed ends up grasped in a toddler's fist. The responsibility for supervising the other kids always seems to be dumped on me as well, even when other parents are present. And since it is my home, I also feel responsible for making sure everyone stays safe and leaves uninjured.

For my neurodivergent family, home is our safe space

In a lot of ways, our house is my family's safe space. As a neurodivergent individual who also has an autistic child, we have our house set up for her sensory and other needs. On the rare occasions that we have other children over, there is a scramble to relocate all the items that aren't age-appropriate or could lead to chaos when used by multiple children, such as her trampoline or sensory toys. And my daughter is very attached to her belongings, so we also have to be careful to put away anything that could get broken and damaged.

Moving and returning items to their places can be exhausting for me and overwhelming for my daughter. So is trying to clean and tidy our home for children who seem to find everything — from eating the goldfish they find under the coffee table to using a bill from the doctor's office as a coloring page.

Clearing up my doom piles around the house often just results in them being relocated to my bedroom, where I can close the door. And then there's the cleanup afterward — when the sandbox ends up getting tracked all over the first floor, and there is a collection of rejected food under the dining room table.

It's all why I try to limit gatherings with kids at our house. While I don't mind going to other people's homes, the ideal situation for me is to meet at a neutral location, like a park or museum. That way, I don't feel responsible for supervising someone else's children, and no one has to worry about cleanup before or after.

• For the past four summers, my family and friends have taken a summer vacation to Colorado.
• But the kids go to summer camp during the day, so we parents get to have fun.
• I think it's important our kids see us be adults outside being parents.

For the past three summers, my friends and I have driven our families to Colorado to work remotely, be playful adults, and, in some ways, mildly neglect our children.

My friends and I work hard to nurture our relationships. Whether it's a constantly changing technological landscape or a precarious job market, the world around us continues to evolve quickly.

Maintaining a sense of interconnectedness in our friend group helps us to feel more stable, but it also allows us to find communal joy, for ourselves, explicitly outside our kids.

To further connect on trips, we take it a step further and send our kids to day camp so we can get some respite from our typical demands.

Sending our kids to camp gives us parents a break

Parental expectations seem endless these days. Under the umbrella of intensive parenting, there seems to be an implicit message: we need to be constantly available to our kids.

There's a steady stream of emails coming from schools, applications to download for every sport, and a birthday party scene that is, at times, unbearable. To avoid burnout, we need to strike a balance; to thrive, we need enjoyment.

To do so, our children attend a very reasonably priced day camp in Colorado while my friends and I take our own vacation.

It is a much-needed escape from commuting to an office, rushing to the school pick-up line, and making it to another early-morning sports game. A lingering benefit of the pandemic is that we are all able to slip into remote work for a short time; we take full advantage of the setup. Consolidating our work so we can enjoy our downtime is the goal for the two weeks in Colorado.

We commit ourselves to having fun and strengthening our bonds, hoping that our kids pick up on the importance of connectedness, friendship, and enjoying life in the face of unpredictability.

It's important our kids see us as real people — not just their parents

It's a nice byproduct that our children see their parents as their own people — adults who pursue fun and find ways to play.

We certainly field many comments about how "it is not fair" that we do fun stuff without them. But this does not deter us.

In fact, last year, during a hike through the scenic Rocky Mountain National Park, we ran into our children while they were on their own camp-sponsored hike.

That evening was full of more demanding questions about how we spend our time.

The fun doesn't end when we pick the kids up from camp

We have been intentional about picking an area where we can also let the kids roam a bit.

After-camp hours are filled with self-guided play and time spent outside. So, our evenings feel like a nice balance between connecting with our kids and giving them time to play with one another.

Through these trips, we also hope to instill a sense of independence and love of nature. The whole experience ends up allowing our kids to learn from each other in ways they won't when we are around, and the grownups get space for uncensored adult time, leaving us with more gas in the tank.

We are all set for our fourth annual trip. While the kids are excited to escape the Texas heat and get to the mountains, we adults have been planning for our own adventures. There has been talk of our favorite pastries for breakfast, tennis, hiking, and white-water rafting…none of which our kids are invited to.

• I still think about the years my family spent living in China and Cambodia.
• My daughter remembers very little of our life abroad because she was so young.
• Her attachment to home has made me rethink my own ideas about adventure and belonging.

I showed my daughter a video of her gnawing on a chicken claw, back when we lived in China. "Eww," she says, annoyed that I'm asking her to look away from Roblox.

"Do you remember this?" I ask. She shakes her head. Another memory lost.

My daughter doesn't remember much about the years we lived abroad. She was just 3 when my husband and I decided to leave Los Angeles for China, then Cambodia. Now she's almost 10. We've been back in Los Angeles since she was 5, when the pandemic changed our plans.

She has been forgetting the things she loved

When we first got back, she hated her car seat. "I want a tuk-tuk!" she'd yell from the backseat.

But now I'm not sure she'd be able to tell me what a tuk-tuk is, let alone remember riding in one. She's forgotten the temples, the ruins, and the bat caves. There's more pressing stuff filling her mind: a friend's birthday party, getting to the next level in gymnastics, and acing her next math quiz.

She doesn't think about our life abroad, even though my husband and I can't stop thinking about it.

We hadn't planned on moving to China, but it was the first job offer that came in after my husband, a music teacher, sent résumés to schools around the world. We were so eager to leave that we didn't care where we landed, just that it was far away.

Moving abroad was nothing new for us. We'd met at a jungly yoga class in Bali and spent our first years together living out of cheap hotel rooms across Asia. Living this way felt like we'd found a cheat code on life. While everyone back home dealt with mortgages and credit card debt, we zipped around on motorbikes, got cheap massages, and outran boredom.

My daughter went to a preschool in China

But then I got pregnant.

So, we moved back to Los Angeles and bought a house. For a while, things were pleasant: holidays with relatives, nice neighbors, and a life that made sense on paper.

But late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd watch YouTube videos of families living abroad. When our daughter was asleep, my husband and I would open a bottle of wine and reminisce about the old life, toying with the idea of what it would look like to pick up and go, this time with a kid.

Over time, talking led to applying, and when that first school extended its offer, we said yes. Since our daughter hadn't started school yet, it seemed like the perfect time to do it.

The teaching job was in Xiamen, a coastal city in southeast China. It's not as touristy as better-known destinations like Shanghai and Beijing, which meant there were fewer English speakers.

We enrolled our daughter in a local pre-school, where she was the only foreign kid in her class. Though I loved watching her practice Mandarin and learn to use chopsticks, I started to notice she was more frustrated than excited about the adventure. After all, it wasn't so long ago she'd learned to form sentences in English and use a fork.

We then moved to Cambodia

The pandemic was part of the reason we left China for Cambodia, where my husband secured another teaching job.

Our daughter also went to school with other expat kids this time. She swapped Mandarin for Khmer lessons, but spent the rest of her day speaking English.

Life was easier, but we never intended to stay in Cambodia. We saw it as a pit-stop until something better came along. When I met some of the older expat kids who were in their fourth or fifth new country, I started to worry about what all that moving might mean for our daughter.

What if we never felt settled anywhere? How many new languages would we expect our daughter to learn? How many new friends would she eventually have to leave behind? Was it worth it?

When the pandemic finally hit Cambodia, we decided to leave and return to Los Angeles to wait it out.

My husband and I are restless and want to move again

Though she missed the tuk-tuks, I remember the glee on our daughter's face when she noticed everyone at the local park spoke English. We eventually enrolled her in school and moved to an area we liked, telling ourselves we were done with that life. We'd still travel, of course, but we'd do it like so many other families — spring break, summer, Christmas.

Five years later — the longest we've ever spent in one place — my husband and I are restless again. We've tried to settle, signing leases, browsing homes, and investing in expensive furniture that we know we can't take with us, but it doesn't feel like us.

Lately, we've been talking about moving to Europe and floating the idea to our daughter, who quickly changes the subject.

While my husband and I talk about the past and dream about some future far away — and probably always will — our daughter is deeply rooted in her life here and now, and she's happy. The older she gets, the stronger her friendships, and the scarier it is for us to imagine pulling her away from a life she loves for the allure of elsewhere.

For me, Los Angeles feels boring because I know it so well. As a kid, I'd watch foreign movies with my mom, dreaming about all the places I'd see one day. Anywhere felt more exciting than home.

Maybe it's the opposite for our daughter. Maybe her idea of adventure is knowing a place intimately, belonging somewhere. I'm not sure if we'll ever get there, if my husband and I will ever look out the window and think this is it, we belong here.

• My mom died six weeks after my second child was born.
• Navigating grief while postpartum was especially challenging. I wanted to call my mom so many times.
• Losing my mother made me realize how quickly life can change, so now I'm adapting the way I parent.

People now speak honestly about postpartum exhaustion, hormones, and sleepless nights, but very few people talk about the way motherhood pulls you back toward your own mother in almost instinctive ways.

Every uncertainty suddenly becomes a reason to reach for her. When my baby boy would not settle, when his cry sounded slightly different, when I convinced myself something terrible must be wrong, all I wanted was to hear her say, "Frankie, it's normal." She had a way of making panic settle quietly.

But my mom died on December 27, just six weeks after my son was born.

Looking back, it feels as though she carried herself through one final Christmas for everyone else's sake. The presents were wrapped carefully. The traditions stayed intact. Even while she was losing her fight, she still poured herself into making sure everyone else felt held together. That was how she loved people: quietly, through care.

Then suddenly she was gone, and I was left standing in that strange place where new life and grief exist side by side.

Starting a new chapter without my mom was hard

There is something deeply disorienting about grieving while postpartum because motherhood continues regardless of heartbreak. Babies still wake hungry in the night. Tiny onesies still need folding. Your body is healing while your heart is breaking, and somehow both things are expected to happen at once.

At night, grief feels louder. I remember sitting in the dark, feeding my son, and instinctively reaching for my phone to message her before remembering she was no longer there. Even now, after months have passed, I sometimes call her phone just to hear her voice on the voicemail. For a few seconds, hearing her voice creates the briefest illusion that she still exists somewhere close enough to reach.

The happy moments became bittersweet

One of the loneliest things about grief is how heavy joy can become.

When my son first started smiling, my immediate instinct was to send videos to my mom. When he let out his first tiny laugh, excitement rose in me so quickly it almost hurt, because heartbreak followed immediately behind it. Who was I supposed to share these moments with now? Who would treasure them in the way she would have?

My focus has shifted

I have learned that love does not disappear when someone dies; it simply changes shape. Since my mom died, I have lived life at a million miles an hour. I've made enormous decisions quickly, choices I probably once would have sat with for much longer. I'm preparing for another international move, this time to Malaysia, so I can experience another part of the world.

I bought an apartment because somewhere inside me grew a desperate need to make sure my children would always have somewhere safe to land. Losing my mother made me realize how suddenly life can fracture. I think part of me has been trying to build protection against that feeling from ever happening again.

Still, there are moments where life softens around the edges. Watching my son smile in his sleep. Hearing his tiny laugh in the early morning light. Sitting in the Kenyan sunrise, holding him while birds begin singing outside. Those moments do not erase grief, but they exist beside it quietly.

Grief has changed motherhood for me

Grief changes your relationship with time. It makes everything feel both fragile and urgent. Since losing her, I've struggled to sit still. Movement feels easier than silence because silence leaves too much room for longing. Sometimes I wonder if I've been running simply so I don't have to fully feel the shape of her absence.

I think grief has changed the texture of motherhood for me. Love feels sharper now, more fragile and precious at the same time. My son will grow up without knowing my mom, but traces of her remain around us: in the way I soothe him, in the tenderness she taught me, in the instinct to care for others even when your own heart is breaking. Grief has not disappeared. It has simply woven itself quietly into motherhood, memory, and love itself.

• I gave my daughter a "Yes Day" for her 7th birthday.
• The experience showed me how much kids value being trusted.
• Saying yes helped my daughter build confidence and independence.

Parenting young kids often feels like saying no on repeat.

No, not today. No, that's enough. No, maybe later.

So for my daughter's 7th birthday, I decided to try something different. I decided to give her a "Yes day" and say yes to whatever request and desire she had, within resonable boundaries.

I first heard about it years ago, before I became a mom. A good friend told me about an annual tradition in their home called "Kids in charge day," where her children picked the meals, the outings, and the flow of the day.

At the time, I had questions. What if they ask for something unrealistic? What if it gets out of hand?

She told me something I didn't fully appreciate then, but that has stayed with me ever since: kids aren't as impressed with extravagance. What they want is attention, time, and a sense that their voice matters.

We introduced the idea when our daughter was 4, and it quickly became one of her favorite traditions. So this year, we made it her birthday gift, something she already loved, arriving right on time.

I set boundaries, but kept them simple

"Yes" doesn't mean anything goes. For us, it meant choices that were safe, local, and doable within the day. My daughter didn't need endles options. She needed the opportuity to make her own choices.

I let her lead, even when it was uncomforable

Her first request was breakfast: a cream cheese bagel. Easy.

Then came her outfit: red heart socks, faded floral print pants, and an old pink shirt. Something I would've picked out for play or painting, not a birthday outing.

I almost redirected her, but stopped short. "Is that what you want to wear?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, beaming. Confidence is built in moments when kids get to trust their own thinking without being corrected.

The small things seemed to matter most

We headed to National Harbor, just outside of D.C., where she planned to build a bear using gift cards she'd been saving.

When we pulled up, I asked if I could grab a coffee before we got started. "Yes!" she shouted, delighted. That moment surprised me. She wasn't just receiving the yes. She was learning how to give it.

We wandered into a Black-owned bookstore, hand in hand. She picked out a chapter book. Then, just as excitedly, she grabbed a "Gracie's Corner" book, a series she used to love as a toddler and one I was almost certain she'd outgrown.

I almost said no again. Then I remembered the assignment. "Yes. And yes."

I enjoyed watching what she did with the freedom

At Build-A-Bear, she made thoughtful choices. She picked the birthday bear that cost as much as her age so she could spend more on accessories, instead of choosing a more expensive plush that would eat into her budget. I'm not surprised though, my girl loves to save a coin.

By midday, it was "yes, yes, yes." A candy shop stop. A few treats. There was an ice cream counter inside, and after trying a few flavors, she decided on her own to wait until after lunch.

No prompting. No correction. Just her own good judgment. She felt trusted in the moment and rose to the occasion.

I needed to stretch my comfort too

Later, she asked to ride the Capital Wheel. She was ready. I was not.

Her dad had joined us by then, and they walked hand in hand toward the oversized Ferris wheel while I followed a few steps behind, snapping photos. At the ticket booth, my husband asked for three tickets.

"Wait, Mom, you're doing this?!" she asked. I took a breath. "Yes." She squealed.

Sometimes a "Yes Day" isn't just about your child. It's about saying yes to yourself, too. To your own confidence and courage. I know my fear of heights is irrational, but in that moment it felt very real. I was, and still am, proud of myself for pushing through.

She reminded me I deserve yeses too

At the nail salon I typically visit solo, she was treated like royalty. Apple juice in a bejeweled glass. Chocolates at checkout. A cascade of bubbles as we left. We stopped next door at a craft store and picked up stickers and bookmarks.

And then, near the end of the day, she surprised me. She asked if we could go to the makeup store to get something for me. I reminded her it was her day, not mine.

"Yes, but I want to share it with you, Mama."

That night, we ordered cheeseburgers and fries and sat around the table, her legs swinging as she recapped her favorite parts of the day. Proud. Confident. Already just a little bit bigger.

In that moment, my friend's words came back to me. A "Yes Day" isn't about indulgence. It's about intention. It gives your child space to make decisions, feel heard, and trust their voice.

The goal isn't just to say yes for a day. It's to raise kids who know how to use their voice for a lifetime.

• Motherhood changed my perspective on the World Cup.
• The six-week tournament on the global stage creates a tangible connection to heritage.
• It makes memories and deepens relationships between families and across oceans.

It all started with a onesie, as so many parenthood journeys do.

The Ipswich Town Tractor Boys gear traveled across the Atlantic before I snuck it onto my then-infant son, just before my husband arrived home. Adorable photos of the drool-covered shirt followed, sent back across the pond to Ipswich, England, the epicenter of my father-in-law's family.

It was a reason to connect — one that wouldn't have happened without our family's shared love of country and capturing moments that remind us of one another.

The onesie spurred a different reaction when my Belgian grandmother and father saw their pride and joy, the one and only baby wearing the colors of an English football club. "The English?! He should be wearing Red Devil red!" exclaimed my grandmother, with a delivery that bordered on genuine betrayal.

Becoming a parent made me see these interactions between family members as long-lasting connections and pivotal memories, not just silly quips at a sporting event.

Motherhood changed my perspective

By the time of the Women's World Cup later that summer, a lighthearted rivalry had formed (Belgium didn't even qualify that year, but that didn't simmer my family's bubbling pride). My 4'5", 80-pound grandmother had outsize opinions about every decision on the pitch.

Cheering my grandfather on at years of weekend games, she wielded words capable of besting anyone's strongest kick. Other countless memories help fill the multi-year gaps between tournaments, like my grandmother and father-in-law's sheepish chuckles and simultaneous "santé!" and "cheers!" as glasses chinked. Or the audible disbelief at a call that was simply unjust to everyone on the pitch. And, all the proud comments about my son's various traits as evidence of his Belgian or English heritage.

In stark contrast, I can't tell you a thing about prior World Cups. I likely passively watched, enjoying the game, but not for the reasons that matter now.

Multigenerational moments are fleeting

I became a mom, and suddenly the moments on screen were truly part of the background; I was watching the moments in the room.

Motherhood has made me keenly aware of these fleeting multi-generation interactions and how readily they slip away without intention. My dear grandmother died in 2024. I will miss her elegant outrage at the ref's calls and the players' decisions. I know my Dad will represent Belgium in this year's World Cup, complete with a click of the tongue and an exasperated sigh, unwittingly echoing my grandmother's to a tee.

Add in shared culture, country-themed snacks, and friendly competition, and you have cherished memories in the making. I daydream about my rambunctious toddler dashing into the yard to greet his grandfathers, surprising them in his Belgium, England, or even US kit. Jeers will be hurled based on his selection, but so will love and enthusiasm.

The World Cup is a time to connect with our heritage

For my children, this summer is a rare at-home immersion into the cultures that define their grandfathers and of which their great-grandmother was deeply proud.

I imagine US parents living abroad may experience similar feelings on Super Bowl Sunday or during March Madness, but it can't compete with the World Cup. More than 100 games spread over six-ish weeks extends the tradition, winning it the title of my favorite sporting event — an admittedly unexpected statement for an American (who grew up watching the Super Bowl).

This World Cup will ground my children in family legacy, strengthen connections in the present, and create memories and shared interests for the future.

Unlike a book or photos, the stadium's palpable energy, chants and songs, and the homemade family recipes at watch parties make culture easy to grasp — no matter how small the tiny hands. My son will experience why one side of the family wears black, yellow, and red, and the other red and blue, knowing he can feel at home in each.

This will be the first time my son sees Belgium and England play in the World Cup, heightening the rivalry and making the experience more tangible.

The further Belgium, England, the US, (or any other team for which we have a smidgen of affinity) make it, the longer the family connections and memory-making magic — that's what I'm in it for.

• In 2023, I graduated into a volatile job market, but thankfully, I landed a job.
• I was living in New York, with an inordinately high cost of living, which made staying untenable.
• Moving to Texas, with its much lower cost of living, allowed me to succeed.

After graduating with a bachelor's in computer science in 2023, a software company offered me an exciting job that paid $60,000 a year.

The catch? I had to move away from home.

I had grown up on Long Island all my life, but the company didn't have an office within commuting distance of my parents' house. Moving felt daunting. Moving across the country? Even more so.

But I felt like I had no choice because of the difficult job market and the rising costs in New York, so I packed up and moved to Texas.

The East Coast was nearly impossible to afford

I did the math. The average rent for an apartment in most East Coast states is $2,000 to $3,000 a month.

Over the course of a year, on average, that would be $30,000. This was half of my annual income — before accounting for any other expenses.

New York State income taxes are also high, plus there's federal tax on top. Already, with back-of-the-napkin math, I found that I would be left with less than half of my annual salary before accounting for food, insurance premiums, utilities, and rainy-day savings.

After all that, there would be next to nothing left for student loan repayments, and I wouldn't be able to save any money to eventually buy a house.

Texas was the much cheaper option

Researching my options, I learned the company had an office in San Antonio. As I researched this unfamiliar city, what I found astounded me.

Even in a large city like San Antonio, rent averages $1,000 to $1,500 a month. Texas also has no state income tax.

I would have significantly more of my annual income to spend and save if I lived in Texas with the same job.

I decided to move across the country to Texas

Though the numbers were promising, I had never been south of Virginia until my move. I had no clue what San Antonio was like and had no family or friends there for support.

I found my apartment in this new, unfamiliar city remotely. I scanned Google Maps. I made a list of apartments with ideal locations and read their tenants' reviews. I focused on ones with two to four stars to avoid being misled.

As part of my research, I looked at crime statistics. I was happy to see it was very low. I then narrowed my commute down to five minutes.

I'm financially comfortable in Texas

After the move, I paid about $1,250 a month for a 700-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment with an in-home washer & dryer, community gym, and pool.

There is a rule in personal finance called the 50/30/20 rule. Ideally, you should spend 50% on needs, 30% on wants, and save 20% of what you earn. Living in Texas, I easily spent less than 50% on needs and saved more than 40% of what I earned.

All of that would not have been possible on the East Coast at my entry-level, new-grad salary.

Lastly, home prices in Texas are much lower, so my goal of homeownership finally felt achievable.

I made my cross-country move work for me

As a new graduate, I faced a market with low salary expectations, frequent mass layoffs, and high job volatility.

I made it work by moving away from a state with a high cost of living to one offering a 50% discount on life.

New graduates and early professionals may find success doing the same.

• I travel a lot but typically stay in luxury hotels.
• My sister recently asked me to go to an adult summer camp with her, and I was hesitant.
• However, I'm so glad I went, and it changed the way I think about "comfort."

I'm a luxury travel reviewer, so I've spent years refining my standards for comfort. I've stayed at extraordinary hotels and resorts around the world — properties with the plushest bedding and robes, private infinity pools, dedicated butlers, and absolutely no need to take care of myself while on property. Once you get used to that level of comfort, it's hard to un-know it.

So when my sister started trying to convince me to attend a women's retreat at an adult summer camp in Northern California, I was skeptical.

I grew up camping, but stopped doing it over the years

To be fair, I'm not anti-camp. I grew up going to summer camp and even did a fair amount of recreational camping with friends into adulthood. But then I had kids, a life stage that necessitated so much gear schlepping and cleanup that doing so for recreation ceased to appeal. Camping lost its novelty.

Meanwhile, my work as a lifestyle writer moved increasingly toward luxury travel coverage. Over time, I became accustomed to certain elite-level comforts — and, if I'm being honest, attached to them.

My sister asked me to go to an adult summer camp

My sister, whose tastes differ from mine in plenty of ways, recruited two of our closest friends from high school and college to attend, too. It felt like a strategic FOMO operation — and it worked. About a week before the retreat, I finally caved and booked my flight.

I expected rustic accommodations, communal bathrooms, and the general feeling of roughing it.

Instead, I walked into all sorts of surprises.

For one thing, the camp itself had been rebuilt in recent years and felt far more polished than I anticipated — and certainly much more elevated than the Southern California camp of my youth. Our cabin for the four of us had heating and air conditioning, an en-suite bathroom, ample charging ports, and was spotless. The food in the dining hall was genuinely great, including lots of vegetarian options for me.

It felt less like roughing it and more like a conference center situated among trees.

But the accommodations weren't the only type of comforts that surprised me.

The bigger surprise was realizing how many forms comfort can take that have nothing to do with luxury amenities.

I found comfort in community and rest

There were 175 women at the retreat, and many of them were older than we were. My group ranged from age 48 (me) to 51 (my sister), but many attendees were in their 60s, 70s, and even their upper 80s. There was something unexpectedly grounding about being surrounded by women carrying decades of perspective and experience. The atmosphere felt notably free of performance or pressure.

Then there was another luxury I'd almost forgotten: being an off-duty mom in an adults-only environment. My sister has three kids; my two friends and I each have two. For a few days, nobody needed snacks. Nobody needed a ride somewhere. Nobody was making an impassioned case for me to extend their screen time.

Instead, I had time for things I almost never make space for anymore. I tried to learn Mahjong. I made beaded bracelets and dipped my own candles. I dozed through a sound bath and tried forest bathing.

The activities themselves almost felt beside the point.

Luxury hotels are designed to create comfort. That's literally their purpose.

But somewhere along the way, I think I'd unconsciously narrowed my own definition of comfort into something highly curated and highly physical — softer sheets, nicer rooms, better amenities.

I left adult summer camp with the reminder that some of the greatest comforts have nothing to do with thread count at all.

• Since I'm the mother of three boys, I'm the only woman in a crowded house.
• I rarely had space just for myself, so I decided to declutter the attic.
• I turned the attic into my peaceful, feminine sanctuary, reflecting who I am as a woman.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy life as a boy-mom. Having three sons, my days are filled with excited talk of superheroes, villains, and video games. In summertime, epic battles play out in the backyard until dinner. On family movie nights, "Star Wars," "The Hobbit," and "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy run on infinite loops. Life is never boring.

Although the "Boom! Crash!" of their younger years has now shifted to more nuanced language like "Bro! That's sus," I still can't help but feel, as our family of five gathers for meals, that I'm often the odd "man" out.

Their shared spoken code reminds me that I'm the only female at the table, and that I'm fundamentally different in highly important ways.

That's when I realized I needed my own space.

I wanted my own space — away from the boys

These past few years, I've stepped deeper into midlife — when women, often having spent decades as caregivers, ask, "Who am I really?" and "Why don't I feel like myself anymore?"

I longed for a quiet space to explore these questions and others — like "What does it mean to be a woman in today's world?"

My challenge was space. In 2019, wanting a home office/creative space, I transformed an unused room on our second floor. Then the pandemic hit. My husband, who'd always commuted, ended up working remotely for several years. My home office became his workspace.

Since every bedroom was occupied, I set up a desk in the living room. But the central location invited constant interruption: my husband, the boys, the dog, and even the cat who regularly photobombed Zoom calls.

I needed space. Quiet space. Feminine space.

Having run out of options, I considered the attic. Part of it was finished, even though we'd never used it as a "living space." We'd moved into the house when I was already seven months pregnant —dumping boxes, storage items, and inherited things in a frenzy before the baby arrived. Then, we shut the door.

I decluttered the attic to make room for me

I climbed the narrow steps to the third floor and peeked inside. In my head, a mantra from Kaizen philosophy: How do you move mountains? One stone at a time.

I took a deep breath and decided this would become my feminine sanctuary.

One stone at a time, I repeated with every box, every folder, every container, every piece of paper I pulled from the attic. I gifted usable things to Goodwill. I used a tip I'd read in a women's magazine to part with sentimental items by snapping photos to serve as memories, while tears streamed down my face. I placed toddler-sized sneakers into a big, black Hefty bag.

It took weeks, but the mountain became a small hill. The small hill shrank to little piles. Until, at last, the attic was empty, ready, waiting.

Designing from the inside out

Most of my life, I realized, I had to share space. Growing up, I shared a room with my sister. After college, I shared houses and apartments with roommates until I moved in with my now-husband. The opportunity to have my own space — to design it in a way that reflected the woman I was becoming — felt exciting and empowering.

As I envisioned the design of my space, I reflected on all that makes me uniquely me. The idea of a cairn came to mind — a structure built one stone at a time with intention and meaning.

One stone — meditator: a space by the window for my meditation pillows, mats, incense, and singing bowls.

One stone — writer/avid reader: a corner nook in which to curl up with books and journals.

One stone — solopreneur: a white, glass, L-shaped desk with plenty of space for my laptop.

One stone — mindfulness practitioner: walls adorned with inspiring art, affirmations, and symbols reflecting my growth.

I now have my own feminine sanctuary

A sign hangs on the door to the attic that reads, "The Zen Den — Meditation in Progress, Please Do Not Disturb."

I place it when I want quiet — while meditating, reading, writing, hosting Zoom calls, creating, practicing origami, or simply being.

For the first time in years, I have a space that reflects who I'm becoming as a woman. And I can hear my inner voice again.

No one intervenes or interrupts, except the cat. And I've given him a feline pass.

• Moving to Japan from New Zealand gave my family cheaper living and better healthcare.
• Inexpensive flights and Japan's rail network made frequent travel part of everyday life.
• Less financial stress and a slower lifestyle improved my mental health and overall quality of life

Three years ago, my family of three left New Zealand for Kobe, Japan, desperate for a total reset. We were running on empty, exhausted by skyrocketing living costs, limited career growth, and relentless financial stress.

We already loved Japan as tourists, but moving here permanently felt like a massive gamble. Instead, trading hemispheres didn't just change our coordinates; it completely rewrote our quality of life.

Same-day medical care is possible

Back in New Zealand, my husband once waited months for an MRI after a severe work injury, while I spent years and thousands of dollars chasing answers to chronic health concerns through a clogged public system.

When his back pain returned, I braced for the same exhausting delays in Japan. Instead, I laughed out loud when the clinic doctor asked if he'd prefer his MRI in three hours or later in the day, after he'd had some lunch. The total cost was just ¥6000 (around $38 USD).

While New Zealand's healthcare is technically free, accessibility was often the real issue. I now feel an enormous sense of relief knowing affordable and timely care is available when we need it. My 10-year-old daughter's monthly pediatric specialist appointments cost just ¥280 — less than $2 USD.

Ditching our car improved our lives

We don't own a car, so movement is embedded in our daily life. Between train stations, school runs, and grocery trips, I easily clear 10,000 steps a day.

In my first four months here, I lost 10 kilograms (about 22 pounds), though I quickly found them again thanks to Japan's incredibly delicious bakeries.

Increased walking has also changed how I connect with my environment. In a car, seasonal changes passed me by. Now, I slow down to notice spring buds, cherry blossoms hanging over train tracks, or autumn maples turning a deep crimson. I even took extra winter walks just to feel snowflakes settle on my cheeks as the hills behind my home turned white.

We can travel frequently

In New Zealand, international trips were a rare and expensive treat. In Japan, cheap flights across Asia and an extensive rail network make travel effortless and affordable.

Last summer alone, we visited Vietnam, Taiwan, Singapore, Bali, and the Setouchi Islands. Our multi-stop summer itinerary — flying from Osaka to Singapore and Bali before heading back to Japan — cost just 212,587 Yen ($1,332 USD) for all three of us on budget carriers.

Traveling to Beppu this May made me realize just how lucky we are. As I rode the Yufuin no Mori scenic train past mountains covered in vivid green cedar and purple wisteria, I looked out the window and actually cried out of pure gratitude for this new life.

Having affordable international flights at our doorstep and a domestic transit system that makes spontaneous weekend trips easy has turned travel from an occasional luxury into a normal part of our lives.

Our housing and grocery bills plummeted by more than half

In New Zealand, we paid NZ $1,680, or about $985 USD, a month for a small two-bedroom unit outside Christchurch's city center. In Kobe, we now pay around $450 a month for a much larger three-bedroom apartment.

The first time I did a week's worth of grocery shopping in Japan, I walked into the supermarket with ¥50,000 (about $315 USD) in my wallet, expecting to spend most of it. When the total came to just ¥15,000 ($95 USD), I genuinely thought there had been a mistake at the register.

While rising prices and the weak yen have made everyday life more expensive for many families in Japan, it still feels far more financially manageable for us than life in New Zealand did, especially when it comes to housing, groceries, internet, and eating out.

Living in Japan has reshaped my perspective and improved my mental health

Starting over in Japan wasn't a magical fix; navigating a new language and culture was lonely at times. Yet immersing myself in a completely different way of living reshaped my perspective, teaching me to appreciate more and fight the current less.

They say money can't buy happiness, but the financial stability and lifestyle shift here reduced my stress so drastically that eight months ago, I finally came off antidepressants after relying on them since I was 17.

Japan didn't cure me, but it created the conditions for recovery, which reignited my curiosity for learning about the world.

• I was laid off after 10 years working at the media company.
• I'm unemployed in my 50s and can't find a job; instead, I'm doing side gigs.
• I wonder where I fit in the current job market as an unemployed 50-something-year-old.

I was one of the first Twitter "influencers" back before it even had an app. When Facebook launched pages, I was the first gay journalist to have one after they helped me set one up, complete with the blue "verified" checkmark that actually meant something before they started selling them.

I grew another Facebook page to over a million followers, and the Library of Congress archived my old blog as an important part of the internet.

I spent 20 years helping to build the online journalism ecosystem into what it is today. So why can't I find a job in digital journalism now that I'm unemployed for the first time in 20 years?

I have a sneaking suspicion it's because of my age.

I was laid off after decades in the media business

I started my own site in the early days of blogging, back in 2004. After 10 years, I sold it to a media company and went to work for them.

I stopped focusing on my own social media presence to build the media company's accounts. The publications needed the awards and recognition more than I did, I thought. I invested in them instead of myself.

They laid me off a few days before I'd have been there for 10 years.

I know I'm not the only one. Editors, journalists, and professional copywriters are laid off weekly. LinkedIn is now chock-full of professionals bemoaning that they're on layoff lists.

Many have most likely been replaced with AI programs. AI doesn't want paid holidays, vacation time, or health insurance. It definitely doesn't need to plan for retirement.

I wonder how much my age is factored into my struggles

Now I'm scraping by on Substack subscriptions, monetized social media content, and freelance writing. None of those are 401(k) boosters.

During the one interview I've landed, a person half my age told me that my résumé was impressive, but the follow-up question was, "When do you see yourself retiring?"

When will I retire? When I hit the lottery.

There's a particular type of despair that arises when you realize that you have to justify 20 years' worth of work in one paragraph that will impress an AI bot.

Toss in the fact that I never finished my college degree, and I've got even less of a chance of bypassing the AI screeners who always tell me I forgot to enter my higher education qualifications.

Job listings I'm now seeing require a master's degree and an active TikTok account to land a minimum wage job pitching influencers to shill a corporation's latest product. Sure, I've got thousands of followers across multiple platforms, but have I done the latest TikTok dance trend? That's considered experience now.

Add in that I moved to Mexico City three years ago

Most job listings for remote positions require you to be based in the US. While my bank account is American and I pay American taxes, companies don't want to deal with a cross-border hire.

Now I'm not just older, I'm complicated.

I don't want to retire; I want to pay my bills. I miss leading teams and being useful in a way that feels more immediate.

Until I can again, I tweak résumés, rebuild my social media presence, grow my newsletter, write the best cover letters I can, and hope for the best.

It's been challenging, but I'm hopeful that my best years aren't behind me.

• My family of five moved in with my parents earlier this year.
• It took my parents a bit of an adjustment period to get used to us in their space.
• Now, they don't want us to leave.

When my siblings and I moved out of home in our late teens and early 20s, my mom really struggled with the empty nest syndrome. Even years later, when we were getting married and having babies of our own, she would talk about how much she missed her four kids.

Never in a million years did she ever think any of us would be back living at home as adults. But as fate would have it, here I am, age 41, living with my mom and dad, along with my three kids and husband.

In January, my family of five moved from country Victoria, Australia, to the Gold Coast, my hometown. To save money, my folks offered us the bottom level of their double-story home. For the first couple of months, they were overseas traveling, and then in March, our multigenerational living story began.

I'm not going to lie — it did take time for my folks to adjust to sharing their space. After all, they had lived alone in the family home for 20-odd years. Suddenly, there were boisterous (and often messy) kids tearing around, and two extra adults in the house.

However, after setting a few ground rules, we soon got into a nice daily rhythm, and they are now genuinely loving having us around. The other day, my mom even said she didn't want us to leave.

I know that my folks are the ones doing us the favor, not the other way around. We haven't had to pay rent for four months or worry about buying furniture after the interstate move. But funnily enough, I think my parents are also benefiting from the multigenerational living arrangement in various ways.

More security and safety

My parents are doing pretty well for their age, but their health has still declined in recent years. I think having my husband and me around has improved their sense of safety, as we can offer care and assist during emergencies.

The other day, my 81-year-old dad took a tumble at the top of the stairs. Ordinarily, my 77-year-old mom would have had to heave him up on her own or call my brother or sister to dash over. But because I was downstairs working and heard the thud, I ran upstairs and checked he was OK.

Likewise, when my mom deteriorated rapidly from a bacterial lung infection recently, my husband and I made the decision to call an ambulance. I'm glad we did, as she ended up staying in the hospital for a week. If we weren't around, my dad would have had to deal with the situation on his own or call my siblings to assist.

Built-in companionship

We try to give each other plenty of space, but we still spend a lot of time together throughout the day. Every morning, I have tea with my dad, and during my lunch break, I eat with my folks. We also share nightly meals and chat about the day's events.

When us kids left, I think mom struggled with grief, loneliness, and a loss of purpose. But now, their home is filled with laughter and grandkids. My parents don't get a chance to feel lonely, and they are still very much needed.

Household help and shared responsibilities

Being a double-story house, Mom and Dad's home takes a lot of energy to maintain, especially for two older people. But having two extra adults taking care of the property has eased the burden on my folks.

My husband handles most of the yard maintenance and any heavy lifting, while I cook, do housework, and assist with tech issues. I really didn't want to create any extra strain on my folks, so we are trying our hardest to be of value to them.

Everybody wins

Overall, multigenerational living has been deeply rewarding to both us and to my folks. It has injected vibrant new energy into our old family home, created extra support for my parents, and made us feel like we are 'part of the village.'

I'm sure there are times when my parents long for a bit of peace and quiet, or when they want to scream after sitting down on the couch, only to find a Nerf bullet or stray Barbie arm poking into their backside. But there have been so many unexpected upsides, and I'm really glad I returned to the nest, 41 and all.

• I went to Las Vegas for a work conference and met my future husband there.
• Within 24 hours, I told him I'd follow him anywhere.
• Thirteen years later, I'm married to him and raising our children in Trinidad and Tobago.

Thirteen years ago, I flew from Atlanta to Las Vegas for a work conference. I thought I was going to learn how to build a business: strategies, contacts, maybe some motivation. I did not know I was walking into the room where I would meet the man I would eventually marry.

I was 25 and tired of dating men who looked good on paper but didn't feel right in real life. From the outside, some of the men I dated seemed impressive: money, status, ambition, the kind of résumés many women are told to want. But something was always missing.

So when I received an invitation to a work conference for a direct-selling business I'd recently joined, I was more than willing to meet someone new.

I was ready to settle down and find my partner

Before the trip, I made changes that felt dramatic at the time. I cut off the locs I'd been growing for more than four years. I stopped dating. I changed the names of several men in my phone to "Do Not Answer." I made a private vow to stop entertaining almost-right men while praying for the right one.

On the flight to Las Vegas, I couldn't sleep, which almost never happens. I kept shifting in my seat, restless in a way I couldn't explain. Eventually, I pulled out my cream-colored journal and jotted down everything I wanted in a husband.

Nine bullet points. Not a fantasy list — an honest reckoning with the kind of man I wanted to love, trust, and follow.

I met my husband while waiting in line at the conference

The next morning, I woke up late. One hour before the conference doors opened, I rushed downstairs in four-inch heels to find the line already wrapped around the corner.

The conference had attracted people from many countries, and the hallway was full of accents. One caught my attention: warm, rhythmic, unfamiliar. A man smiled at me, which was enough of an invitation to make an instant friend. I joined him in line, grateful for the rescue.

We made small talk, but then I looked up and saw another man standing nearby.

Tall. Handsome. A Caribbean rhythm in his voice. Something about him stopped me. It was an immediate knowing — the kind that sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.

I was looking at my husband.

He was from Trinidad and Tobago and had only arrived in America three days earlier. This was his first time in the US. He wasn't trying to impress me with what he had or who he knew. He was calm, sure of himself, and something about him made me feel safe.

We've since built a life together

The next day, after barely 24 hours, I said something that still shocks me.

"I don't know where Trinidad is on the map," I told him. "But I'll follow you wherever you go."

I meant it. Thirteen years later, I am married to him and raising our children in Trinidad and Tobago. I moved here because it felt like a beautiful place to raise my children.

They get to grow up climbing mango, coconut, and plum trees in our backyard, connected to nature in a way I didn't experience growing up in inner-city Baltimore.

The hardest adjustment has been being far from my immediate family, but the peace and simplicity here have been worth it.

I went to Las Vegas looking for business advice. I left with a future I could never have planned for myself.

• Laura Pollacco was struggling with depression and moved to Japan for two years to teach English.
• After returning home, she realized her career prospects and professional network were stronger in Tokyo, so she moved back.
• Now 31, working as a freelancer, and engaged, she's torn over where to build her future.

At 22, heartbroken, depressed, and unsure about my future, I craved novelty and adventure, so I packed up my life in England and moved to Japan.

Now, 31, living in Tokyo, and more secure than I've ever felt in my adult life, I can't help but feel that creeping depression, pushing me to pack my bags once more.

In my early 20s, upending my life felt exciting. Now, in my 30s, it just feels indecisive.

In 2016, I'd graduated with a degree in fashion photography and was working three part-time jobs in my university town to scrape by while simultaneously trying (and failing) to get over intense heartbreak. I was struggling.

Hobbies like theater and kung fu had lost their shine, my future felt vast and uncertain. I wanted a fresh slate.

During my personally elected studies into Japanese fashion and aesthetics, I fell in love with Japan. My dissertation was titled "The rise of gender neutrality and its origins in Japanese design." I even visited a friend studying abroad there in 2015, and that brief but fantastic sojourn left me thinking — somewhat naively — "I could live here."

A year later, in my depressed state, that thought resurfaced. Then it became all I could focus on.

I needed to move to Japan

The move wasn't completely off the cuff ー I'm not spontaneous enough for that. I applied to and was accepted into the JET Program, an organization that recruits thousands of graduates to teach English.

Rather than a traditional school placement, I was based at an education center in Kanagawa, about an hour from Tokyo, with occasional assignments at local high schools.

I threw myself into adapting: learning the rhythms of a new culture, working on my basic Japanese skills, and exploring my new environment. With every mountain climb, temple visit, and ramen bowl, I felt the blanket of depression start to fall from my shoulders.

I put myself out there once again, starting new hobbies such as MMA, kendo, and ikebana while reviving my old passions like drama. These led to new connections and opportunities. I felt reborn.

Japan had rekindled my passion for life. Feeling I'd gotten all I could from my teaching role, I decided to leave Japan with the goal of picking up where I was prior to my depressive episode.

Life back in Europe

I returned to the UK only for the pandemic to cut right across all my well-laid plans. Like most of the country, I was trapped inside, questioning my life decisions, especially about leaving Japan.

I was better connected in Tokyo's creative circles than in the UK, I had support in Japan, and the cost of living was considerably lower. I decided to move back, this time not out of depression, but out of hope and ambition.

In 2022, I returned on a working holiday visa, juggling remote freelance writing gigs with pitching to local publications. I pushed hard until, when my working holiday visa came to an end, I had enough work behind me to switch to the journalism visa in 2023.

Despite expanding my client list and gaining experience, my original fire began to flicker, then sputter, and more recently, it's felt like I'm helplessly blowing on the embers to keep them from going out. I was burned out.

Depression was setting in again. I experienced fatigue, a lack of interest in my hobbies, a desire to be left alone, all while self-flagellating my lack of ambition and for "settling" in my career.

My loving fiancé — whom I met here in Japan — was starting to worry to the point where he offered to cover the cost of online therapy. During these sessions, I realized that, for the first time since moving back to Japan, I was starting to feel homesick.

Living in a foreign country is tough

For starters, while I speak enough to get by, not speaking fluent Japanese is exhausting. As a multifaceted freelancer, immigration's restrictive boxes feel like a choking dog collar yanking me back from new opportunities, not to mention the new gray hairs I gain with every annual visa renewal.

On top of that, I've felt a rise of anti-foreigner sentiment, and Tokyo's concrete jungle is starting to feel claustrophobic and repressive.

In recent months, my brain has been flooded with ideas of returning back to the pastoral days of my youth. Stone cottages with actual gardens, walks down country paths with a dog by my side, fully understanding what's being said to me at a doctor's visit.

But I can't tell if I'm truly wanting to return to England or if I'm trying to escape back into a childhood where responsibilities were minimal.

I've worked so hard to get to and stay in Japan, I don't know whether to push through what could simply be a low period and wait to get to the other side, or whether my gut, my instinct, is trying to tell me something.

When it comes to big life choices like these, I realize I'll only find out if it was the right decision after the fact. I just hope that, whatever my partner and I choose to do, we make the best of that decision.

• My son is returning home for the summer after his freshman year at college.
• Even though he had a lot of freedom at college, I will still reinforce all my house rules.
• I'm nervous that he won't be happy at home with the rules, but I know it's for the best.

I am a single mom to two pretty cool kids. Together, we are a tight-knit unit.

That's why when my son got into college, which was only two hours away, I was a mess. I was thrilled for him, but at the same time, I was completely broken knowing he was going to move away.

The first year at college was an adjustment period for both of us. I had to get used to not having him around the house or at the dinner table, and the house was suddenly a lot quieter. But for him, he now had his own life at school.

Freshman year flew by, and thankfully, we had lots of visits. I saw him at least once a month, and then the holidays were long, awesome stretches of having him home.

But now, as his first year is coming to an end, I am starting to feel nervous about having him back home for the summer.

The biggest thing I worry about is how he will adapt to being back home

There are still rules at home, but there were none at school. I will have to enforce the boundaries under my roof, even though he has essentially been free for the past nine months.

First of all, at school, all he needed to do was pass his classes. At home, the list of rules is long. The first thing we will need to reestablish is that he cannot come and go at all hours of the night, as he pleases. I can't really use the word "curfew," but essentially that will be in place. At school, no one was checking in to see when he would come home or who he would come home with.

Also, at home, he needs to keep his room clean, while his dorm room was a breeding ground for new species. On that note, there was also a communal bathroom on his floor, so everyone only took their toiletries with them when they needed to shower or get ready. At home, he has his own bathroom, and I expect him to clean up after himself.

I am not looking forward to his relationships with girls while at home

While he was away at school, I had no idea what his dating life looked like — or if he even had one. I don't know who the young ladies accompanying him were or what they were doing.

But this summer, there will be strict rules around dating.

Under my roof, it will only be him in his room, and he will need to sleep in his own bed — every night.

I need to be respected, and these are the rules he needs to follow.

I also feel anxious about him being happy to be home

Since these rules will be in effect, I find myself nervous about how he will adjust to his former life when our lives at home stay the same.

It's not all doom and gloom. The one thing I realized is that some of the rules I implemented at home, he himself followed at school.

He would sometimes call me and even say, "Hey, Mom, you would be proud of me; I did this." The truth is, I was proud of him, and the rules were a part of his independence.

So, for the parents who are anxious about having their freshmen return home, take a deep breath and remember, this is still your house, and they should be happy to be home, rules included.

• It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
• When I realized I wanted to be a teacher, I wasn't willing to take on student loan debt.
• I used income from my side hustle, freelance writing, to get my master's debt-free.

It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to be. After having kids, I finally knew, but didn't have time. Only in midlife did I make the transition to my dream career — but first, I had to find a way to pay for it.

After high school, I started college as a drama major. I dreamed of heading to Hollywood. When the major wasn't what I had hoped, I decided on English instead. I'd gotten straight As in the subject in high school. It just made sense. That is, until people asked what I planned to do with my liberal arts degree.

There seemed to be very few options. I could go into publishing. But, according to my professor, I'd be dirt poor and living in a hovel in New York City — at least at first. Teaching was another common suggestion, but I had zero interest in it at the time. Besides, it required more schooling. Instead, like many 20-somethings, I floundered as I searched for myself and a career path.

After floundering, I finally figured out what I wanted to do

I shifted from job to job. I worked as a waitress and a chiropractic assistant before I was, unhappily, dropped smack dab into corporate America. I had stints in office management, webinar coordination, and marketing. I would go into the office and wonder if I was contributing to humanity in any way.

When I walked my son into kindergarten, I realized I loved being in an elementary school. I wanted to get my teaching degree, but with young kids and a full-time job, it didn't feel realistic. Ironically, after years of saying I'd never teach, that's exactly what I wanted. Instead, I stayed miserable in corporate America.

Heading back to school was expensive

A decade later, I finally found myself working in the school system as an educational technician, or an ed tech — essentially a teaching assistant. Special education quickly became my niche, especially since so few wanted to substitute in that area. That experience made the transition to a special education ed tech natural.

Ed techs made very little money. I would have to go back to school to become a teacher if I wanted to make a living. But I already had large debts from my undergraduate degree in English and my first master's in television/video production. I was still paying them off in my 40s. I wasn't willing or able to take on more student loan debt. The district I worked in as an ed tech would pay for three of the 10 classes I was required to take to earn my master's in education.

But when I did the math, I saw it wouldn't work. With four kids at home, we could barely keep up as it was. Taking on loans would be an extra burden we couldn't manage, so I kept plugging away without a clear plan for paying for my second master's degree.

My side gig helped

I had always loved writing. I wrote short stories and other fiction. Writing non-fiction never interested me. But after starting a blog about parenthood, I built a following. I'd started freelancing in 2014 after learning to pitch. It was a slow start and an even slower build. I sold one essay, which led to another.

When the pandemic hit, my freelance writing income almost matched my full-time ed tech pay. I wrote about parenting, childhood, and lifestyle topics. It was a learning curve to move into reported pieces, but my English degree was finally starting to pay off. What started as a hobby had become a lucrative side gig.

That insight led me to realize I could use my freelance earnings to fund the seven classes my district didn't cover. With planning and consistency, I put away enough to pay my tuition. I started my master's in 2019 and finished it in 2021 debt-free. It was an amazing feeling. I have been working as a special education teacher since 2022, and I love it.

Now, I'm hoping to do the same to get my Ph.D. in education. Funny how sometimes, the things you promise you'll never do become the ones that matter most — and the ones you work the hardest for.

• I often praised my children to others instead of to them directly.
• My upbringing made it hard for me to express encouragement openly.
• A painful conversation with my son changed how I parent adult kids.

Several years ago, while driving behind a car with a "my-child-is-an-honor-student" bumper sticker, I said to my oldest son, sitting in the passenger seat, "I always wanted one of those."

He, then a college student, replied, "Why? It doesn't mean anything."

He was right. In the greater scheme of things, achieving honor roll in elementary or middle school is not a significant accomplishment. Nor is it a predictor of future success. Even so, I still wanted one!

None of my five children was an academic superstar. They rarely achieved honor roll for more than one quarter of any school year, and none was named to the Dean's List in college. Nevertheless, I've always been exceedingly proud of each one. In fact, I'm constantly singing their praises to anyone who'll listen.

The problem is, I rarely commend them directly.

My parents did not praise me

Maybe that's because my parents were not generous with praise. Their generation was not hardwired for affirmation, so I did not learn from experience how formative praise is.

I was a well-behaved kid, a decent student, and a pretty compliant daughter. I didn't need positive reinforcement to motivate me, although it would have been nice to receive some occasionally.

Growing up in the mid-20^th century, the expectation for most girls like me was to earn an MRS, not an MBA. So, when in my senior year of high school, I was accepted into all five colleges I applied to, my parents were not over the moon with excitement.

The day the fifth acceptance letter arrived from my first-choice school, I couldn't wait to share the news with my dad. I'd hoped he'd be as happy as I was. If he was, he didn't show it, and to this day, I still feel disappointed that he didn't give me a big hug and tell me he was proud.

It shouldn't be so hard to say 'well done'

I was effusive with praise when my kids were small. We celebrated each milestone from learning to use the toilet to tying their shoes to riding a bike. But as they've grown, I've been a much quieter cheerleader.

The year my third son's Little League team won the championship I consoled him when he struck out but did not high-five him for hitting the line drive that clinched the series. When another son sang a solo during a school concert that was so beautiful it silenced the audience, I was too stunned to tell him he'd done an amazing job.

Now that they're adults, each of my children is achieving great things. One's an artist in high demand. Another's a photographer whose work is published internationally. My youngest son, a UX designer, was recruited by a top tech company halfway through his junior year of college. My second son, who works in finance, created a unique investment vehicle that has launched his career into the stratosphere.

Each of their successes is extraordinary, which is all the more reason I should tell them I'm proud.

My kids want to know I'm proud of them

Of course, I'm more than willing to tell friends, colleagues, and even mere acquaintances about all my kids accomplish. I post to Zoom chats and populate Slack channels with proud mama moments all the time. I share links to the Google alerts I've set up and forward their Reels from Instagram. I'm constantly sending photos in group chats, but I rarely send them texts to say how thrilled I am for them.

I'm trying to figure out why I'm so reluctant. Maybe it's because I'm overwhelmed by their success. Where did the talent come from? Certainly not from me. Regardless, as their mother, I should congratulate them for all they're doing.

I didn't realize just how important that is until my third son confronted me with an email I'd written years before about a photo essay he'd published. Instead of complimenting his work, I critiqued the composition. He was devastated by my comments. He'd worked hard on the project and had hoped I would recognize its value. Instead, I wrote about its flaws.

When he read my words back to me, I was shocked. Not only did I not remember writing them, but I also had a hard time figuring out why I was so negative. I was ashamed I'd hurt him. At that moment, I realized no matter their age, my kids want my praise. Since then, I've been working really hard to tell each one just how proud of them I truly am.

They're extraordinary people, and they should hear that often from their mother.

• After years of living in the Boston area, I found myself becoming increasingly burned out.
• Moving to upstate New York has been good for me and my wallet, and I love being close to nature.
• Although I miss a few things about where I lived before, I'm glad I made the move.

Growing up outside Boston, I loved the city's arts and culture scene.

Spending weekends in bookstores and thrift shops, hunting for unique vintage clothes, made me feel cosmopolitan — worlds away from my homogenous suburb. As a queer kid, that was a lifeline.

In fact, I loved this energy so much that I eventually decided to move to big cities like New York and San Francisco, before settling closer to the heart of Boston.

However, the older I got, the more I started to see things differently. Between the high cost of living and Boston's aggressive drivers, I found myself becoming increasingly anxious and burned out by my life there.

So, 11 years ago, my partner and I decided to move to a smaller city in New York's Hudson Valley, near where I went to college, for a lower cost of living and peace of mind.

And although there are things I miss about living in the Boston area, my life has improved in a number of ways since I moved to upstate New York.

I love the lower cost of living and our proximity to nature

Having lived in and around several major cities, I was pleasantly surprised at how much further my dollar stretched once we moved to upstate New York.

After all, being in a highly populated city like Boston often meant paying a premium for just about everything from groceries to nights out with friends.

For example, when we first moved to the Hudson Valley, my partner and I rented a three-bedroom house, and about six months later, decided to buy a home.

Now, our mortgage costs less than the share of rent we used to split with a roommate in the Boston area.

But our cost of living isn't the only perk to life in upstate New York. I've also fallen in love with the slower pace of life that comes with living in a less-populated area.

Now, instead of taking walks down loud, busy streets when I want to clear my mind, I'm able to hike a different scenic trail every week with no repeats.

With more physical activity and fewer external stressors — like long commutes and aggressive drivers — I feel much more relaxed.

Although I miss things about my old home, I'm happy here

Of course, there are some perks of living in the Boston area that can't quite be recreated upstate.

For example, I miss Boston's varied food scene with cuisines from all over the world. Here in the Hudson Valley, American staples like burgers, pizza, and chicken wings are in heavy rotation.

Since I'm a vegetarian, and my partner is gluten-free, finding food we can enjoy when dining out is a constant challenge.

We've also found that it's been more difficult to make — and keep — friends here in a smaller city. In Boston, my partner and I each had established friend groups, composed of people we'd known for years. We went to house parties, potluck dinners, and queer clubs.

Unfortunately, many of our favorite Hudson Valley queer spaces closed during the COVID-19 pandemic, which has made building a community more difficult. Plus, some of the friends I made moved away, and others drifted apart.

For an introvert like me, socializing takes extra effort, and the rewards are hit-or-miss. Still, I keep putting myself out there.

Even though I miss aspects of my life in the Boston area, moving to upstate New York has overwhelmingly been the right decision for me, and I have no regrets.

Plus, the lower cost of living means I can dedicate more money to my favorite hobby — traveling. And when I miss the pace of city life, I can simply hop on a plane.

• My 18-year-old daughter starts college as a freshman this summer.
• It will free up her bedroom, which I'd planned to turn into my home office.
• I changed my mind because I needed more time to accept her leaving home.

Like any other proud family, we celebrated when our 18-year-old daughter was accepted into one of her chosen colleges in February this year.

She is fiercely independent and has wanted to study outside our home state of New York since middle school.

She can't wait to move into a dorm — she's already found her roommate on a student-matching app — and hopes to join a sorority.

It will be a rite of passage when my husband and I drop her off at university in August. A bittersweet goodbye.

The flight from the nest will mark the start of a whole new chapter, not only for her but also for me, her dad, and her younger brother, as we adapt to life without her.

I planned to turn her room into a home office

It will feel strange not to have a fourth place at the kitchen counter and not to hear her news every day.

One good thing was that the change would free up space in our house, including in the kids' bathroom, which my 15-year-old son longed to have to himself.

Meanwhile, I planned to take over my daughter's bedroom, which was now available to me as a home office.

I worked out of my bedroom, where my desk was exactly two-and-a-half feet from my bed. It might have been a hop, skip, and a jump in the morning, but it was claustrophobic.

I felt I needed two monitors to do my job more productively. But one of them was gathering dust in the garage because there's no place for it.

Family and friends sent congratulations

The room was much darker and colder than my daughter's, and received only a little light at the back of the house. It seemed like a no-brainer to move.

I went online to look for a bigger desk and office chair. I thought I'd be more efficient in a more professional-looking environment.

Decision day came on May 1. Our senior had already accepted her place, but I felt emotional when she drove to school wearing merchandise from her new college.

She let me post a photo on Facebook of her wearing the hoodie. Family and friends sent congratulations. It suddenly felt real that our little girl was about to leave home.

Something made me walk into her bedroom and sit down. I gazed at the pictures of Paris, her favorite city, on the walls and the stuffed animals who'd seen better days.

I wanted to maintain the status quo

There were half-burned scented candles on the dresser and a whiteboard with a list of past exams propped up against the window.

Random clothes and damp towels were strewn all over the place, but the mess didn't bother me for once. I caught the lingering smell of her perfume.

In that moment, I changed my mind about moving my office into her room. Although it would have been practical, I wanted to keep things as they were.

I had been too hasty in trying to move forward. I've given myself time and grace to see what's coming next.

• I moved from Michigan to Denver because of the hiking trails.
• I quickly met a great group of friends and built a strong community.
• But as the cost of living rises in Denver, my friends continue to move away.

Two things prompted my move from Michigan to Colorado in 2017: the mountains and a tight-knit group of friends that loved the outdoors as much as I did.

As a 20-something hiker who couldn't get enough trail time, my hometown started to feel stifling, like the state lines were confining my happiness. After backpacking the 2,200-mile Appalachian Trail in 2015, Denver felt like the promised land, so I moved.

Within a year, half a dozen hiking friends followed, planting themselves in the foothills alongside me. But thanks to the rising costs, the community I built didn't last long.

Moving to Denver came with a promise

At first, Denver delivered everything I had hoped for. The economy hummed, the people were warm, and the mountains were brutal and unforgiving, exactly as I wanted.

My first FriendsGiving filled the house with familiar faces, food, and laughter that spilled into the early morning hours. Countless faces I'd seen along the Appalachian Trail dotted my living room, and for the first time in years, I genuinely felt at home.

I fell into a rhythm over the next several years, growing my career, my community, and my mountain skill set. But eventually the novelty of being in Colorado faded, and those rose-colored glasses came off. Denver was expensive.

The pandemic struck, inflation ballooned, and the state's existing fault lines cracked open. Colorado is now the sixth-least affordable state in the country. The cost of living had my friends doing the math and not liking what they found.

My friends started moving away

The first friend to go was my college roommate. We'd claimed Colorado as our home years earlier, hopeful for all the state's promises. But she'd done the numbers and found that homeownership on a single income in Denver wasn't in her cards. Her mother's declining health and a softer market back home made it hard to rationalize the grind. A few months later, she signed a three-bedroom lease in western Michigan for less than she'd paid for her Denver studio.

Her departure awakened my own doubts. I wasn't sure that I wanted to own a home, so purchase prices didn't haunt me the same way that they'd haunted her.

But rent was another story. I started doing my own math, late at night, in the way you do when you're not quite ready to admit what you're calculating.

Within a year, two of my best friends announced they were heading to Arizona. They didn't want to leave, but Phoenix offered cheaper housing and a family network that Denver lacked. This loss felt heavier than the first, marking a pattern that was forming.

I remember standing in the driveway, watching a small caravan of U-Hauls disappear down the road when an ache bloomed in my chest. Part of me felt something close to gratitude, knowing they were choosing the lives they wanted rather than clinging to Colorado out of habit or convenience.

But a quieter part of me wondered if I was next. If the village was gone, what was keeping me here? Was I staying in Colorado for the love of the place, or because I hadn't yet worked up the courage to consider that it wasn't my forever home?

I had a personal reckoning

One morning, I found myself alone at a trailhead that I'd visited hundreds of times before. The wind whistled as I began my ascent, and the familiarity of dirt trails eased my sorrow as I climbed.

I'd spent years using the mountains as medicine whenever life became too loud, heavy, or uncertain. They'd been a constant I'd craved: tall, indifferent, and unmoved by the concerns of men.

I wondered what my life would look like if I maintained my conviction to stay. Although the landscape of my life kept shifting like tectonic plates, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I decided to stay in Denver and build a new community.

• 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.