• 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.

• 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.

• 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.

• 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.

• Greg Smith started tutoring the LSAT in law school.
• He automated a course and out-earned his lawyer salary selling it.
• He grew and scaled a learning platform that now generates $75 million in annual revenue.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Greg Smith, CEO of Thinkific. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I became interested in corporate law because of the role lawyers play in pivotal business decisions. As a CEO, I might navigate a merger or IPO only once or twice, but as a corporate lawyer, I'd be dealing with them constantly. It seemed to me there were more exciting corporate transactions in a few years of corporate law than there were in two lifetimes of being a CEO.

That pushed me to go to law school. While there, I started tutoring for the LSAT to help pay my bills, including student loan payments. I realized that a lot of my tutoring was repetitive, but I was limited by how many students I could fit into a room. I wanted to reach more people, have more impact, and generate more revenue.

So, in 2005, I launched an automated course. The course started generating thousands of dollars a month, without me investing much time or money. Once, when I had a month of my law job, I really focused on promoting the course, and it generated $10,000 in a month — more than I was making in my corporate role. That was a real signal that I should go deeper with this.

Soon, others asked me to help build their course platforms

I had always been drawn to entrepreneurship — probably because my parents were always thinking about their big ideas, but never able to follow through because of their day jobs. One time, on a plane ride, I had an aha moment: I needed to build a business.

I didn't immediately think about my course. Instead, I left my lawyer job for another startup opportunity, but that didn't pan out.

As I considered my options, I realized that other people and companies were already approaching me about helping them create a platform to support their own educational courses. I had inbound leads, and the solution they were looking for, so I decided to give it a try. In 2012, I founded Thinkific.

My brother was a cofounder, but we often butted heads

My brother Matt, who is eight years younger, saw me struggling to write code. He stepped in to help and became a cofounder. In the early days, there was a fair amount of healthy and unhealthy conflict between us in the office. We were driven and wanted to reach the same place, but we had different ideas about how to get there.

We both wanted to be the CEO — the one making major decisions. But in reality, there weren't that many decisions to be made. After three years of working together, Matt left to pursue another idea. Although we'd had disagreements at work, we always got along well on the weekends.

As Thinkific continued to grow and scale, Matt became one of my most trusted advisors. He briefly rejoined the company as Chief Strategy Officer, and our dynamic was very different. The company was growing so fast that we had tons of decisions to make, and I was grateful for anything he could take off my plate. Today, he's an advisor to the board. He's also the guy I can call when I'm struggling, just to talk.

I teach my kids to be proud of their failures

My kids are 7 and 10, and I talk to them a lot about failure. When my daughter was about 3, she asked what failure was. I told her that when something doesn't go the way you want, it's a huge opportunity.

Now, I'll regularly ask the kids about the things they failed at, to show them they should be proud of their failures. They love talking about it so much that they'll tell other kids, "You failed!" like it's the most exciting thing. Sometimes other parents give me the side eye about that, but I'm glad that their approach to failure is healthy — that will help them when they're trying new things.

• 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.

• 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.

• Jay Zigmont has been married for 17 years and has no kids.
• He rents his home because he and his wife move frequently.
• He's unlikely to retire fully, but likes a more fluid approach to work.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jay Zigmont, founder of Childfree Wealth and Childfree Trust. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I wear a shirt when I want to start conversations. It says, "Proudly childfree and wealthy."

At financial conferences, it stops people in their tracks and gives me an opportunity to talk about my work helping childfree people make estate plans that match their lives.

My wife, Vicki, and I have been married for nearly 17 years. Because of a health condition she has, we always knew we wouldn't have kids. It's shaped everything about how we approach life, including our ideas about our careers, finances, retirement, and even home ownership.

Vicki is Catholic, and wanted to get married in the Catholic Church, but they wouldn't marry us if we didn't plan to have children. We asked three different churches, and all had the same answer. We got married at my Methodist church, and that was the first time we realized how much being childfree would impact all areas of our lives.

I'd like to die with very little money, not acquire more wealth

I'm 48, but in my late 30s, I had achieved my career and financial goals. I had $1 million in the bank and no debt, but I didn't know where to go from there.

As a childfree person, there's a point when you can have too much wealth. I'm not trying to build generational wealth — in fact, I'd like to die with very little money. That means my career isn't driven by financial gain. I focus on purpose, not profit.

Whatever Vicki and I have when we die will be left to our nephews, but I hope it's not much. Instead of leaving them a large sum later in life, we're supporting them when they need it most. We contribute to their college funds, and I would be happy to consider investing in their businesses or helping them buy a house. We also give generously to charities — my personal favorite is a charity that buys and forgives medical debt.

I likely won't ever retire fully

I plan to always work in some way. Instead of focusing on early retirement, I follow a FILE approach: "financial independence, live early." I want to work on projects I enjoy, but do so on my own time, from anywhere.

When you don't have kids, you have to reimagine the typical idea of success and what life can look like. That can take months, because you're untangling a lifetime of messaging, to figure out what you truly want.

I encourage people to think about this by writing their obituary. Mine would say something like "loving husband, world traveler, author, and innovator." Those are the things I want to focus on — not building wealth for wealth's sake. A few years ago, I tried my hand at maple syrup farming just because it sounded enjoyable.

My legacy will be helping other childfree people

Vicki and I rent our home, and although we've owned in the past, I don't think we ever will again. We move often, every two to three years, since we're not tied to a specific school system or living near family to help watch the kids. Renting saves us money, and I think it's usually the right move for most childfree people.

Recently, Tennessee, where I live, passed a bill requiring students to learn about the "success sequence": graduating, getting a job, getting married, and having kids. We're taught so much about that one path to success, but there are more options.

My legacy won't be children, but rather helping other childfree people find the success sequence that's right for them.

• 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.

• Many tech leaders say they're ditching screen time limits, though some still use them.
• Instead, they're focused on how their kids are interacting with technology, prioritizing creativity.
• Short-form video and social media remain major concerns for many parents.

These days, parenting means navigating a seemingly endless parade of decisions about technology. Can your toddler watch "Sesame Street" on an iPad? Does FaceTiming the grandparents count toward screen time? Should your teen have access to social media just because "everyone else" seems to?

Parents are more cognizant than ever about the pitfalls — and potential — of technology, so it's natural to wonder how the people leading tech companies handle this with their own kids. Paypal cofounder Peter Thiel and Snapchat CEO Evan Spiegel have both said they limit their young children (all 8 or under) to an hour and a half of screen time per week. Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg has said that he wants his kids to use screens for communication, not passive consumption.

It turns out, tech leaders, for the most part, are like the rest of us: trying to balance screen-free time and critical thinking skills, while also giving their kids access to the world that technology can unlock.

Here's how seven tech leaders are handling technology decisions for their families.

Finding the middle

Kate Doerksen is the co-founder and CEO of Sage Haven, an app that helps parents monitor their kids' messaging. Her kids, who are 7 and 9, get an hour per day on their iPads or Nintendo Switch, plus additional time if the family is playing a video game together. She plans to delay smartphones and social media, but her daughter has an Apple Watch with messenger (which Doerksen monitors).

"Like most things in life, the right answer feels like it lies somewhere in the middle," Doerksen says. "It's not tech abstinence, and it's not unlimited, unfettered usage. It's moderate usage on non-addictive apps and games with boundaries."

Learning and creating

As the chief learning officer at the online education company Stride, Niyoka McCoy, sees tech as a normal part of life, but she's still intentional about how her children — who are 14 and 2 — use it.

"We believe technology should be a tool for learning and creativity first, and entertainment second," she says. Her kids don't have hard-and-fast screen time limits, but McCoy aims to avoid them passively consuming content.

"When kids spend too much time scrolling or watching instead of creating, learning, or building something meaningful," she says, "that is when technology stops being beneficial."

Focusing on well-being, not screen time

Three years ago, Hari Ravichandran's daughter, who was then 13, went through a tough time — one that he believes her access to a smartphone contributed to. He had given her a phone at 13, but now believes that was too young, so he decided to take the phone away and delay access until 15 or 16 for her as well as his three younger children.

"I knew we couldn't just send her back into the same digital environment that had amplified those issues," said Ravichandran, the founder and CEO of online security company Aura.

At the same time, "What I think is overblown is the idea that technology itself is the enemy," Ravichandran says. "Cutting it out completely doesn't solve the root problem and can actually limit kids' independence and digital literacy."

Today, he focuses on how technology impacts his children's mood, sleep, self-esteem, and overall well-being.

"For us, it's less about strict bans and more about awareness, accountability, and open dialogue," he says.

Making sure values align

Tim Sheehan, co-founder and CEO Greenlight — which provides debit cards for children and teens — gave his four kids access to smartphones at 12, and social media at 15. His kids now range in age from 17 to 26. When they were younger, he watched their tech consumption closely, knowing how impressionable they were.

"My goal is to make sure the outside influences in their lives support the values we're trying to instill," he says.

Limiting short-term video

Justice Eroline, chief technology officer at the software development firm BairesDev, has a blanket rule of 1 hour of screen time for his kids, who are 8, 10, and 12. Even within that, he pays close attention to the type of content they're watching.

"I don't allow short-form content for the kids as it affects their attention span," he says.

Ahu Chhapgar, chief technology officer at fintech company Paysafe and dad of two (ages 10 and 13), says short-form video worries him more than anything else.

"When kids get access to it, they almost enter a trance," he says. "That level of stimulus is not how the brain evolved to process information, and I do worry about long-term effects on attention and impulse control."

Allowing AI, and gaming

Unlike some parents, Eroline is much less concerned about gaming.

"Video games can teach kids a lot of different things: teamwork, reaction time, problem solving, grit, dealing with defeat," Eroline says. "The content of the video game might be questionable, but there are plenty that can work for different age ranges."

Chhapgar won't let his kids have access to smartphones until they're 14, and social media until they're 16, but he does encourage them to use ChatGPT for 20 minutes each day.

"No one has all the answers about AI yet," he says. "So I'd rather they explore, build, and experiment responsibly instead of just passively consuming technology."

Controlling the interaction

Nik Kale, principal engineer with Cisco Systems, makes sure that his 3-year-old isn't given a screen when she's upset.

"I don't want her building a dependency where the first response to discomfort is a device," he explains.

He also ensures that he or his wife — not an algorithm — are choosing what their daughter sees.

"I don't let automated systems make unsupervised decisions in my production environments at work," he says. "I'm not going to let one make unsupervised decisions about what my three-year-old's brain consumes either."

That, to him, is much more important than seemingly arbitrary screen time limits.

"Parents are adding up minutes like it's a toxicity dosage," he says, "when the real variable is whether a human or an algorithm is driving the experience."