• Allison Strumeyer wanted experience in finance and a startup before launching her own.
• She says working for BlackRock showed her how to work to a high standard.
• She launched a sock company that does millions in annual sales.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Allison Strumeyer, cofounder and CEO of doublesoul. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I was in college at the University of Pennsylvania, I had a side hustle selling T-shirts. I would connect with local artists to feature their work and sell the shirts on campus. I also did pitch competitions with my now-husband, Ben. I've always felt very native to entrepreneurship, and I knew I wanted to start my own business.

Yet, when I graduated, I chose to work at BlackRock. It was intentional: I believed working with a global finance company would give me insights valuable to me as an entrepreneur. BlackRock also taught me how to perform at a high level, in everything from communications to project management.

I was at BlackRock for about two years, then joined Mirror, a startup that was acquired by Lululemon. Mirror was smaller and scrappier, and during my four years there, I learned about scaling a startup. The combination of both experiences left me ready to start my own company.

I became really passionate about socks

I always found it interesting that we wear socks more than almost anything else in our wardrobe. But there's little innovation, product development, branding, or design around socks. I felt the category had been ignored, and I believed that we all deserve socks we're excited about.

My husband Ben and I became really emotionally attached to the idea of creating better socks. But we wanted to test the market before diving in. We created a prototype and ordered 10,000 pairs — the minimum order, which was about $100,000 worth of socks.

We shared them with pretty much everyone we'd ever met and asked them to post about the socks. That gave us organic sales and — more importantly — proof of our concept. In 2022, we officially launched Doublesoul.

Investment gave me the confidence to leave my job

I chose to stay in my day job as long as possible while we started the company. On social media, people are encouraged to leave their jobs to pursue their own projects, but that felt like dangerous territory to me.

Having that backing gave me the confidence I needed to leave my job. Ben and I knew we would need to sell lots of socks before we could fund a team. But we also wanted to move quickly, so we pursued venture funding. We raised about $2 million.

Leaving my job was emotional. I went to a school where most people went on to high-paying careers, and I was walking away from a secure salary. Even though I knew I was building equity in the business over the long term, that was scary.

I was too pregnant to appear on 'Shark Tank,' so my husband went

We had a lucky break early on at the company when comedian Pete Davidson tried the socks and loved them. He started as a customer, but quickly invested. Now, he's like a third partner to Ben and me.

We were brainstorming unique marketing opportunities and decided to try to get on "Shark Tank." I was too pregnant to travel when the show taped, so Pete and Ben went.

I didn't mind missing out: I didn't have to be nervous, and having Ben there was like having an extension of myself. Ben and Pete called to tell me about the deal with Kendra Scott, the Shark who invested in the company.

We create time daily for family, without business talk

When the show aired last September, our son was 3 weeks old. In many ways, early parenthood mirrors a startup. I'm glad to have Ben at my side for both. Splitting responsibilities and knowing that we share a vision for our future — for the business and our son — is very grounding.

We take a walk most mornings to bring the baby to the park. During that time, we're not allowed to talk about Doublesoul. We just relax and enjoy a family moment. We need to be intentional about clearing time for our relationship, or it would be too easy to talk business all the time.

• When my husband and I moved in together, we started having monthly money dates.
• We talk about household finances, shared expenses, investments, and things we want to save up for.
• It's the reason we haven't argued about money in 10 years.

On the last day of every month, my husband and I sit down for what we call a money meeting — a monthly money date where we discuss our household finances. We look at how much we each earned that month, our fixed and variable expenses, our savings and investment accounts, and discuss any financial decisions we need to make.

I used to dread these money dates, but they're such a regular part of our lives, I don't mind them anymore. In fact, I actually look forward to sitting down with my husband and seeing all of our numbers laid out.

We started having monthly money dates when we first moved in together, almost 10 years ago, and haven't missed a month since. I firmly believe that being open about our financial situation on a regular basis is the reason my husband and I have never fought about money.

At first, sharing finances was intimidating

When my husband and I first moved in together, we weren't in the best financial situation. I wasn't earning a lot of money as a new freelance writer, and he had student debt and car payments.

Our first time sitting down to talk solely about money was scary, but we both committed to being vulnerable and completely open about our financial situations.

We made a pact that these monthly money chats weren't about shaming the other person for their spending or feeling guilty about past debt. The goal was to share, without judgment, and figure out how we could use our money to reach our goals.

Sharing those numbers got easier the more often we did it. Eventually, money went from something taboo that we were insecure about to something we were excited to discuss and make work for us.

By having a monthly money date on the calendar, it meant one person wasn't responsible for bringing up the money conversation. It was something we automatically did each month.

Our financial system changed over the years but we never stopped talking about it

My husband and I had separate bank accounts when we first moved in together in 2017. We then opened a joint account for rent and household expenses. As time went on, we found that more and more things were coming out of the joint account.

Eventually, we decided to combine our finances completely. We now have fully joint bank accounts, and we have access to each other's retirement accounts and credit cards, as well.

For us, this system works. It makes it simpler for us to pay bills, buy groceries, and make decisions about bigger expenses, like travel and day care. We trust each other to spend reasonably on the day-to-day stuff and always discuss any big purchases ahead of time.

But I know completely combined finances doesn't work for everyone.

Even when our accounts were separate, we still made sure to talk about finances every month and used the time to share how much we were each earning, spending, and saving. That transparency made it easier for us to build trust, reduce resentment, and work toward future plans.

We look at our money as a tool to achieve our goals

One of my favorite parts of our monthly money dates is deciding what to do with any leftover funds after paying our bills and expenses, which is a privilege to be able to do.

My husband and I have many savings goals (some are shared, and some are just his or just mine), such as saving up for travel, for retirement, for our daughter's college fund, and even a fun account for things my husband wants to buy, like video games or bike parts. It's really exciting to be able to fund those accounts and see our money helping us get closer to our dream life.

But even when we don't have extra money to put into savings or investments, I'm still so glad we have our monthly money meeting. I like getting on the same page with my husband and knowing we can talk openly about our financial picture.

I know money is something that a lot of couples fight about. Even though it's hard — and perhaps especially when it is — my biggest tip for new couples is to start talking openly about your finances from day one. It's better than letting years of shameful spending, debt, or money secrets build into resentment that could ruin your relationship.

• Fareed Kotb is a 39-year-old sports photographer who lives in Cairo.
• He was a photographer at the last two World Cups, and this year, he wanted to try something different.
• He bought a camera made in 1930 and took a slow approach to photographing two World Cup games.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Fareed Kotb. It has been edited for length and clarity.

After photographing two World Cups in Russia and Qatar, I wanted my third to be different.

I somehow wanted to connect to the first World Cup in 1930, nearly 100 years ago, and decided to do this; I would take photographs with a camera made in 1930.

I bought a 1930s camera in Cairo

In Cairo, we have a market for vintage cameras. I narrowed it down to four cameras, settling on one I found in a big box — a Zeiss Ikon Ideal 250/11.

The camera, I learned after researching the origin of the serial number, was owned by a photographer who used it to photograph players before they traveled to the 1954 World Cup. He also photographed Egyptian players before the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

In the lead-up to the 2026 World Cup, I spent a lot of time learning how the camera worked. I practiced loading film, focusing, setting the exposure, and taking test photos. I read old manuals and learned about the camera's history — it was like studying for university.

It was important to me to be completely comfortable using the camera before taking it to the World Cup.

With this camera, you don't get limitless chances to get a good photo as you do with digital cameras — everything is slower. I had to carefully plan my movements and the photos I wanted to capture before the games because you only get one chance.

With a digital camera, I can quickly decide when to shoot, and a second later, I can see the result.

But with my 1930 camera, I knew I could take no more than 20 photos each game. As a comparison, at one game in the last World Cup, I took 5,000 photos.

I would need to trust my experience and wait until I developed the film to see the final result.

I was denied permission to shoot the World Cup final

Heading to Canada, I felt very excited to use the camera. When I arrived, people — fans, photographers, and volunteers — mocked when they saw the camera — they had never seen a camera like it.

Walking onto that pitch in Canada with a camera nearly 100 years old was a highlight of the tournament for me. I knew that every photo I took, I would be connecting the past with the present. That was very special.

I photographed two games: Portugal versus Croatia in Toronto and Colombia versus Switzerland in Vancouver.

Although it was my dream to shoot at the final in America, I was denied four times, which was difficult.

But for the two games I was able to attend, I thought about what the last photographer using the camera must be thinking. How would he shoot moments? How would he position himself to take a photo?

My movements were planned, my eyes constantly darting left and right to know when to shoot.

I've now returned home to Egypt and will develop them in the lab on Sunday. I feel as if I am preparing for the birth of my first baby. I can't sleep and am constantly overthinking. Will the photos be good?

I can't wait to see the results, and neither can all the people who have followed me on social media after hearing about this project.

After I posted online about the camera, I woke up the next morning to messages and comments from people interested in the results and excited about this very new but old way of taking photos in 2026.

Now, we just wait.

• My husband and I prefer to hash out disagreements via text message.
• It gives us time to pause before responding, and we're less likely to blurt out something hurtful.
• Not every argument is suited for text, however, and we still make time for in-person closure.

Most relationship experts seem to agree on one thing: Never have an argument over text. But my husband and I do it all the time — and it's actually led to some of the healthiest conflict resolution in our marriage.

I'm not saying that fighting over text is right for every couple, or every conversation. For me, though, it's become an unexpectedly effective tool for navigating conflict.

Here's why it works for our relationship, and what we've both learned in the process.

For me, fighting over text feels "safer"

After growing up in a pretty volatile household, I developed a deep fear of conflict.

Face-to-face disagreements can feel overwhelming, making it difficult to express myself honestly. Rather than fighting (or fleeing), I tend to "freeze" or "fawn."

Texting, on the other hand, feels like a safer space to air things out, since I don't have to hear or see the other person's responses in real time. I can take some space — whether for a few minutes or longer — to process what I'm feeling and respond. This has allowed me to get increasingly comfortable with sharing what I'm feeling and thinking in the moment.

Having time to process before responding is a gift

When our arguments have escalated in the past, it's because my husband and I speak before thinking.

That's the beauty of texting: it gives us both time to process our emotions, organize our thoughts, and craft a more thoughtful and genuine response on our own time, rather than blurting out something we'll regret in the heat of the moment. (If only we had the option to delete things in real life before saying them out loud!)

In fact, I can't think of a single time my husband or I have resorted to name-calling, "you always" or "you never" blanket statements, or other problematic tactics.

Arguments feel lower stakes

Many couples therapists advise against arguing over text because there are no nonverbal cues like tone of voice and facial expressions. But for me, that's actually one of the main advantages.

Without raised voices and eyerolls, disagreements often feel less emotionally charged. This helps me to not only stay calmer and grounded, but also more focused on the actual issue at hand.

Having a permanent written record minimizes misunderstandings

I've found it super useful to be able to scroll back and reread what we wrote during a conflict. Not only does this enable us to dodge those pointless and cyclical debates about what was actually said (since we have the receipts), but it allows us an opportunity to reflect on times when we might have been overly harsh or defensive — and even notice patterns in our communication that we'd like to work on.

There's no interrupting

I'll admit it: I have a habit of steamrolling when I get heated (and so does my husband). It probably stems from never having had the chance to share what I was really feeling as a child — so now, when I do, I feel an intense urgency to get my message across.

We've gotten a lot better about gently pointing it out to each other when it happens, but texting eliminates this entirely. We can both say our piece without accidentally cutting each other off.

Not every fight is suitable for text

While texting has been a valuable tool for hashing out disagreements, some things need to be addressed face-to-face — and learning to distinguish between them has been key.

For example, if the argument is about a complex, long-standing issue rather than a one-off incident — or about a sensitive topic that demands empathy — we'll wait until we have a chance to tackle it in person.

Text arguments still call for in-person closure

Even when we do manage to resolve a dispute digitally, there's still one final step that can't happen over text: repair.

Typically, this entails checking in with each other to ask, "Is there anything else you need from me to move on from this?"

Sometimes getting real closure is as simple as a hug, some verbal validation, or the opportunity to share one more concern.

• As a kid, Brian Winch helped his father clean parking lots to support their family.
• Years later, he turned it into a business, and his brothers joined in.
• Now, he helps others learn about "America's Simplest Business," carrying on his dad's legacy.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Brian Winch, the founder of Clean Lots. The following has been edited for length and clarity.

As a young kid, I watched my parents work hard to keep food on the table. What is now called picking up a few side hustles was then just a way of life: they'd head to second, or even third jobs, to ensure we could make ends meet.

As one of three boys, once we became teenagers, we found ourselves helping too. So, it wasn't a surprise when my dad told me we were going to head out at the crack of dawn to clean trash from business parking lots.

While some kids today might hate everything about this, that wasn't how I was raised. My parents never complained about their lot as poor, working-class people doing what they needed to do. And I far from hated it. In fact, I found it peaceful to wake up early, watch the sunrise, and help a business owner clear their parking lot so it looked fresh and clean when their customers arrived.

Better yet, I was with my dad, something most 12-year-olds love deep down.

My father inspired me to start a simple business

My Dad's name was Joseph Winch, and he was a World War II refugee immigrant from Poland to where I grew up, in Calgary. He'd worked on the kill floor at a meatpacking plant when he got here. He'd laid track for the railroad. He'd been a hospital orderly.

When I was 21, my father died suddenly. I didn't have time to tell him that while my friends headed for other careers, I was secretly considering following his footsteps.

Deep in grief but motivated to make a path for myself, I started reaching out to properties to offer cleanup services. I established Winch Janitorial Services, which later became Winch Enterprises.

I now run Clean Lots, where I am also an author, educating others on what I call "America's Simplest Business." In a tech-fueled world, it's one that has remained AI-proof, as no robot can, as of now, truly scour the entire property for every little cigarette butt in the bushes and hard-to-reach places.

Around 45 years later, I'm not only proud of the career I've built helping others, but grateful I pursued my father's legacy over those other career options.

My family works alongside me

A few years into my janitorial career, where I'd make sure every last piece of trash was out of the bushes and owners knew if any fresh graffiti had been added to their buildings overnight, my two twin brothers started getting involved.

They both helped with their specific talents: the one who operated a forklift helped with cleanup, and the other focused on the project bidding and outreach.

We scaled to over $700,000 per year. Working with my brothers has gone better than some would expect — in fact, it's a way to keep the family together through the years.

But the family member I didn't expect to feel walking alongside me was my dad. Some days, I can sense his presence in the parking lots right next to me.

I've even heard him speaking to me in my head: "Brian, take a few steps that way." Once, I followed this voice and found a wallet. At first, I thought I was crazy, but that day I realized how real it is.

I want to help others find the same success in a simple business

After building my career, I realized I wanted to mentor others through their own business builds in this industry.

One high school teacher in Chicago built his business to make money during the summers off and, after partnering with some buddies, grew it to operate in multiple states.

Through these stories, I realized my father's legacy — and now my own — was never about trash; it was about being of service to others.

• Stacy Lentz has co-owned the Stonewall Inn with three others since 2006.
• She went into credit card debt to buy the Inn, and has never made much money.
• Owning it has been the responsibility of a lifetime, and given her purpose, she says.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Stacy Lentz, co-owner of the Stonewall Inn and CEO of the Stonewall Inn Gives Back Initiative. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I grew up middle-class, in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle-of-nowhere Kansas. That's a lot of middles, but once I moved to New York City in my 20s, I felt like I had discovered the center of the world.

I probably knew that I was gay since I was younger, but I fought it. I went to school with the same 16 kids each year. I knew that I tended to develop crushes on my friends who were girls. As for the guys, I wanted to be their best friends, but had no desire to date them.

At 24, I walked into my first gay bar in New York and immediately thought, "Oh, these are my people."

I took on credit card debt to buy the Stonewall Inn

After that, I spent a lot of time in LGBTQ+ bars. There was a piano bar three buildings down from The Stonewall Inn that I just loved. Having grown up as a theater kid, being in a piano bar in New York City has always been fun. I became a regular there, and befriended the manager, a man named Kurt Kelly, who has since become like a brother to me.

I had walked into the Stonewall Inn before, in the 90s. At the time, I knew a bit about the significance, but the site wasn't being treated with any historic reverence. Then, in 2006, Kurt and I heard that the Inn was shutting down.

We realized we had a chance to preserve history for our community. So, along with two other partners, we bought the Stonewall Inn. I had to go into credit card debt to do that, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I haven't made much, but it's not about the money

My background is in marketing, and by that point, I had become a vocal advocate for the LGBTQ+ community. I knew I could help make the inn a success and raise its profile. Still, the first year was really difficult. We had a roof collapse and needed to put a lot of work into the building.

I made my investment back within the first couple of years, but I've never made much money from the bar. We're very transparent about that. Our rent is $55,000 a month. That's a lot of vodka soda to sell.

For me, it's never been about the money. That wasn't the point. I see myself and my co-owners as stewards of this place. When we purchased it, there was nothing about the history of the Stonewall Inn displayed. Today, there are historic artifacts, including the original "raided property" sign from 1969. Upstairs, we have a community center where we host everything from fundraisers to weddings.

We're honoring the legacy and continuing to take action

Owning the Stonewall Inn has been the responsibility of a lifetime. It's not just about keeping the lights on; it's about keeping the mission alive.

My co-owners and I believe that queer history can't be preserved without providing for queer futures. In 2017, we started a nonprofit, the Stonewall Inn Gives Back Initiative. We provide safe-space training to other establishments, and also provide support to the LGBTQ+ folks in the places where it's most difficult to be queer, like Mississippi, Uganda, or Kansas, where I grew up.

The nonprofit has a small budget of between $60,000 to $120,000 a year. Still, it's something my co-owners and I are really proud of. If we rely on our legacy, without continuing to take action, it just becomes branding. That's why we're determined to not just honor the Inn's past but to also have a real impact on the future of the LGBTQ+ community.

• 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.

• 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.

• 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.

• 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 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.

• 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.

This 'as-told-to' essay is based on a conversation with Juli Ford, a 57-year-old real estate agent and certified senior advisor based in Massachusetts. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When my children were young, we saw my parents all the time.

We lived very close to each other in South Plymouth, Massachusetts, and my parents always helped with the kids. From the time they were born, Wednesdays were Grammy and Grampy Day.

My dad got sick in 2005. When we learned in the summer of 2011 that he probably didn't have much time left, we talked about what life would be like after he was gone, including where my mom would live.

When he passed in December 2011, my mom was not ready to live with us. At 68, she had never lived on her own. She'd been with my dad since she was 15.

Then, in April 2015, a house in Pembroke, Massachusetts, about 30 minutes from South Plymouth, came on the market. The second I saw it online, I thought, "Oh, this is perfect."

The house had a beautiful in-law apartment

The house is 4,300 square feet, and the basement is about 800 square feet. Upstairs, there are three bedrooms and 3.5 bathrooms.

My mom fell in love with the home's basement apartment. It's full of beautiful natural light. It's one bedroom with a den, a full kitchen, a fireplace, its own laundry, 1.5 baths, its own outdoor patio, and two entrances.

We made an offer within two days. We bought the house in April 2015 for $630,000.

My mom had no interest in ownership. Instead, she made a financial contribution toward the down payment equal to what she would have paid in rent for the next five years.

She also gave us money every year for utilities. Last year, she started making a bigger monthly contribution to help cover household expenses. She essentially has not had to pay rent for 10 years, and as the house gets older, the cost of maintaining it grows.

It was a dream when we first moved in

My mom helped me a lot with my kids, especially with their schooling. My kids were 10 and 11 when she moved in, and they were homeschooled. We drove around a lot because we were going to museums and other activities in Boston. She sometimes helped with driving, and she became their English teacher because her first career was teaching English.

Grammy Wednesdays continued when we moved into the house, and my kids, who are 20 and 22 now, would go down and visit her on their own.

My mom has exceptionally good boundaries. I'm sure we did things differently than she would have done with our kids, but she's always been very good at keeping her opinions to herself.

My mom is still independent, but needs our help now

At 82, she's a bit less independent than she was 10 years ago because of health issues. Still, she has privacy: I don't know everything that she does all the time, and we can go days without seeing each other. Other times, we see each other a lot more often.

We have had a few medical emergencies with my mom, so I got in the habit of keeping my phone next to my bed. There have been a few times that she's had to call me.

I cannot imagine how much harder it would be to be a daughter of an aging mom if we weren't in the same house. I would be so much more concerned about her being alone and getting lonelier. It would be more time-consuming for me if I had to go somewhere else to support her.

The house gave us other financial benefits

In the beginning, the only financial benefit I really thought about of combining households was that we could get a nicer house than my husband and I could afford on our own.

Around the time we got this house, my brother's family went through a foreclosure after his wife had been hit by a drunken driver and had a traumatic brain injury. They had a lot of housing instability during that time because she was unable to work and had massive medical bills. They were not sure where they were going to live.

Because we combined households with my mom, we were able to tap into the equity in this house to help them. We took out a home equity loan and bought a small, lovely house, and rented it to them. We weren't really making any money on it, but the rent was paying the bills.

Within two years, they recovered their credit enough that they purchased the house from us. They were able to rebuild their financial well-being in that house.

We used the proceeds from the sale to buy a vacation property in Vermont, which we turned into an Airbnb for four years. When we sold it, we paid off our kids' student loans.

We were all able to build wealth because we combined households with my mom. We feel so proud and grateful. It's not something I saw coming 11 years ago.

I see multigenerational living as one of the most compelling solutions to our elder care and affordable housing crises. Bringing families together around this is really an underutilized solution.

• 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 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.

• Dani Aravich is a 29-year-old Paralympian who grew up playing sports.
• After college, Dani was introduced to the possibility of competing in the Paralympics.
• She now competes for Team USA in the Paralympic Games in track and field and cross-country skiing.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation Dani Aravich, Paralympian and cofounder of Culxtured. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I grew up in Boise, Idaho, playing all the typical sports — soccer, basketball, softball — and eventually got recruited to a Division I school to compete in track and field.

After college, I worked for an NBA team. And while working there, I learned about the Paralympics for the very first time. It had never really been on my family's radar growing up, so it never felt like an option for me as a kid.

Learning about the Paralympics also meant being introduced to the disability community in a way I never had before. I hadn't grown up around many people with disabilities, and suddenly I was meeting all these athletes who, like me, had disabilities and were fiercely competitive in sport.

It was a little overwhelming at first, but also really exciting.

I started thinking about the Paralympic Games

I started diving into everything I could find about the Paralympics and eventually learned that I actually qualified for a classification.

That's when the dream began to form. Maybe I could make the Trials for the Tokyo 2020 Paralympic Games.

In 2019, I started running again, mostly training on my own while working full-time. I went to my first para track meet that year and met other women who were missing a hand or had arm impairments like mine. For the first time, it felt like I might truly be competing on an even playing field.

But that same day, I nearly walked away from it all.

I was running well until I fell on the track with 10 meters left in the race. I remember thinking maybe that was my sign to quit and go back to the traditional career path I had been on.

My mom — who had actually been hesitant about me stepping away from my business career in the first place — was the one who told me I had already put months of work into this goal. I owed it to myself to at least see it through and not let one fall end the dream.

So I kept going.

I decided to focus on Nordic skiing

Not long after that, I was invited to try Para cross-country skiing at a camp. I had downhill skied before, but cross-country skiing is a completely different sport.

In 2021, I competed in the T47 women's 400m at the Tokyo Paralympic Games (which were delayed a year because of COVID). Just six months later, I competed again at the Beijing 2022 Paralympic Winter Games.

After that, I made the decision to step away from track and focus fully on Nordic skiing, leading into the 2026 Paralympic Winter Games in Italy.

And here I am now.

The dream of becoming a Paralympian came much later in life for me than it does for a lot of athletes. Mostly because I didn't even know it existed growing up. I had never seen it in the media, never heard about it as a possibility.

This year, I've been in Europe since early January, first for the World Cup season, now the Paralympics.

One of the things that's made these Paralympics especially meaningful is being able to invite friends and family to come watch in person. Four years ago, that wasn't possible because of Covid restrictions.

I love seeing kids watch us race

For Nordic skiing, we're based in a tiny town in Italy, which is pretty remote from some of the other venues. But the town has completely embraced the Games. One of my favorite moments has been watching local school kids come out to watch us race.

And it really does feel like the Paralympics are growing.

More people are watching. The media is paying attention to the drama and intensity of the competition. Online engagement is growing. It finally feels like the world is starting to see these athletes the way we've always known them to be — elite.

Once people watch the Paralympics, they realize the competition is just as intense as the Olympics. And once they see that, they're hooked.

More broadly, I think society is shifting in a really positive direction when it comes to diversity and inclusion. Humanizing disability and making it something we talk about openly — rather than something hidden away — is incredibly important.

Not just for the Paralympics. But for society as a whole.