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

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

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

So I wrote about it. Then, everything changed.

A stranger sent me a message

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

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

My family told me I'd been scammed

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

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

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

I couldn't believe my eyes

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

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

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

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

In Seattle, my boys led the chants

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now I can change that Facebook photo.

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

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

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

Having other children in my home makes me anxious

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

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

For my neurodivergent family, home is our safe space

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sending our kids to camp gives us parents a break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She has been forgetting the things she loved

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

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

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

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

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

My daughter went to a preschool in China

But then I got pregnant.

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

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

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

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

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

We then moved to Cambodia

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

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

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

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

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

My husband and I are restless and want to move again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting a new chapter without my mom was hard

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

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

The happy moments became bittersweet

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

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

My focus has shifted

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

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

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

Grief has changed motherhood for me

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

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

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

Parenting young kids often feels like saying no on repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I set boundaries, but kept them simple

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

I let her lead, even when it was uncomforable

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

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

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

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

The small things seemed to matter most

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

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

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

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

I enjoyed watching what she did with the freedom

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

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

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

I needed to stretch my comfort too

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

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

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

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

She reminded me I deserve yeses too

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood changed my perspective

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

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

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

Multigenerational moments are fleeting

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

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

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

The World Cup is a time to connect with our heritage

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Christina Nicolson is the mother of 11-year-old Landon Nicholson. They live in Wellington, Florida.
• Landon approached her about starting a vending machine business over a year ago.
• Christina, a business owner herself, shares what it's been like so far.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Christina Nicholson, the mother of Landon Nicholson. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My son, Landon, and I own a vending machine together. We started when he was 10, over a year ago. Landon got the idea for his vending machine business at one of his sister's basketball games. He was helping at the concession stand during a Wellington Wolves tournament and started noticing just how many people wanted snacks and drinks.

That was the moment the lightbulb went off. First, he wanted to have a candy store, and I said, "Let's start smaller."

I'm a business owner, so I was game to do it

Landon has always wanted to make his own money. Maybe it's because he's seen me do it; I started my own media company right after he was born. He's always seen me be my own boss and seen the flexibility that comes with that. To start, we got a book and watched some YouTube videos to learn about it.

First, we had to find a spot for it. He was taking acting lessons at our community center during the summer, and he went to the front desk and asked if they had a vending machine. They said that they used to, but didn't anymore. He said, "Do you want one? That's my business."

They gave him the contact person, and we set up a meeting with the village of Wellington. We put together a proposal that included what we'd put in there and how much we would sell it for, and they okayed it. They had a contract. The agreement was that 26% of the commission would go to them, and Landon and I would split the profits 50/50.

In September of 2024, we bought a vending machine for $1,500 and had it shipped for $843. We also purchased a credit card reader for $385, bought $265 worth of items from Costco, and put $17 in change in the machine to start.

We're still in the hole, but have learned some important lessons

The community center is not very busy. We're not splitting profits yet, but I still think it's been worthwhile.

A big lesson for him was that just because you make money, it doesn't mean it's your money. For example, the first time we went to the vending machine to get money, he was so excited to have all the dollar bills. But I told him that we had to pay the machine off, that 26% goes to the village of Wellington for letting us put our machine in there, and so on. He quickly learned the difference between revenue and profit.

He was also very excited at the beginning of this to go and check on it once a week. He liked to see what needed filling up, what people were liking, and so on. Now, he's not as excited to go. He still enjoys doing it, but that initial excitement has worn off.

I'm being patient with him

Sometimes, you just have to be patient. We're almost there. I encourage him to review the numbers every month; I'll print out the P&L for him to see. He's very impatient, but I remind him that to make a business work, you have to work.

He's learning different business models, how much time they take, and how busy you are going to be. This has been good because of his age; he goes to the community center and checks on it once a week for 15 minutes. He also likes to see what's working. He still asks me every once in a while if he's making money yet.

I wasn't expecting his confidence. It really impressed me. He walked right up to the community center's front desk, asked if they wanted a vending machine, and came home with a business card. I love that he's not afraid. I think this experience will help him with the confidence to start more businesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My father inspired me to start a simple business

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

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

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

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

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

My family works alongside me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took on credit card debt to buy the Stonewall Inn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're honoring the legacy and continuing to take action

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

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

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

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

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

The catch? I had to move away from home.

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

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

The East Coast was nearly impossible to afford

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

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

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

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

Texas was the much cheaper option

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

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

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

I decided to move across the country to Texas

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

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

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

I'm financially comfortable in Texas

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

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

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

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

I made my cross-country move work for me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My sister asked me to go to an adult summer camp

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

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

Instead, I walked into all sorts of surprises.

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

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

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

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

I found comfort in community and rest

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

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

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

The activities themselves almost felt beside the point.

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

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

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

• Alexandra Frost is a former teacher who lives in Ohio and has five children.
• During each pregnancy, she faced logistical challenges due to maternity leave rules.
• Self-employment gave her more flexibility, but it blurred the lines between work and parental leave.

I was 38 weeks pregnant when I stopped being able to walk, at age 28, with my first child of five.

I remember the exact moment, standing in a long hallway, where I couldn't race back to my class where 30 high school kids sat waiting for instruction. I grabbed a rolling chair from a nearby classroom and inched my way back from the bathroom, sitting.

I'd developed a painful pelvic bone condition, and I thought for sure I'd be sent home to bed for the rest of my pregnancy.

But that's not what happened next. Instead, I got a call from HR, detailing my options. I could stop working now — since I couldn't walk and all — but that would count as starting maternity leave early. And that would mean two fewer weeks I'd get to spend with my baby.

So I rolled from student to student in that same chair for the next three weeks, until I delivered my baby overdue.

This was the beginning of my abrupt education into the world of maternity leave, and how policies, procedures, and the workplace dictate what's best for you — not your body, your mind, or even your doctor.

Over the decade that followed, I'd go on to have four more babies, work for multiple employers, and experience multiple parental leave policies. Each one shaped the story of my pregnancy, birth, and motherhood in different ways — some that I valued, and some I'd like to forget.

Baby 1: Toughing out the last weeks of pregnancy for a longer leave

Data from around that same time showed a growing trend of moms working right up until birth, a fear I had with my first child — would my water literally break at a student's feet? It's also why, in education, many teachers try to strategically conceive their babies to line up with school breaks.

In 2014, I learned on leave from my first baby that it was the first of many decisions I'd make as a new mom that involved choosing between my own health and well-being or my child's, who benefited from having me home longer after birth. Ultimately, I was glad to have prolonged the start of my maternity leave as long as I could to get the most healing time possible before heading back to work.

Baby 2: Arbitrary leave rules with big impact

Around 18 short months later, I was back in the delivery room in 2016, and navigating leave with another school district. This one had a unique rule that didn't quite make sense to me — if you had banked 12 weeks of sick leave, you could use all 12 for maternity leave, but only six of those could be paid. As a young working mother now with two babies, also married to an educator, this meant going six weeks without pay to get the most time off with my new baby, while trying to pay for our $4,000 hospital bill and double the diapers.

I called HR multiple times to clarify. Clearly, I'd heard wrong that if I had the sick time that I'd saved up, I couldn't use it still for paid time off? Except I hadn't. Their justification was that they had to make sure we had enough "extra" sick time in our bank so that we wouldn't be in a bind if we or our kids got sick. And here I was thinking it was my decision when and how to use my own sick time.

It taught me that the system isn't really built for moms' or babies' needs; it's for the benefit and convenience of the business, corporations, and districts where we work.

Baby 3: Revolving a leave around benefits

My third child arrived within weeks of a job change in 2018. If I had the baby, due ironically on Labor Day, before the start of a new month, I'd have a certain set of leave benefits. If I had the baby after, I'd have a different set, including insurance with a deductible that would reset. The timing was bizarre.

In this birth, I made the decision to be induced early to reap the massive financial and leave benefits I'd accrued at my first job — I'd met my deductible and the birth would be free if the baby came in time. Induction before the body is ready can come with a slew of risks, I found out. It soon turned into a hellish 28-hour labor, with a failed induction that wouldn't progress and I couldn't turn back from.

I learned that I could try to play God and manipulate my circumstances for financial gain and convenience, but that the body and the baby don't follow your best laid plans. In another world, both employers would have had equally great benefits and leave, and the baby could have come when he was ready. I greatly regret how I handled this, and had to work to undo the trauma of this birth that I caused by trying to rush it.

Baby 4: How it was supposed to be

If you have enough babies, eventually, parental leave will go your way. That was the case with my fourth son, in 2021, when I encountered a largely "chill" contact at my employer who was determined to infuse as much flexibility as possible around the company's standard leave practices.

Late in the pregnancy, when my pelvic pain returned, I was able to take up to five regular sick days off consecutively at a time without them counting toward official leave. This meant I could work for a day, take five days, and repeat — which I did, a handful of times — making the end of pregnancy much less stressful and painful.

I learned from this leave that encountering a contact or boss who would allow the policies to stretch as far as possible to benefit the people who need it. Though real nationwide change would be better, this was a step in the right direction.

Baby 5: Self-employment…better, but worse

A few years into parenting four sons, I quit teaching to establish my own writing, content marketing, and strategy business. I was now my own boss — so the policies better be good, right? Turns out, it's not as easy to take leave as a business owner as I thought.

When it was time to have my fifth baby, I had clients on retainers and editors with deadlines. I had a subcontractor who was luckily loyal and helpful who helped me navigate this. But around a month in, even with the help of a few part time, remote assistants, the emails, projects, and missed opportunities were piling up. I tried to walk the line as carefully as possible to avoid missing opportunities for the sake of full-time bonding with my baby. In reality, this meant only five weeks truly off.

From there, the lines blurred between leave and flexible work. I'd sneak in some work at naptime to keep the bank accounts balanced. I'd work as I nursed a fussing toddler during witching hour in the evenings. I worried as a mom of five about the choice to take time off at the expense of our finances. But in the end, I was in control, which felt better.

From this leave, I learned that maybe I didn't need super long leaves; I just needed choice. I didn't regret going back to work "early" when it was my own decision, not being forced on me by an employer or policy.

Do you have a story to share about your career? Contact this editor, Debbie Strong, at dstrong@businessinsider.com.

• Mori Nishimura, 34, grew up in New Zealand and moved to Japan at 16.
• After graduation, he began his career at real estate companies in Tokyo.
• Last year, he started his own company, which provides nature-based stays in mobile cabins in Japan.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Mori Nishimura, 34, the CEO of A Cabin Company in Japan. It's been edited for length and clarity.

I felt lost growing up. As a kid in New Zealand, I never questioned where I belonged. But as I got older, I became more aware of how different I was from my peers, which sparked my curiosity about Japan and my father's decision to leave it behind.

My father moved our family to Auckland because he wanted us to grow up surrounded by nature and away from the pressures of city life in Japan.

There weren't many Japanese families around, and I often felt caught between two cultures.

At 16, I moved to Japan by myself and enrolled in a boarding school in Kyoto. Life there was the opposite of New Zealand: Suddenly, I had curfews instead of the freedom to roam.

For the first time, I wasn't the odd one out. Two-thirds of the students were returnees — kids who had grown up abroad and come back to Japan — and they understood.

Exploring the countryside

Later, at university, I started exploring Japan. In the morning, before school started, I'd often drive out to different places and go surfing. I became fascinated with the Japanese countryside.

It reminded me of my childhood in New Zealand, when I used to escape into the woods near our house and build huts.

After graduating in 2015, I felt lost again and considered returning to New Zealand. Instead, I stayed in Tokyo and worked in real estate. A few years later, I started posting on LinkedIn about Japan's real estate market, the countryside, hospitality, and other interests. Eventually, I decided to strike out on my own.

During the pandemic, I traveled through rural Japan and reflected on what I wanted next. I came across a US company building tiny cabins on trailer chassis and saw an opportunity in Japan: fully operational accommodations that could bypass building permits and zoning laws because they were legally classified as vehicles.

I adapted the concept.

Starting a company from scratch

In 2024, I shared the idea on LinkedIn and wasn't targeting investors. Over time, though, the posts began attracting people who wanted to be part of what I was building.

A year later, when I launched a pre-seed fundraiser, investors reached out to back the business. My two full-time employees also found me through LinkedIn — the platform became an unexpected way to build both a team and a network of supporters.

The money raised from the fundraiser was used to open the first cabin in a national park in Chiba — about a two-hour train ride from central Tokyo — in August that year.

The 16-square-meter cabin is made from Japanese sugi and hinoki cedar and centered around a large picture window overlooking nature. Guests get complimentary firewood, coffee, and tea, plus bikes for rides to a nearby supermarket. It reached full occupancy within three months and has stayed booked ever since.

My second cabin opened in May, and my third will open in September.

Since the cabins are built on trailers, they are legally classified as vehicles rather than buildings.

Running a startup in Japan has been challenging because the ecosystem is still relatively new compared to those in other countries. There aren't many venture capital firms, so there aren't a lot of funding options.

The cabin costs about 30,000 Japanese yen for two guests, or about $190, a night.

So far, around 70% of our guests have been women. That came as a surprise, as I thought we'd get more solo male travelers, but we haven't had any.

Living up to my name

I didn't tell my parents when I started the business; they probably would have stopped me. When they found out, they were surprised but supportive.

My father was my biggest inspiration. About five years ago, he moved back to Japan and started looking for affordable land in the countryside where he could build a small cabin himself. But after being diagnosed with a terminal illness, he never got to see it completed. That experience gave me an even stronger sense of purpose in building the company.

He also gave me the name "Mori," which simply means "forest" in Japanese. It felt like I was born to do this.

Rebuilding my relationship with nature

My company focuses on nature, but I don't get to go out as much these days, except when I bring in guests. I work every day of the week.

Resting in Tokyo or any other big city is different because you never really switch off. I like doing campfires and having barbecues when I have the chance.

I want to enjoy my own cabin, but I can't because it's booked out.

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted my own space — away from the boys

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

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

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

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

I needed space. Quiet space. Feminine space.

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

I decluttered the attic to make room for me

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

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

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

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

Designing from the inside out

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

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

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

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

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

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

I now have my own feminine sanctuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Same-day medical care is possible

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

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

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

Ditching our car improved our lives

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

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

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

We can travel frequently

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

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

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

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

Our housing and grocery bills plummeted by more than half

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was laid off after decades in the media business

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder how much my age is factored into my struggles

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

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

When will I retire? When I hit the lottery.

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

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

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

Add in that I moved to Mexico City three years ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More security and safety

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

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

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

Built-in companionship

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

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

Household help and shared responsibilities

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

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

Everybody wins

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

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

• When my son was young, I let myself dream one day and made a list of what I'd do with endless money.
• Those things seemed impossible when swirling around in my head, but on paper, they didn't.
• The list became a vision board, and then, it helped me plan and build my future.

By the time my son was almost 1, I had a small amount of savings and a part-time job, but I wasn't exactly flush with cash. Still, I was slowly emerging from the financial survival mode I had been in for most of my 20s, focusing solely on caring for my first baby.

Finances began to dominate my concerns as I became serious about building a stable future for us. I didn't want to be so worried about money forever. But first, I wanted to fantasize — just for a moment — about what I'd do with my life if money were a non-issue.

Just for a moment, I wanted to pretend I didn't have to worry about money

I sat down at the kitchen table while my son took his afternoon nap. He was about 10 months old then. With a cup of coffee, I allowed myself to dream. I wrote "Wishlist" at the top of a blank spiral notebook sheet, and then started listing bullet items. It took less than five minutes.

When I was done, I started examining each item on its own: Go to Paris, Buy my own house, Finish my degree, Become a teacher, Get us whatever we need without worrying, Get a dog, Start a business. When they'd been stirring around in my mind all together, these things seemed outlandish. Own my own home as a single person? It didn't seem possible — until I saw it written down on that paper, and started truly thinking about what it would take to make it happen.

Broken down individually, these things suddenly looked much more attainable. Yes, it'd still take a lot of time and effort to achieve, and I may not get them all — or all at the same time — but it wasn't impossible for me to build the life I wanted for myself and my son. For example, finishing my degree wasn't really that crazy when I started thinking about it. By applying for financial aid or loans and saving up for tuition, I knew it wouldn't be impossible to complete just two years of college to finish my Bachelor's degree.

My wishlist started looking more like a blueprint for our future

I saw that college was really one of the first steps to getting the rest of the things that I had written down. With a degree, I knew I could earn more money. With the possibility of a dependable income in mind, I could now visualize us in our own house — with that dog! I foresaw less worry about expenses, like clothes, groceries, and even extras, such as more travel and eating out.

My son is 12 now. Since I wrote that list over a decade ago, I have started a couple of businesses while finishing my degree. And yes, I even bought my own house, and we got a dog. It was by no means easy or fast. After I sat down at my kitchen table, it took a total of five years — and very little rest — to achieve all of that.

We haven't yet made it to Paris, but I was so proud to take us on a "real" vacation — with airplanes, rental cars, and hotels — to Vermont one summer. While I was able to work for some of the things that I once thought were far-fetched, the financial concern never went away. I still worry about paying for things we need sometimes, but I also try to alleviate the anxiety by reassuring myself that I always figure it out.

Without realizing it, I was designing our future that day

After I finished my degree, I taught English for six years. I now know that what I did that day with my wishlist was backward planning, a strategy in which you start with the final goal or assessment and work backward to determine the steps needed to get there. All of my bullet list items were final goals. Once the goals were clear, it was easier to determine the steps to get there.

Or maybe when I allowed myself to dream that day and wrote down my desires on that piece of paper, part of me was manifesting my future. By taking that small step, I could see that the things I wanted weren't really that out of reach — with the right amount of foresight and planning, of course. For the next several years, that list was basically my vision board.

Money makes things easier sometimes, but I no longer view it as a barrier

I thought money stood in the way of everything I dreamed of, but it didn't. Once I saw that there was a way to get to where I wanted to go, with the right plan, the world opened up a little more for me. My wishlist was powerful, because I saw that with enough drive, nothing should really stop me from going after my dreams.

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

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

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

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

I was ready to settle down and find my partner

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

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

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

I met my husband while waiting in line at the conference

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

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

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

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

I was looking at my husband.

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

We've since built a life together

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I needed to move to Japan

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

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

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

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

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

Life back in Europe

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living in a foreign country is tough

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

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

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

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

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

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

• I tried cheeseburgers from Culver's, Freddy's, and Sonic to see which chain is best in the Midwest.
• The Sonic burger was filling, but the bun felt a little too soggy. My Freddy's burger was OK.
• My favorite fast-food sandwich came from Culver's, which is known for its ButterBurgers.

It's hard to pin down exactly when and where the hamburger was created. After all, similar ground-meat-based dishes have been around across cultures for centuries.

However, several sources I've found do agree that the hamburgers we know and love today likely originated somewhere in the Midwestern region of the US.

All restaurants serve them a bit differently, but as a Midwest native from Kansas City, Missouri, I wanted to see which popular chain near me had the best basic cheeseburger.

I went to Sonic, Culver's, and Freddy's to find out.

First, I ordered from Culver’s.

I love a good trip to Culver's. The chain, which started in Wisconsin, is a Midwest staple that's expanded to over 1,000 locations across 26 states since 1984.

During this visit, I ordered a ButterBurger with cheese, which cost me $5.46.

The Culver’s ButterBurger was the freshest-tasting option.

I liked how the Culver's burger was wrapped in waxy paper. Although I waited to eat my burger at home, I could easily peel the paper back and eat it on the go.

My deluxe single cheeseburger came with one flat patty, tomato, American cheese, lettuce, sweet red onion, pickles, and the brand's signature mayo.

The bun was buttered and nicely toasted, and the produce was crisp. It tasted fresh and flavorful. I had no complaints.

Next, I swung through Sonic Drive-In.

For those who aren't as familiar with the fast-food chain, Sonic has only drive-in and drive-thru options — customers don't go inside.

Founded in Oklahoma, Sonic is by far the largest chain in this taste test, with more than 3,000 locations in 47 states.

Sonic locations have stalls where you can pull in, push a button, and order your meal. Carhops then walk or skate the food to your car, giving it a nostalgic, 1950s-style vibe.

However, you can also use the more modern drive-thru if you don't want the production.

I was quickly in and out of there with my $5.96 burger.

Sonic's cheeseburger was the most filling.

Sonic's cheeseburger came wrapped in foil and paper, and it did get slightly smashed on the side after riding in its bag to my final destination.

The patty was thick and juicy and stacked with crinkle-cut pickles, American cheese, onions, ketchup, mayo, lettuce, and tomatoes.

In my opinion, Sonic's burger patties were the juiciest and packed the most flavor. The burger had a lot of condiments, however, so the toasted bun was soggy by the time I sat down to eat it.

Lastly, I picked up a Freddy's burger.

Freddy's Frozen Custard & Steakburgers was founded in Wichita, Kansas, in 2002. These days, Freddy's has more than 500 locations across 36 states.

Inside, Freddy's has a bit of a '50s diner aesthetic, with bright white and red decor and fun signs pointing to the pickup stations.

My original cheeseburger cost $7.52 and came in a square, insulated sleeve. Since it wasn't wrapped as tightly, I had to rearrange the bun and toppings a little when I got home.

The chain's burger fell a little flat.

Freddy's regular burgers come with two patties, which are flat with crispy edges. Those are layered with two slices of cheese, crinkle-cut pickles, ketchup, mustard, onions — all between a toasted bun.

In the past, I've really enjoyed the crispy edges of Freddy's burger patties. This time, though, the edges of my burger were more chewy and dry than crispy. I don't know whether it was the packaging, the commute, or just some unfortunate luck.

If the Freddy's patties had been as crispy as I've had them before, I would've liked them more.

Still, the burger was delicious and filling — and I enjoyed the mix of condiments, cheese, and pickles — but I also missed the tomatoes and lettuce that came on the other two.

For this taste test, I ordered the default iteration of each burger, but next time, I'd add lettuce and tomatoes to this one (for no extra charge).

In the end, Culver’s cheeseburger was my favorite.

For me, the winner of the three-burger showdown was Culver's.

The fresh crispness of the produce and thicker tomato slices added texture and flavor. The patty felt like a decent size, and the buttery, toasted bun was a nice touch.

Culver's burger also ended up being the cheapest of the three, which is a huge plus.

I'd definitely eat at the other two chains again, but the Culver's burger was just too good to beat.

This story was originally published on October 29, 2024, and most recently updated on May 26, 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I also feel anxious about him being happy to be home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heading back to school was expensive

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

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

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

My side gig helped

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The problem is, I rarely commend them directly.

My parents did not praise me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My kids want to know I'm proud of them

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving to Denver came with a promise

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

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

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

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

My friends started moving away

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had a personal reckoning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking home from school

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

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

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

Walking to the convenience store

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

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

Wandering around the park

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• 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."