• 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.

• After going on over 20 cruises in the last 10 years, I've picked up some unconventional tips.
• A roll of duct tape is easy enough to pack and comes in handy for small emergencies.
• I also like to book spa appointments on port days because they tend to be cheaper.

I've been on over 20 cruises in the last decade, and always have another one on the horizon.

Throughout the years, I've accumulated an array of helpful travel tips, but my favorite hacks go beyond the usual advice like downloading the cruise line's app and packing a lanyard.

Here are five unconventional cruise tips I swear by that make life on board easier, more comfortable, and more cost-effective. 

I always pack a roll of duct tape, which can fix almost everything.

I always add duct tape to my list of things to pack because it's easy to bring and comes in handy for small emergencies.

For example, I've used it to repair a broken suitcase in a pinch or to bind flip-flops back together long enough to limp to the gift shop to buy a replacement pair.

On one recent cruise, I even used it to cover the motion sensor on the light in our room, which turned on automatically whenever someone walked between the bed and the bathroom.

Though a motion-sensor hall light was convenient in theory, we didn't want to wake each other up if we got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. We just made sure to remove the tape before we left.

For an elevated shower experience, I like to visit the gym.

In my experience, cruise ship bathrooms are designed to be efficient, not spacious. The small shower gets the job done, but it's definitely cramped, especially if you're a bigger person.

I've found that the showers in the gym are almost always larger and sometimes have additional bathroom amenities, such as mouthwash and elevated bath towels.

Doing laundry on board makes packing for longer cruises much easier.

There's usually a laundry or ironing room tucked away on deck for guests. I always make use of these rooms, as washing clothes mid-trip is a great way to minimize how much I need to pack.

Cruise cabins are small, and storage space is limited, so doing laundry on board is the perfect solution.

Plus, I've found these rooms are a surprisingly good place to meet interesting people.

I like to book spa appointments on port days.

Port days are often quieter on the ship because most passengers are ashore exploring.

If I'm not excited about a particular stop or I've visited it before, I consider staying on board and going to the spa instead.

On sea days, it can be tough to book a facial or massage, but on port days, I've found the schedule tends to be much more open. There are often money-saving specials, too, and the relaxation rooms feel so much more peaceful.

I rarely book a room with a balcony.

In my opinion, a room with a balcony isn't essential unless you're on an Alaskan cruise, where being able to take in the scenery is important.

On my first cruise, a travel agent told me I "had" to book a room with a balcony, and that once I did, I'd never be able to cruise in an interior cabin again. However, I don't think that's true.

I love a luxe stateroom as much as the next person, but I've had just as much fun on cruises where we've booked the cheapest cabin without any windows.

This story was originally published on November 21, 2025, and most recently updated on April 27, 2026.

• 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.

• My husband and I remodeled our 600-square-foot kitchen into an open-concept space.
• We took down walls, added windows, and replaced the cabinets to make the room feel lighter.
• After the three-month renovation, I filled the room with bright, coastal-inspired decor.

Shortly after my husband and I returned from our honeymoon, we moved from a New York City apartment to a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house we bought in Greenwich, Connecticut.

It wasn't a turnkey property — the white picket fence and bountiful rose garden I'd always envisioned were nowhere to be found — but it had potential.

The kitchen, in particular, needed extensive work.

Rather than writing off its harvest-gold linoleum floors, Formica countertops, and brown cabinets that looked straight out of the '80s, we viewed the dated interior as an opportunity for improvement.

So my husband and I rolled up our sleeves and renovated the kitchen, ultimately transforming it into a bright, coastal-inspired room at the center of our home.

We designed the room and completed the demolition, insulation, drywall, and trim ourselves (with some help from my dad) and hired a kitchen designer to install new cabinets and a countertop.

It was our first renovation project, so we felt extremely excited and accomplished when we finished and admired the results.

Our goal was to turn the dated kitchen into an open-concept, multipurpose room.

As we designed the space, we knew we didn't want it to have a traditional kitchen feel.

Our goal was to put together a warm, inviting room with an open floor plan where we could seamlessly cook, eat, relax, and entertain.

Because the front door opens directly into the room, it sets the tone for the home as soon as we walk in. Every detail mattered, and we had to carefully balance both aesthetics and functionality.

Before starting the renovation, we decided on our priorities.

To get an idea of how much we'd spend during the renovation, we listed all of our desired changes, from our must-have appliances to our wish list of finishing touches.

Our sights were set on a white cast-iron farmhouse sink, a high-end refrigerator, a custom farm table, and the quietest dishwasher we could find.

Of course, the project required more than just filling up our shopping cart. To create the open floor plan we designed, we had to take down several walls, including one that was load-bearing. We also added new windows and glass farmhouse doors to bring more natural sunlight into the space.

Other major expenses to plan for included electrical work, plumbing, insulation, drywall, flooring, kitchen cabinetry, hardware, countertops, a stove, and eventually new furniture.

Making so many decisions at once felt overwhelming, but we were determined to keep our three-month timeline on track and stick to our budget.

The cabinets were the centerpiece of the room.

We removed the dated brown cabinets from the studs and swapped them out for bright white, Shaker-style ones with honey-bronze hardware.

Before we even made it to this step, I'd already planned to showcase my favorite Anthropologie plates and glasses inside a few glass cabinets.

When it came time to furnish and decorate, we chose multifunctional pieces with a coastal-cottage aesthetic.

Although construction took three months, we needed a bit more time to get the space ready for guests.

The room is only about 600 square feet, so we had to be intentional with the space if we wanted it to look clean and uncluttered.

On the wall opposite the cabinets, we installed an arched glass buffet. It provides plenty of storage and doubles as a surface for serving guests.

The furniture we selected is all light in color and extremely practical.

Instead of a traditional island, we opted for a custom farm table in a natural beachy wood finish that could serve as a dining surface and prep area. On top of it sits an oversized charcuterie board, a practical and aesthetically pleasing piece.

We removed the wood-burning fireplace and opted for a modern gas unit, complete with driftwood logs. We styled the area in front with shiplap and white marble tiles.

For seating, we decided on a cozy sectional, statement chair, and plush ottoman that doubles as a coffee table.

The finishing touches really brought our vision to life.

The wide farmhouse-style trim throughout the space and around the windows ties the aesthetic together.

I also always have fresh flowers from my garden in a vase and beach-themed candles on my arched cabinet buffet.

Once one of our least favorite rooms in the house, the kitchen is now the space of our dreams.

Our charming, quaint main room is everything I hoped it would be. I spend every day in our open-concept kitchen and wouldn't have it any other way.

It serves as both my workspace and a calming oasis. I now have a space where I can be productive, experiment with new recipes, entertain family and friends, or simply relax in front of the fireplace.

Whether I'm coming home from a trip or a day of errands, I breathe a sigh of relief the moment I step inside the front door. Enjoying my morning espresso in the sunlight pouring through the windows gives me pure joy.

The results are worth every penny we spent and each hour of our hard work.

• My 70-year-old grandmother has been one of my biggest fashion inspirations.
• At 23, I still draw on her lessons as I get dressed, whether I'm wearing something casual or formal.
• She's taught me that clothes should be comfortable, practical, and confidence-boosting.

In many ways, my grandmother raised me.

We spent countless days together, and her face is at the center of some of my fondest childhood memories. She's one of the greatest influences in my life, shaping everything from how I see the world to how I dress.

Even as a 23-year-old, I admire her sense of style. Throughout her life, she's built an elegant wardrobe that draws from trends without necessarily following them.

At 70 years old, she continues to inspire me. Whenever I open my wardrobe to choose an outfit, I carry one of her invaluable lessons with me.

One of her core beliefs is that accessories should add to an outfit, not overwhelm it

I love accessories, often throwing on chunky jewelry, layering bold pieces, and stacking belts on my hips. Although my grandmother appreciates outfit embellishments, she's taught me to approach them with intention. They should add to an outfit, not overpower it.

For example, she isn't afraid to incorporate a pop of color — as long as it matches her accessories, from her bag to her shoes to her belt.

She's also strategic about her jewelry, choosing pieces based on her neckline and hairstyle that day. Her go-to earrings? Versatile medium-sized hoops, which are big enough to be visible under a range of hairstyles without dominating a look.

Now, my favorite everyday earrings are silver hoops. Every time I put them on, I feel like they brighten me up.

Although I play around with maximalist, trend-forward pieces, I stick to my grandmother's rules when I want to look elegant and timeless.

She taught me that walking with confidence can upgrade an outfit

My grandmother has always told me that picking out beautiful pieces is just the first step in putting together a great outfit. The way I carry myself when I'm wearing it can make or break a look.

I have vivid memories of her instructing me to walk in a straight line with my shoulders back, stepping with one leg in front of the other. I felt like I was balancing books on my head.

Over the years, walking with confidence has become second nature, whether I'm wearing a dress and heels or a sweatsuit and sneakers. She was right: It does make my clothes look better.

Even when my grandmother has dealt with health issues that affect her movements, she's always followed her own advice, walking straight with her head held high and shoulders back.

Her wardrobe is built on staple pieces that are practical and make her feel good

My grandmother has never been one to experiment much with clothes. I'm hard-pressed to remember a time when she wasn't wearing simple garments like straight pants, sweaters, tight long-sleeve T-shirts, or loose short-sleeve T-shirts.

She found her practical, elegant style when she was in high school and stayed true to it through every stage of life.

She gravitates toward easy-to-wear pieces that move with her and fit her body well. To her, clothes are meant to be worn, so they have to look and make her feel good in order to secure a spot in her closet.

For the past five years, I've focused on emulating her wardrobe. Every item I buy has to look good, feel nice on my body, and be practical.

When she layers, she makes sure the pieces complement each other

My grandmother has taught me that layering well requires more than throwing on multiple garments and calling it a day. The pieces have to be harmonious.

She has a way of looking elegant even as she combines unlikely pieces. When she's cold, I see her drape a long wool coat over her shoulders, throw on a pair of leather gloves, and tie a silk scarf around her neck.

Her base is always simple and cohesive, creating the perfect foundation for a layered outfit.

I've never been a big fan of layering clothes, but I use the same approach when choosing accessories. I start with a plain base layer before adding small, complementary pieces. I put thought into each one and consider how it works with the overall look.

My grandmother knows that wrinkles can ruin even the most stylish outfit

Growing up, my mom often insisted that I iron my clothes — later, I learned that the advice stemmed from my grandmother, who often shared it with her when she was young.

After all, even the best outfit can look messy if it's wrinkled.

In my family, crisp lines and smooth sleeves symbolize self-respect and elegance. Now, I follow their advice and never leave the house without ironing my clothes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I always pack my children's birth certificates

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I built my expectations based on what I saw growing up

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

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

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

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

The further I went, the less the plan made sense

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

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

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

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

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

The differences forced me to define success on my own terms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kids get along — for the most part

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

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

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

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 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.

"H

ow long have you been living in Singapore?"

It's a question taxi drivers have been asking me since I arrived from New York nearly 20 years ago.

In the beginning, the answer was small, just a year, then two.

My husband and I had come with a two-year plan. Freshly married, we told ourselves it was an exciting chapter in our new life together. We left boxes in the basement of my sister's Brooklyn apartment, assuming we'd be back for them soon.

But as the number crept past that deadline — five years, then 10 — those boxes slowly made their way over.

These days, it's not just taxi drivers asking how long we plan to stay.

My mom comments on how far away we live, now that it includes her two grandchildren. My in-laws gently remind us of the advantages of being closer. Everyone seems to assume there's a logical next stop, a final destination that will eventually make sense of everything.

But somewhere along the way, Singapore stopped feeling like a chapter and started feeling like muscle memory. I've lost my tolerance for cold weather after years in the tropics. Back in New York, walking into someone's apartment without taking off my shoes feels strange.

Still, there are reminders that my life is split across borders. As an American, I file US taxes every year — the US is one of the few countries that require it of citizens abroad — a constant reminder that I'm living between places.

My two kids look genuinely confused when someone asks them, "Where are you from?"

As more families build lives abroad, we're not the only ones being asked that question.

In 2024, about 3.3 million Americans were living overseas — a 15% increase since 2010 — according to a Federal Voting Assistance Program estimate that pieces together tax records, Social Security data, and foreign census figures. Because Americans don't have to register when they move abroad, there's no official count.

In this series, you'll hear from others who have made homes overseas, at different ages, for different reasons, and at different stages of staying, all answering the same question in their own way: Where is home, really?

• 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.

• I'm a wedding planner giving advice to readers about sharing crucial information with guests.
• It's OK to skip an open bar, but you should make your plan clear to guests.
• It's best to be straightforward in your invite and tell your guests to avoid wearing white.

In my many years of being a wedding planner, I've helped couples navigate all sorts of difficult situations before and during their big day.

Here are answers to a few common questions they've asked me.

Q: Can we skip bridesmaids and groomsmen? How will this affect the ceremony?

A: You can skip bridesmaids and groomsmen. It's up to you and your partner, but you can either skip those particular titles, which are gendered, or you can forgo a wedding party entirely.

This can affect the ceremony since a wedding party is often standing or sitting alongside a couple at the altar. If you want people to be with you rather than in the audience with other guests, arrange this accordingly — but it's also not necessary that anyone be up there with you.

The biggest change may actually be before and after the ceremony.

Before, you and your partner will want to be very clear about who, if anyone, is taking on the responsibilities that often fall to members of a wedding party. This can include hosting celebrations like an engagement party, a wedding shower, and a bachelor or bachelorette party.

After that, you two will want to pick the witnesses who will sign your legal marriage license, as they are required in nearly all US states.

Though I've worked venues where the witnesses were not members of the wedding party, they often are a part of this group.

Q: Will guests judge us if we have a cash bar?

A: Here's my response to any guest who judges you two for not paying a multi-thousand-dollar bar tab: Pay a cover.

The average cost to cater a guest at a wedding is about $80, and that's before alcohol. So, not opting for an open bar is quite reasonable.

The trick is to message ahead of time through guest-facing communication, such as an invitation or a wedding website. Consider a line as straightforward as "cash bar" to signal to your guests that "there'll be alcohol here but no, we're not paying for it."

I also wish more couples would consider doing an open bar for cocktail hour and a cash bar for the reception. I've done this several times at weddings, and it's always worked well.

Another way to do this is to set a limit with the bar, say, $500. Tell the bartender to notify you or someone you trust when you're approaching this limit. Then you and your partner can decide whether to change the limit or move to cash.

However, setting a limit also requires you to think about logistics on your wedding day, so it's not the right fit for everyone. I suggest it as an option if you two are having trouble deciding what the right number is for the tab.

Q: How many people from our guest list will actually show?

A: Couples often tell me some form of "We're inviting 200, but only think 100 will come." Please don't invite way more guests than you want or than your venue can accommodate — it can backfire.

In my experience, a more reasonable attrition rate is between 10% and 12%, but this can also vary. You may have fewer guests attend if you're planning a destination wedding or invite people with kids.

When in doubt, invite fewer people and then expand your guest list as RSVPs come in. It's not as rude as you think.

Q: How do I get guests to not wear white to a wedding?

A: You tell them not to wear white to a wedding. Guests don't usually do this, but if someone showing up in white will change how you feel about your wedding, communicate that boundary.

Here's one way it could look: "We kindly ask that you do not wear white to the wedding." Then, include details about things people can wear: "All other colors encouraged" or "Black tie but no white, please."

Share this information on your biggest piece of guest-facing communication. This might be an invitation, a wedding website, a Facebook group, or an email — whatever you and your partner are using to tell people the who, what, where, and when of your special day.

This story was originally published on February 17, 2022, and most recently updated on April 7, 2026.

• 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I now ask students to use AI in every assignment

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

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

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

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

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

There are some ground rules they have to follow

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where I draw the line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I didn't account for was five.

The TSA line wrapped around baggage carousels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These TSA delays are affecting all of us in different ways

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

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

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

• As an interior-design expert, I've seen people make common style mistakes in living rooms.
• Hide cords from your TV and electronics, and don't put too much furniture in the living room.
• Accent chairs should be used sparingly, and rugs should add personality to your space.

Your living room should feel like a calm, personal retreat—not a source of visual chaos.

As a seasoned interior stylist and founder of DBF Interiors, I've seen plenty of cluttered, unintentionally designed spaces that could be improved with just a few simple tweaks.

Here are a few things to get rid of in your living room if you want an instant upgrade.

Remove furniture that makes your space feel cramped.

Placing too much furniture in a living room is a common design mistake. Poor spatial arrangements paired with large, clunky pieces just make a space feel crowded rather than cozy.

Instead of filling your living room with lots of furniture, be intentional about the items you select.

Focus on curating instead of collecting, seeking out essential pieces that are unique and functional. This will help you maintain a more open floor plan.

Replace boring rugs with ones that make a statement.

I find that many people settle for bland, uninspiring rugs that fail to add color or flavor to a space.

Since rugs make such a big visual statement, go for something exciting. Try out colorful, patterned rugs to jazz up your living room and infuse it with your personality.

Too many accent chairs can cause unneeded clutter.

A beautiful accent chair can complement and enhance a living room.

However, not all spaces have a layout and ideal seating plan that allows for one. Forcing a bulky chair into a space that doesn't fit it properly can create unnecessary clutter.

And if you find yourself needing multiple accent chairs to make a space functional, consider swapping them for a larger, more comfortable sofa.

Hide visible wires to keep your space looking neat.

Visible cords and wires can distract from a well-decorated space and make it feel cluttered.

Fortunately, there are many creative ways to hide them. For example, you can feed them through your TV console or snake them behind baseboard accessories.

You can even purchase concealing cord caps and paint them to match your wall color.

Cover your basic pillows with fresh designs and colors.

Instead of keeping the accent pillows that came with your couch or sticking with basic designs, consider upgrading.

After all, curated accent pillows are a great way to add more personality and substance to your living area.

I suggest swapping out accent pillows every six months to a year to spruce up your living room.

Instead of completely repurchasing new pillows each time, opt for covers that are easy to change and low-commitment (especially if you want to try trendy textures, colors, and patterns).

This story was originally published on May 10, 2021, and most recently updated on March 24, 2026.

• My family and I tried and ranked plain Greek yogurt from four grocery stores.
• My daughter and I thought Trader Joe's Greek nonfat yogurt had an odd flavor.
• The organic plain nonfat Greek yogurt from Wegmans was our winner.

I feel like I'm always buying Greek yogurt for my family, and even though we have our favorites, I like to switch things up every once in a while.

So, I decided to see how the store-brand versions from Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, Costco, and Wegmans compare. To find out, I bought the most basic plain Greek yogurt I could find at each store and sampled them without any toppings.

Here's how they stacked up, from worst to best.

Trader Joe's nonfat plain Greek yogurt had a nice consistency.

I liked that Trader Joe's option didn't have the ubiquitous pool of milky whey that sometimes settles on top of yogurt when I open it. The yogurt seemed to have a nice, medium-thick consistency.

At $5.50, the 32-ounce tub of Greek yogurt was the least expensive of the four brands I tried.

The yogurt was creamy but a bit too tangy for my taste.

Sadly, I thought this yogurt had an intensely tangy, almost sour flavor.

Because of its standout creaminess, though, I'd like to try the store's other varieties of flavored Greek yogurt next time.

The Greek yogurt from Whole Foods was the most expensive option.

At $6.70, this 32-ounce tub was the most expensive yogurt I tried. When I opened the container, the yogurt looked creamy and smooth.

The 365 Greek yogurt tasted mildly sweet, with no tanginess.

The 365 Greek yogurt tasted fresh and was well-balanced — mildly sweet and not too tangy or tart.

I'd likely use this yogurt in one of my smoothies, as I don't feel it would alter the taste, but would add a nice boost of protein.

The Kirkland Signature organic plain Greek yogurt from Costco was the best bang for my buck.

The $6 Kirkland Signature organic nonfat Greek yogurt came in a 48-ounce tub.

On a cost-per-ounce basis, it was the best value of the varieties I tried. The entire tub was cheaper than the 365 organic yogurt from Whole Foods — and contained 16 more ounces.

The Kirkland Signature yogurt would make a great base for fruit or granola.

The Kirkland Signature yogurt was rich and full-bodied, with just enough tartness to give it some depth.

I appreciated that this yogurt, though less dense than the others, didn't have a puddle of whey at the top. It seemed like an ideal base for fruit, granola, or other add-ins.

Finally, I tried Wegmans' organic nonfat plain Greek yogurt.

The 32-ounce tub of organic Greek yogurt from Wegmans cost $6 — a pleasant surprise, as I thought it would be more expensive.

Some whey floated at the top of the yogurt, but only creamy goodness remained once I dumped it out.

Overall, the yogurt from Wegmans was my favorite.

This Greek yogurt was creamy and smooth with the slightest tang, making it a solid base for add-ins. I think its light consistency would also be ideal to use in recipes.

Notably, this yogurt had the most sugar (7 grams) of all four options I tried. My daughter also liked it the most, so I plan on packing it in a container with some toppings for her lunch.

I liked this yogurt so much that I'm permanently keeping it in my refrigerator. The next time we need Greek yogurt, I'll reach for this one from Wegmans.

This story was originally published on June 9, 2024, and most recently updated on March 24, 2026.

• 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.

• Career growth depends on building a network rather than relying solely on your manager's support.
• Career coach Andrea Wasserman encourages forming cross-functional relationships to enhance visibility.
• Office "influencers" shape outcomes without formal authority, making them key allies for career progress.

Many corporate professionals believe their career trajectory hinges on one person: their boss. They think: If my manager advocates for me, I'll get promoted. If not, I'm stuck.

That's a misconception because promotions rarely come from a single champion — they come from a web of relationships. These include people who shape the perception of others, pressure-test your thinking, influence decision-makers, and speak about you when you're not in the room.

If you want your career trajectory to soar this year, you should be refining your relationship strategy, starting with these five categories of people.

1. The cross-functional partner who depends on you

High performers often invest in building deep credibility within their own team and spend significant time thinking about how to impress senior leaders, but neglect peers in adjacent functional areas. This limits visibility.

I once worked with a retail marketing director who consistently exceeded her revenue targets. She assumed that would be enough for promotion, but when senior executives evaluated her readiness for a broader role, they asked, "How does she lead cross-functionally?" Her merchandising partner on another team described her as territorial and protective. This stalled her progression.

She rebuilt the relationship by scheduling monthly alignment meetings with merchandising and supply chain, asking about their margin pressures, and proactively adjusting campaign timing to reduce markdown risk. Within two quarters, her boss told her those partners started advocating for her "one company" mindset.

Cross-functional relationships create leverage because they expand who experiences your leadership. Your reputation can't grow within your silo.

2. The culture carrier

Every organization has culture carriers who are respected insiders without an HR title or the formal authority to lead culture, who set an example of acceptable norms and embody how decisions actually get made. They may not have the biggest titles, but they have credibility and context.

When a newly promoted vice president entered a financial services firm, I saw him struggle in executive meetings. His ideas were strong, but they didn't land. He later realized he was presenting a detailed analysis in a culture that valued decisive framing.

He built a relationship with a longtime chief of staff who was widely respected but rarely in the spotlight. She helped him understand the company's "operating language," which is how leaders structure arguments, how disagreement is expressed, and what signals executive readiness.

Within months, his presence shifted. He wasn't more competent than before, but he was better prepared to show up appropriately. It's critical to understand the unwritten rules so you can move inside them with greater ease.

3. The influencer without formal authority

There's often someone who shapes outcomes without owning the final vote. It may be a product manager, a program lead who briefs the executive team, or a person who controls the data that frames strategic decisions. These influencers control how far your work goes and what people think of it.

A senior operations leader once told me she was invisible in the prep work for big meetings, even though she felt she had valuable contributions to make. Instead of chasing her boss and pleading for airtime, she focused on the strategy lead, who oversaw the synthesis of updates and recommendations from various functional areas. She began sending structured summaries — three risks, three opportunities, and one recommendation — to that person ahead of key meetings. Within weeks, her language began appearing verbatim in board decks.

Rather than demanding visibility, she became indispensable to someone who already had a seat at the table. While it's tempting to chase senior leaders, don't overlook the people who shape what those leaders see.

4. The truth-teller

Feedback can be hard to get. Your boss may soften it, peers may avoid it, and direct reports may filter it, but without it, your growth will stall. You need one person who will tell you the hard truths before they cost you credibility.

A high-potential director once asked a peer she trusted, "What's one thing I do that might be hurting how I'm perceived?" The answer she got made her uncomfortable: "You over-explain when you're presenting, and it makes you sound defensive." In executive settings, brevity signals confidence, but her error never came up in a performance review.

She began practicing tighter framing. Within months, leaders described her as more decisive and executive. The issue wasn't competence — she was simply unaware of a change she needed to make.

5. The sponsor — but built through exposure, not "pick your brain" requests

Senior sponsorship doesn't start with a formal ask for mentorship or coffee dates. It happens through consistent exposure to your work and your thinking behind it.

One client assumed his boss's boss would naturally champion him, having heard through the grapevine about his analytical rigor. He delivered strong results but only showed the output, not the problem-solving process. I coached him to shift his approach and, instead of presenting only one conclusion, bring structured options: "Here are three paths, here's the tradeoff, and here's my recommendation."

The goal is to have someone who references your strategic ability in executive meetings, so you become known as "already operating at the next level."

Next steps

If you're new to your organization, introverted, or stretched thin, prioritizing several relationships may feel overwhelming. It doesn't have to be.

Start with two relationships this quarter. Replace one transactional update with a strategic conversation. Ask one person for candid feedback. Offer one cross-functional assist that wasn't required. In a hybrid work environment, it's ideal to schedule these conversations for in-person days, but it's better to make them happen remotely than not at all.

If you focus only on impressing your boss, you narrow your sphere of influence. By building these five relationships, you expand your reach. This road map will ensure that enough of the right people experience your capabilities.

• Tom Blake, 29, turned his college side-hustle experiments into a full-time content business.
• He now makes a six-figure living by testing and reviewing side hustles on YouTube and Substack.
• Paid market research is one of Blake's top side hustle recommendations, offering low-stress income.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Tom Blake, a 29-year-old YouTuber and blogger, about his experiments with side hustles. It's been edited for length and clarity.

I started experimenting with side hustles in 2014 while I was in college for a simple reason: I needed to pay the bills. Since then, I've tried over 100 of them — everything from AI website generation to crypto reward programs to paid shopping.

I read a lot about side hustles on Reddit, and many just didn't work as advertised. In 2018, this frustration led me to start a blog documenting my side hustle tests.

I studied psychology, minored in marketing, and interned at a digital marketing agency, which became my first job after graduating. I kept side hustling because the job had a pretty low starting salary, and I wanted to build wealth faster.

I then realized I could make more money on my own outside my job if I worked hard.

My content business is now my full-time job

Over time, the blog grew steadily, and my content business — including my main YouTube channel, a smaller YouTube channel, some blogs, and an email newsletter — became my full-time job.

From ad revenue and affiliate links, it made about $1,700 in its first year, then about $7,000 the next, and $20,000 the year after. Over its lifetime, it generated more than $1 million in revenue before I sold it at the end of 2023.

Since then, I've become a digital nomad earning six figures by testing side hustles and online gigs on YouTube and my Substack. I make about $2,500 a month from side hustles, including gig apps, money-making websites, investing, consulting, and freelance gigs.

These are five of the most lucrative and realistic side hustles I've found, especially for beginners.

1. Paid market research

This is one of the simplest ways I've ever made money, and I still do it today.

Companies need feedback from real people. Sometimes they're looking for niche groups like accountants or grocery store workers, but you can join platforms to find open focus groups or market research calls.

Typically, you apply for studies through platforms like User Interviews or Respondent. If you're selected, you join a Zoom call with a researcher, answer questions for 30 to 60 minutes, and get paid.

The pay varies widely, but it's common to earn $50 to $80 for a half-hour session, or $75 to $100 for an hour. A few months ago, I did a 45-minute conversation about AI and earned $200.

The downside is that you won't qualify for most studies you apply to, and you have to apply to each one. Still, I can usually land one every month or two, and the work is easy and low-stress.

2. Niche gig economy apps

Most people think of the gig economy as Uber or DoorDash, but there's a whole world of lesser-known apps that can be pretty lucrative.

One example is Sharetown. It partners with mattress and furniture brands to handle oversize returns — things like sofas and mattresses that retailers don't want back in their warehouses.

As a Sharetown rep, you pick up returned items from customers, resell them on Facebook Marketplace, and split the proceeds with the company. Sharetown tells you what to pick up and what price to list it for.

I've spoken with reps who make a few thousand dollars a month, especially in busy areas. You need a vehicle that can haul large items, but for the right person, it's a clever way to start a flipping business with almost no upfront risk.

There are also apps like Dolly and Lugg, which pay people to help with moving jobs. You can sign up as a driver if you have a vehicle, or just as a helper if you don't.

3. Rewards and discovery apps

Rewards apps have improved a lot in recent years. They're apps that pay users for downloading apps, playing mobile games, and trying products and services.

I use Scrambly. I've earned more than $1,000 using it in testing over the last few months. One offer I received paid me $250 to open a bank account.

I don't recommend this as a primary source of income. Most of the time, you're earning around $4-$5 per hour, but if you're already playing mobile games or planning to switch bank accounts, it's worth checking them out.

4. AI training and data annotation

One new side hustle I've been testing is AI training.

Many companies hire human testers to review AI-generated outputs from different models and rate them, helping improve them over time. It's essentially quality assurance for artificial intelligence.

I recently started testing this space and was accepted into a platform called Micro1. After a 20-minute screening process, I was able to apply for paid projects.

Pay rates vary dramatically. Some roles pay only a few dollars an hour, while more specialized projects, such as those that require a Ph.D. in a specific field, can pay $25 to $50 or more. The work is fairly steady, and some even offer 30 to 40 hours a week.

5. Website and app testing

This is another side hustle I did frequently in college and still recommend for beginners through sites such as PlaytestCloud, Userlytics, and Trymata.

Companies pay users to test websites and apps under development. You follow the instructions or navigate the product yourself, then share honest feedback. Most tests pay $10 to $20 and take about 15 to 20 minutes. Longer tests of up to an hour can pay $50 to $100.

The downside is that you have to sign up and claim the tests while they're available, on a first come first serve basis.

Lessons I've learned

Side hustles can be exciting, and I think people should experiment with them, but if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Before trying anything, I always recommend reading reviews and checking forums as part of basic due diligence. If someone online is promising massive hourly earnings with no downside, that's a red flag.

• I tried a three-ingredient air-fryer recipe for pork chops, and was very impressed by the results.
• The air-fryer method significantly reduces post-cooking cleanup time, which I love.
• Ultimately, I was able to make perfectly cooked, tender, and juicy pork chops in just 15 minutes.

I love using my air fryer, and I haven't found many things it can't cook really well.

So, I was pretty optimistic when I tried making air-fryer pork chops for the first time — and the recipe I found from food blog Chewable Structures couldn't be easier.

After all, it doesn't require any marinade or time-intensive prep work.

The ingredients are simple and easy to customize.

For this recipe, I used thin-cut, bone-in pork chops. After patting them dry, all I needed to do was coat each one with a drizzle of olive oil and give it a little massage.

Next, I had to season the chops. The recipe suggests using the McCormick chipotle-and-roasted-garlic seasoning. However, you can easily create your own blend depending on what you like.

I made one with salt, pepper, roasted garlic, onion powder, and chipotle pepper. (This technically meant I used a little more than three ingredients, but I didn't mind at all.)

After preheating the air fryer, the chops are ready to start cooking.

The only other prep I had to do for the recipe was preheating my air fryer to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

No matter what type of air fryer you have, though, just be sure to give each pork chop enough room in the basket. This will help them to cook evenly.

My air fryer has two baskets, so I cooked one pork chop in each basket for 10 minutes on one side and five minutes on the other.

My best tip is to choose thin pork chops.

Because the meat was sliced thin, my pork chops cooked up very quickly. This recipe works with thicker chops, but you'll need to increase the cooking time.

Whether you choose bone-in or boneless pork chops is up to you, but I find bone-in pork chops to be more flavorful.

The pork chops were ready in 15 minutes and tasted amazing.

Within about 15 minutes, my meat was cooked. And, as the recipe said, the pork chops retained their moisture thanks to the olive-oil coating.

This coating also helped the seasoning stick to the meat better, creating a nice crust on the chop.

This simple recipe took very little time and effort, and the result was absolutely delicious. Minimal dishes were required, and I loved not having to monitor the chops on the stovetop or preheat my oven, either.

I can't see myself making pork chops in anything but my air fryer after this, and I will definitely be making this quick, easy air-fryer recipe again.

This story was originally published on September 22, 2022, and most recently updated on March 16, 2026.

• I've lived in Florida for over 25 years and have explored some of the state's most peaceful islands.
• I love Cedar Key, a charming small town with lots of local businesses.
• North Captiva Island, which is only accessible by boat or plane, is also worth a visit.

When thinking about islands in Florida, places like Key West, Sanibel, or Fisher Island probably come to mind. However, after living in the Sunshine State for more than 25 years, I know there are so many more beautiful places to explore.

Beyond the famous names are lesser-known gems that offer natural beauty, charm, and a sense of escape. Whether you're craving a quiet beach day, a kayaking adventure, or a peaceful getaway without the crowds, these six islands deliver.

Santa Rosa Island feels like a secret paradise.

If you're looking for a beach that feels like a total escape, Santa Rosa Island might just be your new favorite spot.

Tucked along the Florida panhandle, this barrier island includes areas that are part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore, a federally protected stretch of coastline.

I could spend days basking in the soft, sugar-white sand, emerald-green water, and peaceful vibes.

There's plenty to do on St. George Island.

In my opinion, St. George Island is the definition of a true beach escape.

Located on the Florida Panhandle and connected to the mainland by a long bridge, it offers 22 miles of uncrowded beaches, clear water, and an easygoing vibe that's hard to beat.

The island is known for its family-friendly atmosphere, stargazing (thanks to minimal light pollution), and state park, which is perfect for beachcombing, hiking, or just soaking up the sun.

Cedar Key has a charming small-town island vibe.

Located on Florida's Gulf Coast, visiting Cedar Key feels like stepping back in time — in the best way possible.

It's a quaint little island town known for its charm, fresh seafood, and slower pace of life. I also love that most spots are small businesses run by locals.

Instead of modern architecture, you'll find weathered wooden docks and colorful cottages, giving it an old-Florida feel. It's the kind of place where you kayak through calm waters by day and eat local clams on a breezy porch by night.

Duck Key is the perfect place for a romantic getaway.

If you've driven the Overseas Highway through the Florida Keys, you might've zoomed right past Duck Key without even realizing it. But in my opinion, it's totally worth a stop.

About halfway between Key Largo and Key West, this little island is low-key, peaceful, and packed with old-school Keys charm.

I recommend visiting Hawks Cay Resort, which has everything from lagoon-style pools to a dolphin experience right on site. Go kayaking or paddleboarding right from the shore, take a snorkeling tour, or enjoy a cocktail with a view.

Whether you're planning a family vacation or a romantic getaway, the island caters to both, offering activities for everyone.

Gasparilla Island is a quiet seaside escape.

Located off Florida's Gulf Coast, Gasparilla Island is a gorgeous spot with historic seaside charm.

With powdery white-sand beaches, clear waters, and a tranquil vibe, the island is perfect for those looking to unwind and enjoy the outdoors.

At the heart of the island is the charming town of Boca Grande, filled with pastel-colored cottages, golf carts cruising the streets, and a laid-back atmosphere.

On the island, you'll also find the Port Boca Grande Lighthouse, which is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful lighthouses in the state.

North Captiva Island is a true off-the-grid escape.

If you really want to unplug, North Captiva Island is the spot. It's only accessible by boat or small plane, and there are no cars on the island — just golf carts and barefoot beachgoers.

With very little commercial development here, you'll want to come prepared with snacks, water, and a good beach read. In return, you'll get miles of untouched beaches and a truly remote escape.

This story was originally published on August 28, 2025, and most recently updated on March 16, 2026.

• 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chinese universities are far cheaper and more specialized

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

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

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

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

Studying in both systems changed how I think about education

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

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

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

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

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

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

But everything changed after our son was born.

We moved to New York City to live our dream life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our priorities shifted after the birth of our son

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

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

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

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

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

An unexpected step toward a dream come true

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

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

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

• 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.

• 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."