• My grandmother had 10 children, but they were always well-fed and had a happy home.
• She loved to go thrift shopping and never wasted any food.
• She taught me how to make a great life for my son as a single mom.

I often think of one sentence from my late grandmother's obituary: "She kept her 10 children fed and clothed."

Yes, she had 10 children, but what's mesmerizing about this statement is that she always made sure her children had what they needed. As a former single mom of just one boy, I know firsthand that keeping your children fed, clothed, and taken care of is no small feat.

Once I had my own son, I was blessed to spend a lot of time with my grandmother, as we both lived in the same area for the first time. I saw her several times a week, often for lunch or dinner visits. On Sundays and holidays, she typically had our family over for dinner.

I observed all of the ways in which she made these daily meals, visits, and holidays special without having a lot of money.

She showed me that buying secondhand could help stretch a small budget

My grandmother loved frequenting thrift stores and yard sales so that most of her clothes and furniture were found items. In retirement, she volunteered at the local thrift store and always bought things for her children and grandchildren, frequently asking us if there was anything we needed.

The toys she found for my son often became his favorite, while the gently used clothing she picked up for him helped me always keep my son in well-fitting clothes. When I moved into my own home, we scoured yard sales together and found my dining room table and even a lawn mower for my new yard.

I had a handful of Christmases as a mom that were tough money-wise. I found myself using my experience thrifting with my grandmother to find unique gifts, such as a vintage Coca-Cola snow globe and a collector's Batman and Joker set. My son didn't know they weren't brand new. To him, they were just treasures that he still has.

She fed us all well with so little in her kitchen

When it came to putting a meal together, I still marvel at the way my grandmother could create something cozy and plentiful with very little on hand. Dinners were adorned with plates of pickles and olives, saltines and butter, and linen napkins.

These small things helped meals feel more like an event and also gave the impression of an abundance of food.

She earned a reputation for never letting anything go to waste, a habit she developed growing up on a farm during the Great Depression. Leftovers were reworked into meals the next day, and there was never anything too small to save, whether half of an apple or just one clove of garlic.

I saw that it didn't take much money to make a house feel like a home. Even the ordinary day felt special if you were visiting with her. Sure, her decorations were small acts of love, but she was also attentive. She really made the point to see how you were doing and was hospitable, always offering a cookie or another cup of coffee.

I found myself resorting to her secrets when money got tight

As a single mom on a small budget, I caught myself using the same tricks I had picked up from my grandmother. My son's birthday parties, for instance, were often decorated with found items around the home — tablecloths, flowers, and decorative dishware.

For holidays, I focused on the traditions we could build that cost next to nothing but emphasized togetherness, such as making festive cutout cookies or taking Christmas light drives around the neighborhood.

I ensured holidays were never about the quantity of gifts, but the thought put into them. My grandmother always got me one present for my birthday or Christmas, but it would be something special, often useful, and timeless.

Because of her, I knew how to provide my son

I struggled with wanting to provide for my son without having a lot of money. I never wanted him to feel like he was lacking in anything.

In many ways, my grandmother showed me how to create an illusion of plenty. It didn't matter that I relied on used goods or had to find ways to spread the groceries out because my son never noticed. He was always fed and clothed well.

Most of all, he felt safe. His home was warm, welcoming, and decorated to cheer up our day-to-day lives. I was always there for him, offering to be a Lego buddy or seeing if he needed a snack. My grandmother's ways showed me that I didn't need a lot of money to take care of my son. I just needed to be there for him, with the right attitude and creative ingenuity.

• My dad is retired but stays busy, chaperoning events at the local high school and playing softball.
• It's not surprising to me — even before he retired, he never had just one job.
• His version of retirement has shaped my own relationship with work and hustle.

On a recent Saturday morning, my retired parents texted me, the resident family foodie, for restaurant recommendations in Raleigh, North Carolina. I don't live there, but they figured I'd know where to look. They're not on vacation, exactly — they're there for one of my dad's 60-and-over softball league tournaments.

This is just part of what retirement looks like for my dad, a retired FDNY firefighter. Rather than settling into a life of golf courses or cruise ship decks, he's just as busy now as he was when he was working — he's simply doing different things.

After more than 20 years fighting fires in New York City, with his pension secured, my dad could have easily slowed down. He could have embraced the kind of stillness most people dream about. Instead, he picks up shifts chaperoning events at our hometown high school a few times a month, everything from school dances to football games.

During his FDNY days, he spent years as captain of the department's softball team, and these days, he still hits the field for regular batting practice and travels around the country to compete in senior leagues. This is his idea of taking it easy.

It doesn't surprise me at all that he hasn't slowed down

Some people might ask: Why keep "doing" when you don't need to? But that question has never really made sense to me. My dad never had just one job. He was running into burning buildings, yes, but also running a small sunroom business he had built from the ground up while making sure he never missed my brother's hockey games or my dance recitals.

His own parents had grown up in Queens with very little and worked hard to move the family out to a house in the suburbs. I think, on some level, he felt he owed it to them to make good on that effort. The way I saw it growing up, slowing down almost felt selfish — movement wasn't just a habit, it was a way of honoring where we came from.

It's no surprise, then, that I find myself replicating that rhythm. I work full-time as the Head of Marketing at a music tech startup, which means that on evenings and weekends, I'm rarely truly "off." And, still, I pitch articles like this one, and I take on freelance clients when I can. The idea of being satisfied with just one job — even if it's a stable one — has never quite taken root in me, and that's not because I fear stillness, but because ambition has always looked like staying in motion.

Watching my dad retire taught me that effort doesn't stop being meaningful once the paycheck becomes optional; it just becomes far more personal when you're not just doing it for money. He does it because he likes being part of something that's larger than himself, whether that's in the hallways of his alma mater or trash-talking in the dugout with guys he's known for decades. There's an inherent purpose in that rhythm.

And sure, I know what the headlines say: older Americans are working longer, and it's often framed around worries about economic uncertainty, about disappearing pensions, and sometimes that is why. But, sometimes, it's a value system passed down — whether we asked for it or not.

I'll likely have a similar version of retirement

My dad's version of retirement is not about refusing to rest but rather about refusing to disappear. His life now is proof that being mentally, socially, and physically active can be its own kind of joy, that usefulness and community don't have to be casualties of aging.

He's still ordering new bats and gloves, booking travel to tournaments, and texting me for restaurant recs in whatever city he's landed in. Meanwhile, I'm working from home in San Juan, Puerto Rico, laptop open, pitching another story while practicing my Spanish and planning my next salsa class. Clearly, neither of us seems interested in sitting still.

When I think about my own future, I'm not sure I'll ever want the version of retirement where I just vanish into leisure, either. Maybe that's the gift my dad gave me: a model for what aging could look like — one where I don't lose sight of myself, but I refocus. Not a stop point, but an entirely new chapter to start — one where your time is still yours to shape in whichever way you see fit.

If I ever do retire, I hope it looks a lot like his. Full of play, purpose, and enough momentum to keep me in motion.

• I was two months pregnant when my sister asked to move in with my partner and me.
• At first, our dynamic was great, and we loved living together. Then, it got a little tense.
• We were in different places, and she eventually moved out, but we're now as close as ever.

When I was two months pregnant with my first child, my older sister called and asked if she could move in temporarily with my partner and me. She needed a fresh start and had decided to move interstate from the Gold Coast, Australia, where we grew up, to Melbourne, where I had been living for about a year.

At the time, my partner Sam and I were living in an old 1950s two-bedroom flat. I'd lived with my sister before in my 20s, so I knew she was easy to live with. After chatting with Sam about it, he said he didn't mind her crashing for a while until she got on her feet.

And so, a few weeks later, my sister arrived on our doorstep.

At first, living together was great

Luckily, my partner and sister have always got on well. Years ago, the three of us traveled through Laos and Thailand together, then later we backpacked around Cuba with my sister, so there was a lot of shared history between us.

Those first couple of months living together were really fun. My sister landed a corporate job in the city and quickly settled into Melbourne life. Melbourne is a cosmopolitan city that's known for its vibrant festival scene, which we embraced wholeheartedly. Every weekend, we would head to an international festival or cultural celebration together.

The household dynamic worked really well to start with. My sister paid rent, which helped us financially. We took turns cooking, and everyone got along. I remember coming home to find my partner squeezing my sister's blackheads on the couch one night and thinking, "Wow, this has taken their bond to a whole new level."

It was a time of transition, and things became a little tense

But it was also a really hectic time for Sam and me. I was battling the trials and tribulations of the first trimester of pregnancy and working full-time as a journalist, while Sam was trying to build his remedial massage business.

Within a few weeks of my sister living with us, Sam proposed to me. We'd been together for about eight years by that point, and with a baby on the way, marriage seemed like the logical next step. Suddenly, there was a wedding to arrange, which added to the stress levels.

After the wedding and honeymoon, I started to feel like the living arrangement wasn't really working out. My pregnancy was getting further along, and my hormones were raging. My sister was in a different phase of life. She was in party mode, while I wanted to nest, decorate the baby's nursery, and relish that so-called newlywed bliss that everyone talks about.

After a while, things became a little tense in the household. I began to feel like we needed our own space. I'm not very good at being direct with people, so I'd discreetly ask my sister how the house hunt was coming along. She eventually got the message and found a flat for herself after five months of living with us.

My sister moved out, and our relationship returned to normal

As soon as she had her own place, our relationship went back to the way it had been before. Sam and I were able to spend some quality time together alone before our son was born and our lives changed forever, while my sister could party guilt-free at her own digs.

Our son is 10 now, and my sister and I live in different states. She has a beautiful little girl of her own and has left the partying days behind. We're still as close as ever despite the eight-year age difference between us, and we often reflect on the happy memories we made in Melbourne together all those moons ago.

• After a break-up, I needed a new place to live but was having trouble finding an apartment I loved.
• My aunt suggested moving to her retirement village, and they accepted my application despite my age.
• I love living here. My neighbors have changed my perspective on aging.

I get mixed reactions every time I tell people I live in a retirement village. Some people just laugh it off because they don't understand how I came to that decision. Some ask, "Isn't that depressing?" while some family members initially thought I was way too young to live around seniors.

I get it — it's not typical to find a 30-something in a retirement village. But every Wednesday morning when I join my silver-haired neighbors for a game of bingo, I realize it's the best decision I've ever made.

After a break-up, I needed somewhere new to live

I'm a 38-year-old woman who's independent by all means. My ex and I previously shared a home, but after our long-term relationship ended, it made sense to move out and start fresh.

While looking for an apartment that had everything I was looking for that I could afford, I had been living in an Airbnb for two months, which was becoming costly.

Then one weekend, I visited one of my favorite aunts in her retirement village and casually explained that I was househunting. She told me that a unit a few minutes from her place had opened up and was actively seeking a tenant.

I didn't see how I could get into the retirement village when there was an age stipulation, but she assured me they had made exceptions before. She was confident, and told me the village's homeowners' association reviewed applications on a case-by-case basis.

And while I desperately needed an apartment, I thought I would feel out of place in the village. I wasn't sure how I would relate to older neighbors or rules like time limits on guest visitations and quiet hours, as I've never really been a stickler for rules. Still, after a lot of convincing, I submitted the application, which included a short letter explaining my situation, rental history, proof of income, credit report, photo ID, and my aunt's recommendation. Then, we waited to hear back.

I was approved, and moved into the retirement village

Six weeks later, I got a call saying I had been approved for the unit. I'm not sure what tipped the scales in my favor; maybe it was my aunt's glowing recommendation, or the fact that I expressed how I desperately needed community after a heartache. Either way, I signed the lease and was a resident.

The actual move was surreal, especially because rent for my two-bedroom apartment is 500 Australian dollars, inclusive of service fee. That's a fraction of the going rate for most apartments of the same size in Melbourne, where a two-bedroom typically goes for AU$2800 to AU$3200. As I moved in, the neighbors introduced themselves, and I particularly remember a retired school principal and an Army vet who were kind enough to set up my bed and TV frame and make sure my cabinets could lock.

My days often start the same way. I'm woken up by the faint sound of my neighbor's golden oldies. I drink coffee while reading the newspaper, enjoy a walk, and watch the occasional cat sunbathing. As members of the village strive to stay fit and have fun, I've joined chair yoga classes, cycled now and then, attended bingo at the clubhouse every Wednesday, and spent my afternoons freelancing.

Evenings are also simple. I walk to the nearby grocery store or diner, bake, or sit on the porch and go down memory lane in unending conversations. These are things I always look forward to, and they are surprisingly peaceful.

I've learned a lot from living here

I've been living in the retirement village for a little over a year. I've stopped considering it a stepping stone to a better place, and I now see it as my home. I've never felt out of place, and living around people who are not in a rush to live life or consumed by tech has been great for my mental health. It's a kind of haven.

My neighbors talk about their life experiences, the books they've read, the jobs they miss, and offer unsolicited yet meaningful advice. I meet their friends and family, making new friends along the way. Last week, my neighbor Anna taught me to make lemon bars, and I can't get enough of her chicken noodle soup.

My new home has reshaped my life ambitions and the way I view aging. I've found immense peace here, and it's my definition of a wonderful life. It's comforting to know that the 70s and 80s aren't so bad after all. As I've learned from those around me, you can still have agency, volunteer, make friends, and start new hobbies, no matter your age.

My experience has taught me how to be a better friend and neighbor. There's always a bowl of soup, apple pie, or a bottle of ginger ale on my front porch because everyone cares. In turn, I help run errands for others when I can, and even better, live only 10 minutes from my aunt.

So, the next time you pass by your local retirement village, don't be shy to ask for an opening; you never know where it will take you.

• Kim Gravel is the founder of two top-performing QVC brands.
• She's also a mom to two teenage boys.
• Gravel has learned a lot from her failures and is determined to let her sons fail too.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Kim Gravel, the founder of Belle by Kim Gravel and Love Who You Are. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was 19 when I won the Miss Georgia pageant. Even more exciting than the crown was the $100,000 salary that came with it.

This was back in 1991, so that was serious money. For the first time, I felt like I was being paid not just for the task I was doing but for my talent.

Since I was little, I knew that I wanted to be paid for the value I brought. My first job was washing hair at a salon. I was making something like $3 an hour, but I knew I was providing more value than I was being paid for. I wasn't just washing hair: I was talking to the ladies about their families and their churches, giving them one-on-one attention.

After my year as Miss Georgia, I was hired as a Goodwill Ambassador to Japan. That came with a nice paycheck, too. I realized that if I got lots of bookings like that, I could make as much as I wanted. I started to develop my speaking and performing skills. I realized my value was whatever price tag I put on it.

That realization helped me become a multimillionaire.

I landed a reality TV show while I had an infant

A few years later, I was married to my husband, Travis. We had an infant and a 2-year-old, and I was bored to death as a stay-at-home mom. I knew my most important job was being a mother, but I wanted more. I needed a sense of purpose.

I Googled reality TV shows and found a contact for a producer. I remember sitting at home, no makeup and no bra, with spit-up on my shirt as I reached out to him. That led to a reality TV show about coaching pageants. It got picked up by Lifetime, and I was so proud to be a stay-at-home mom who had landed a television show.

When the show was canceled 18 months later, I was devastated. I didn't know that would be the turning point in my life.

I love running my company

At the time, I wasn't thinking about myself as an entrepreneur. I just thought I had a slick mouth and a big personality, and I knew how to use them.

After the show was canceled, I whined to my parents, who told me to cut it out and put on my big girl panties. My mom had an idea for soft jeans that wouldn't stretch out throughout the day. I started trying to make her vision come to life, and 18 months later, I was selling them on QVC.

Today, I've created two of QVC's most successful brands. Over the last seven years, I've sold over $1 billion in clothing, and last year my companies did $283 million in sales. I love that I run the company, and my husband is the chief financial officer. I'm not licensing my name or brand; I'm making decisions and developing this company.

Failure has helped me learn

The beautiful thing about being successful and having financial wealth is what you can do with it. Travis and I have built outdoor classrooms and have redone a girls' locker room for our local schools. We also started a nonprofit to teach girls about entrepreneurship.

I grew up middle class, but my dad, a banker, was cheaper than dirt. He taught us to save 70% of our money and live and give with the remaining 30%.

In some ways, I'm still cheaper than dirt. If our family goes out to dinner, we drink water or get one soda to share. My 16-year-old got a hand-me-down car when he got his license: a 2014 Nissan Rogue. I try to be like the millionaire next door.

Throughout my life, I've learned more from my failures than I have from my successes. If my show hadn't been canceled, I wouldn't have started making products.

I want my sons to experience failure, but I'm worried that they're part of a generation that doesn't know how to fail well. I don't want them to experience serious failures, like mental health issues or financial scams. But if they don't make the sports team, I'm not the parent calling the school to express outrage. Failure is our friend in finances, romance, and life. It's where we learn.

• When my husband was laid off, we were panicked at first, but ultimately found the silver lining.
• We love traveling, but never had time to take long trips because of work.
• Though conscious of cost, we're taking the opportunity to travel during my husband's job hunt.

When my husband was laid off earlier this year, we were initially stunned. I spent the first hours worrying over bills, health insurance, and the slow job market for his field of work.

We had some savings, but how much would we need? Once the shock wore off, however, we saw an opportunity.

Time off had always been a challenge with his previous employer, and while we both love to travel, long trips had felt out of reach. Now, he had the time — we just had to get creative with the budget.

We traveled to see family first and then opted for a bucket list trip using credit card points

Our first trip was to see family in the Pacific Northwest. We booked the cheapest tickets we could find and spent a long weekend trying dim sum for the first time with cousins in Portland's eclectic food scene.

Staying with family not only made the trip affordable but also gave us precious extra time with them.

We enjoyed Portland so much that we decided to take further advantage of this free time and go big: Italy.

This may have been a touch of insanity for someone in our shoes, especially since we had no family to help curb lodging costs, but it had been a long-talked-of dream between us.

Plus, because we'd had no time to travel the previous year, we had a healthy number of credit card points to use, which ended up covering the cost for two two-way plane tickets.

Turns out, we also had friends with a beautiful Airbnb in Tuscany who heard about the job loss and offered us a free stay.

With their generosity and a few more cashed-in points to book nights in Rome and on the Cinque Terre coast, we enjoyed two weeks eating copious amounts of pasta and admiring the frescoed ceilings of old-world cathedrals.

It was a magical experience of la dolce vita and a time of reconnection for us as a couple, yet it didn't break the bank. After credit card points and the free stay, we spent about $1,600 for two weeks abroad.

Next, we took a spontaneous road trip to the national parks with our dog

After seeing how rewarding traveling was during this uncertain time, we decided to embark on a road trip to visit more family and old friends, stopping in national and state parks along the way.

We mapped out a journey through Zion, the Redwoods, and more, staying with friends, with family, and at budget-friendly hotels.

We took our dog to avoid sitter fees and chose hotels that had no, or only small, pet fees. We also packed a cooler of easy meals — like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, to limit food costs.

It's been full of memorable moments, such as hiking the Lewis and Clark National Historical Park with my mother-in-law over Mother's Day and watching sea lions hunt off the coast of Cape Disappointment.

The job search continues as my husband takes calls with recruiters and continues applying on every trip.

My work in building a freelance business is remote, so I pull out my laptop as needed. In fact, I'm writing this from the deck of a friend's cabin in the Sierra Nevada after seeing a bear in the wild for the first time.

With others' generosity and a tight budget, we spent about $1,500 for this three-week road trip.

Keeping perspective helps us to stay in the moment and enjoy the opportunity

To enjoy the travel, neither of us goes down the rabbit holes that are easy to fall into when dealing with unemployment.

We view this time as a season that, like all things, will pass (as long as we don't give up).

We've been through enough of life to recognize that there will always be something difficult, and that it's best to enjoy the positives that might not be available in another chapter of life.

Having savings also helps to provide some security while waiting for the right job.

But the best thing about all of this is how generous our friends and family have been. Who gets to stay in the countryside of Tuscany free of charge? We did — and I recognize how lucky I am to say that and how wonderful people have been.

We've used unemployment as an opportunity to make a literal journey of the time. I can safely say what began as a tough start to the year has turned into one of our best yet.

• After a major heartbreak, I pack up and move to a new city — sometimes, even a different continent.
• It makes it easier for me to heal from the heartbreak.
• I've done this three times, and I'm not about to stop now.

Some people cope with a breakup by starting a new hobby, throwing themselves immediately back into dating, or finally giving in to those BetterHelp ads. Me? I pack up my life and book a one-way flight to a new city, sometimes even a different continent.

It started in 2014 after a brutal three-month run: a breakup, a messy rebound, and getting fired from a brand-new job. I was sitting at home in Johannesburg, doomscrolling on Facebook, when an email came through from an airline offering a deal on flights to Cape Town, South Africa. My interest? Piqued. My credit card? Ready to swipe. My impulse control? At an all-time low.

I booked a flight for the following week and immediately began boxing up my room at my mom's into three small boxes and sending out invites for farewell drinks at my favorite bar. Little did I know, this major life decision I had made in less than 60 seconds would go on to start a pattern of shaking up my surroundings to an extreme after heartbreak. I did it again in 2021, when I left Cape Town for Namibia, and last year, I said bon voyage to South Africa and moved to France.

Moving after a break-up means I get to break old habits

Is making a major move after a breakup a little dramatic? Absolutely, but there is a method to my madness. Every move forces me to confront the post-breakup identity crisis and answer the million-dollar question: Who am I without anyone else?

Starting over in a new place strips away all the relationship compromises, shared daily routines, and habits. The only thing left is me: my habits, my desires, and my identity beyond another person.

It gives me the space to figure out where I may have been performing in the relationship and identify where I lost myself. The crisis I had where I wondered whether I was changing my mind about having kids? It turns out I was never unsure about having children — I always knew deep down that it wasn't my path. I was just too scared to choose myself and lose my partner in the process.

During my last relationship, I stopped doing all the things I love: DJing, hiking, and going to festivals. It wasn't until it ended and I moved yet again that I realized how much I'd been missing out on when I found myself in Paris at a rave, cheezing so hard my cheeks hurt, asking myself, "How did I forget how much I loved this?"

It's taught me the art of being alone, not lonely

I believe my heartbreak wanderlust has helped me avoid the trap of using other people as emotional Band-Aids instead of processing the pain and grief after a break-up. My self-imposed exile gives me the space to sit with my emotions without any familiar distractions (after all, you can't call up your roster or ex when you're 7,000 miles away in France). It's a launchpad to a life of independence and self-confidence, where I'm showing myself every day how capable I am without someone else, each time I figure out something new.

That said, should everyone move to a new city after a break-up? If you have a remote career like mine and no responsibilities tying you to a specific location, I'd say go for it. Being in a completely different city soothes the sting of rumination because nothing is familiar.

The first time I moved after a breakup was on impulse. When I realized it was helping me process what had happened and improve my relationship with myself, I got curious and wanted to know why. I learned that when I create new memories and daily habits, I'm training my brain to form new associations that aren't tied to my ex. So when I move, I'm rewiring neural pathways, and I'm spending less energy stuck in a loop replaying the same old story.

But if you can't move cities, plan a solo trip for two weeks. You'll still get to reap the benefits of taking yourself out of the familiar and give your heart and brain the chance to reset and interrupt the emotional ties.

It's an incredible heartbreak cure, and reader, it's probably the greatest gift I've given myself.

• After getting engaged, I joked to my husband that we should both change our last names together.
• He didn't find it funny and really wanted me to take his last name.
• A few years ago, he apologized for suggesting that I take his name over mine.

In the early days of our engagement, one of my favorite ways to tease my husband was to come up with new last names we could take when we got married.

I would joke that rather than taking his last name, we could both go through the identity change together. We could start fresh with something cool, something that was just ours.

But my future husband, whose extended family throws reunions that are essentially small festivals, didn't find it funny.

My husband wanted me to take his last name, while I was ambivalent

It wasn't that I was emotionally tied to my previous last name. Saying and spelling "Childs" for the rest of my life was just easier than "Nieslanik". Not to mention, it feels weird to think of yourself as one person with one name for so many years, only to change that. My name was a fundamental part of who I was. To change it in my mid-thirties felt strange.

Plus, there is the bureaucratic red tape that comes with changing your name. Birth certificate, driver's license, passport, and bills. Changing your name is like updating your entire identity one tedious form at a time. At the end of the day, though, I knew how much it would mean to my husband if I took his last name. And part of that was because I had already changed my name once.

It wasn't my first last name change

My last name when I met my husband wasn't the one I was born with. Ironically, in my late teens, I'd already gone through a name change after a short-lived first marriage. My maiden name had been a mouthful that people always messed up, so adopting a simpler one was a relief. Plus, no one in my immediate family shared my last name. My mom had given me her maiden name, but she remarried and took my stepfather's last name, as did my half-brother, whom they had together. I was the only one left with a hard name no one else seemed to want.

The fact that I had changed my name before, no matter the reason, didn't sit well with my soon-to-be husband. If I had changed it before, he argued, why wouldn't I be willing to change it again? This time, for him. It felt like a personal slight, which I understood.

Beyond that, my husband comes from a large, close-knit family who do all share the same last name. Every summer, they gather in the hundreds for a family reunion and have streets named after them in towns sprinkled across the Western Slope of Colorado. As an only child, he felt we needed to carry on the name for his family branch by having me take his name.

He had a strong internal belief that members of the same family should have the same name. Although his family is relatively liberal, they shared the cultural expectation that a woman takes her husband's name when they marry. And he had some pride wrapped up in the idea that I would carry his name—that when people met us, they would know that we belonged together.

I don't mind that I changed my name

Since I had no strong objections, I did end up changing my name, and I never really looked back. I used a service that helped me change all my accounts, IDs, and paperwork in one (mostly) easy go, so the hassle was more minimal than expected.

Now, more than a decade later, I see several upsides to having changed my last name. For example, it's uncommon, so I rarely get confused with anyone else. As a writer, I find that beneficial. I like having the same last name as our children, and I'm glad I didn't have to think about whose name we should give them or if we should hyphenate. And I've realized that my last name has a lot of personality. If that means I have to spell it an extra time or two, the trade-off is now worth it in my opinion.

These days, however, my husband has had a change of heart about the situation

A few years ago, my husband apologized to me for "making" me change my name. He mentioned how silly he thought his reasonings were now, that he understood having the same last name is kind of arbitrary. He pointed out that it affects literally no part of our lives together in a substantial way. My favorite realization that he mentioned was how our love is so much greater than a shared last name. Then, he asked if I'd like to change my name back.

The thought of returning to the ease of "Childs" as a last name has its appeal, but I couldn't help but laugh. I have zero desire to go through that paperwork again. Not unless he wants to revisit that original idea of picking a brand-new name together. And he's willing to file the forms himself this time.

• I just finished my second graduate degree and moved in with my mother-in-law in Italy.
• While I job hunt, I want to save money and have some breathing room to figure out my next steps.
• I'm adjusting to a slower pace of life and learning it's OK to ask for help.

I'm a 30-year-old American woman who just finished my second graduate degree. Instead of chasing a high-paying job or moving to a big city, I moved in with my Italian mother-in-law in a small town called Pietravairano a month ago. I decided to live with her to save money, catch my breath, and get closer to my extended family. Right now, the plan is to stay until my student visa expires at the end of the fall while I'm job hunting for a remote position at an NGO.

Before this, my partner and I lived in Belgium for two years and traveled to many countries. He was homesick, and we both missed the sunshine. Besides looking for a job, we're taking this time to plan out our next steps, but we know we want to spend more time in Italy every year. He's here with me, and it makes me happy seeing him back with his family.

I'm adjusting to a completely differently lifestyle

His mom lives on a farm in a town of 3,000, with chickens, cats, and a rhythm that couldn't be further from my former life. I'm learning Italian, and she doesn't speak any English, but we're figuring it out over garden vegetables, long walks, and a lot of hand gestures. We bond over food, flowers, and family — and I'm hoping the next half-year will bring me not just a new job, but a better appreciation for a different pace of life.

I was raised to move out at 18 and be very independent, but in Italian culture, kids can live at home for as long as they'd like. Growing up, I thought it was shameful to move back in or ask for help from family. But over the past couple of years, I've come to see the real value of being near loved ones and sharing the small moments with them.

Here, I'm slowly learning it's OK to be taken care of, and I love finding my new role in this household. I'm trading my hyper-independence for home-cooked meals, the anonymity of a big city for knowing my neighbors, and hours in front of a screen for slow walks along a dirt road.

Now feels like a good time in my life to make an intentional move to be physically and emotionally closer to my partner's family and explore a slower rhythm of life. This arrangement also gives me flexibility. I can take a job I'm passionate about, as opposed to just chasing a high salary — something else I've been rethinking lately.

Besides job hunting, I plan to spend my days learning from her. She has a wealth of knowledge about food and plants. It's currently zucchini season, and we just hung some to dry in the sun. I'll bake her a zucchini bread in return.

Next month, we'll harvest potatoes — she makes them perfectly grilled with olive oil and rosemary — and soon, we'll make sun-dried tomatoes and other preserved foods. In the fall, we'll harvest grapes to make wine. She loves baking cakes, and I'm hoping she'll share her recipes with me this summer. As a newly retired teacher, she has the patience to help me learn Italian, and I'm happy to say we can now have short conversations.

Living with my mother-in-law is changing my perspective

This living arrangement isn't just a temporary stopgap — it's slowly reshaping how I think about adulthood and what I want. Sharing a home with someone from another generation and culture has challenged ideas I once held tightly: that independence meant distance, or that success had to come fast and loud.

There's vulnerability in being a guest in someone else's world while you figure out your next steps. But there's also quiet resilience in building family in unexpected places, in learning to slow down, listen, and let your life unfold on its own terms.

There's something uniquely humbling about returning to a household where you're not the one in charge — where dinner is at 8 p.m., the chores are done a certain way, and the rhythms of daily life were set long before you arrived.

This isn't how I imagined postgrad success would look, but waking up surrounded by family and going to bed with a belly full of pasta makes me feel like I won the lottery. Even if I do find a job soon, I might not want to leave this life just yet. I'm learning to live like the tomatoes we're drying in the sun: slowly, intentionally, and full of flavor.

• When my partner and I were in our 20s, we moved in with Billy and Fern, a couple in their 50s.
• It was a great living situation, and we became close during our time renting a room from them.
• Though we've since moved on, we've remained lifelong friends.

When we were in our 20s, my partner Sam and I decided to do a working holiday in Banff, Canada.

Initially, we rented a room in a three-bedroom share house with two other couples who were close in age to us. It was loads of fun, but nobody did much cleaning, and there was a fair amount of drinking and partying.

Sam got a job with the town of Banff and soon he befriended this Canadian guy named Billy. Billy is one of those larger-than-life personalities; he's high energy and extremely likeable. Everyone in town knows him, and he's affectionately known as "Billy Banff."

One day, Billy mentioned that he and his wife had a room available in their cozy two-bedroom property. After chatting with me about it, Sam told Billy we'd love to take it.

We lived together well

I'll never forget the day we moved in. I met Billy's wife, Fern, who's a wonderfully warm, very calm, grounded person. She's the yin to Billy's yang in a lot of ways, and the pair complements each other beautifully.

As we talked through the finer details of the rental arrangement, I asked her if I could have a set of keys for the property.

"Oh, honey, we don't even know where they are," she said, smiling. "We never bother locking the house!" That's the kind of trusting, beautiful people Billy and Fern are. Their house is always open and full of loved ones.

When they showed us our room, they'd left a bottle of Yellow Tail merlot from Australia on the dresser for us, as a nod to our home. We felt so welcome.

At that point, Billy and Fern were in their 50s, while Sam and I were 29 and 26. Despite the age difference, the living arrangement worked really well. Fern and Bill were fun and young at heart, but also very caring and nurturing. We all helped out with cleaning and often shared meals together.

I used to love coming home after a waitressing shift to find Fern on the veranda, relaxing and taking in nature. We'd have deep conversations about love, life, and everything in between.

Sometimes, if Billy was home, we'd crank "Moves Like Jagger" by Maroon 5 and dance around the living room like kids. I also played "A Horse With No Name" by America over and over; it had been featured by our favorite TV show at the time, "Breaking Bad," and Billy and I often sang it together. It became a bit of a theme song for that chapter of my life.

We moved out, but we've stayed in touch all these years

When we eventually decided it was time to move on from Banff, the feeling was bittersweet. It was springtime when we left. The deer were out in full force and the sun was still shining at 9 p.m. As a final farewell, Fern made an amazing feast for us and we sat around the fire drinking wine. It really felt like home.

After we left Banff, we moved to London for a year and then returned to Australia. As fate would have it, Fern and Billy's daughter Penny lives on the Gold Coast, where my family is based, so we've been lucky enough to catch up with them over the years. In 2019, we even took our kids to Canada to show them Banff, which still feels like our "happy place."

On our most recent catch-up on the Gold Coast earlier this year, I was walking through a beachside park when I heard someone singing a familiar tune with a thick Canadian accent. "I've been through the desert on a horse with no name. It felt good to be out of the rain," they sang. I could not wipe the grin off my face as I turned and saw Billy standing nearby, his arms outstretched and ready for a bear hug.

Whenever we get together with Fern and Billy, it's always like old times. They're more than lifelong friends. To us, they're family and always will be.

• My maiden name is Lee Kelly, and people used my names interchangeably.
• I was named after my maternal grandfather and given his last name as my middle name.
• When I got engaged, I was sure I'd be taking my future husband's name.

"Kelly Lee!" chirped my 9th-grade algebra teacher during roll call, just as she had every day of the school year. But this time, a giggle rippled through the class.

When Ms. Wade — a woman who brooked no nonsense — demanded to be let in on the joke, a classmate blurted out, "That's not her name!"

My name was an honor and a headache

My maiden name is Lee Kelly. I used to joke that I had two last names and two first names because people used my two names interchangeably. Since Lee is traditionally a man's name, and I am not a man, people would look at me, see my name, and automatically flip my name around.

The male name was intentional. My parents named me after my maternal grandfather, who was sick when I was born and died when I was a year old. Carrying his name was an honor and a pain in my daily life. And I couldn't use my middle name to help bail me out. It was Pallardy, my grandfather's last name, giving me a full name that was all surnames. My family takes honorary naming very literally.

So I was stuck being Kelly Lee.

Kelly Lee could pop up anywhere — in school, mail, phone calls, or other interactions with strangers. Sometimes, I corrected the error. But a lot of the time, I didn't even bother. Even though the mistake drove me crazy, it didn't seem worth the energy to call out the other person.

It got to the point that I responded to "Kelly" just as readily as I responded to "Lee." The only thing that would end my name duality was a legal name change.

I knew I would take my husband's last name

When my husband and I got engaged, I was 100% ready to take his name. I had no qualms about shedding my family identity. There were no feminist hesitations about the patriarchal expectation to subvert my identity for my husband's. I wasn't going to be Kelly Lee anymore.

My husband's last name is O'Connell, and it was perfect. It wasn't weird or unattractive. When paired with my first name, it would have no unfortunate associations or sounds (think Lee Oswald or Lee Roy). And there was no way anyone would confuse it for a first name. I would never have to correct anyone about my name again. I would never be O'Connell Lee.

No one gets it wrong now

In the 14 years I've been married, I haven't had to correct someone about my name once. I am always Lee, never Kelly. My ears don't prick up when I hear "Kelly" anymore, and I don't feel compelled to answer to any name besides my own.

Strangely, I received a letter addressed to Kelley Lee O'Connell two years ago. When I took my husband's name, I followed the convention of making my maiden name my middle name, mostly so I had a female name somewhere in there. As soon as I saw that letter, I texted a photo to the high school friend who sat next to me in algebra, the one person who jokingly calls me Kelly Lee to this day. "She does exist!" I exclaimed.

Weighed against all the problems in the world, having people get my name wrong is pretty insignificant. It was a minor irritation that never meaningfully impeded my day.

What bothered me about it was that so many people were willing to initiate an interaction or a relationship with me based on an assumption of who I was or who they thought I should be. And that assumption was wrong. It would've been more refreshing and more generous to have them get curious about who I am, to explore whether my reality challenged their assumptions.

Now that it's behind me, it's easy to consider my double name as a quirky blip from my past, compared to my present ease of always being Lee and never Kelly. People occasionally still assume I'm a man, so you can't win everything.

• I'm a digital nomad and met my partner in Argentina two years ago.
• We talked daily for the next eight months, and I decided to return to Argentina in 2024.
• We fell in love and are building a life together in an unconventional way, but it works for us.

When I started traveling full-time almost four years ago, I promised myself I'd go on dates, but I also knew that a long-term relationship was out of the question.

As a digital nomad and freelance writer, I get the unique opportunity to travel all over the world and write about my experiences. It's truly a dream job, but sacrifices and tradeoffs must always be made — like relationships.

How could I develop a meaningful connection if I only spend one or two months in a city at a time? Even if I did find someone I wanted to pursue a future with, I knew I was unwilling to change my lifestyle. Full-time travel is a dream that I can't give up.

All of that changed when I met my partner.

I found love unexpectedly in Argentina

I spent the first few months of 2023 in Argentina, one of my favorite countries in the world.

In February, I received a message on Grindr, which is notoriously known as a gay hookup app with a low success rate for relationships. Still, I hoped for something more, and I figured if I was on the app, there must also be a couple of other people like me out there.

Over the next few days, I started chatting with this person, who introduced himself as Lauti. He asked me out on a date, but unfortunately, I was leaving Buenos Aires to go to a different city in Argentina the following morning. I told him I'd be back in six weeks, and we decided to meet then.

The day after I flew back to Buenos Aires, we went on our first date, and something clicked. For the next three weeks, we embarked on a whirlwind romance and were virtually inseparable.

Then, I packed up and flew to Mexico, and even though we liked each other, I knew nothing could realistically come from it. We decided to take things one day at a time and not put a label on anything — just see what happened while I was traveling.

Our relationship blossomed as I continued to travel

As the days went on, the texting and phone calls continued. After Mexico, I flew to Europe for the summer, and even with five or six hour time differences, we found ourselves prioritizing each other and making space for video call dates, life updates, and deeper conversations. Despite the distance, things got more serious month after month, and I realized I was essentially in a long-distance relationship.

So, I planned my return to Argentina for January 2024 — eight months after I left. We finally put a label on what we both felt, and a few weeks later, he told me he loved me for the first time. We faced yet another goodbye in April when I left for Peru. Luckily, this period of long-distance was short since he came to visit a month later for his birthday in May.

Then, we went seven months without seeing each other while I was off exploring Europe, Asia, and Australia. He came to Colombia in December 2024 for our first holiday season together, which was every bit as magical as we hoped it would be. I returned to Argentina at the end of January this year, and we've lived together for the past four months.

Luckily, our time apart seems to be getting shorter each year. I'll leave Argentina in a few weeks, and we will be apart for just three months.

Navigating an unconventional relationship

Each long-distance period has its challenges. During the first stint, we were still getting to know each other, which made communication tricky. The second time, we were much better at communicating, but it was more challenging in its own way. I often don't know where I'll live in a few months' time, so it's impossible to know when we will be together again.

Even so, we're embracing the challenges of a long-distance relationship. How do we prioritize seeing each other? How do we balance two different cultures? How can we accomplish our own goals while still growing together? These questions don't have simple answers, and they are constantly evolving.

Some aspects of our relationship progressed quickly, while others have been harder to nurture due to my lifestyle. However, this has become our normal, making us appreciate our time together so much more. In our time apart, we still prioritize each other, but also spend time planning our future and growing individually.

I had an idea of what a relationship was supposed to be, and I thought that a nomadic lifestyle would be antithetical to that ideal. I've realized there isn't a perfect relationship, and I can accomplish two things simultaneously: a loving relationship and an unwavering desire to see every corner of the world. I don't have to sacrifice one to achieve the other, but I must be intentional with my time.

• After taking a career break, I had to jump back into the job market.
• I used ChatGPT to find open roles, write my résumé and cover letter, and prepare for interviews.
• I landed my dream job in AI, making it a full-circle moment.

After a well-deserved career break, I decided it was time to look for a new job. The only problem was that I had last done this 10 years ago, and job hunting was a completely different game then.

In 2025, everything has changed, from how roles are advertised to how candidates are evaluated. LinkedIn isn't just an optional platform anymore. It's seemingly essential. Companies are using automated systems to screen résumés, and social media presence matters more than ever. The landscape has drastically changed, becoming more digital and competitive than ever before.

Facing this entirely new scenario was daunting. The old rules didn't apply, and the anxiety of navigating this new environment quickly set in. I realized I needed help, something or someone, to guide me through these uncharted waters.

I decided to adapt using the very technology shaping the new job market: AI.

Embracing AI to redefine my career path

After years of working as a lawyer, embracing AI felt like venturing into foreign territory, but it also felt exciting. I'd read countless stories about people using AI for everything from meal planning to writing novels, but I wondered how effective it could be for finding a job.

My first step was to have an in-depth conversation with ChatGPT to help identify exactly what I wanted next in my career. After a much-needed career break, I knew I wanted something that bridged my interests in technology and law, but the specifics were blurry.

Through a lengthy dialogue with the AI, during which we discussed my strengths, interests, and professional goals, I was able to clarify exactly what I was looking for. ChatGPT helped me pinpoint roles that sat neatly at the intersection of legal practice and emerging technologies, creating a tailored shortlist of companies and positions that genuinely excited me.

Leveraging AI for résumés, cover letters, and interviews

Armed with this newfound clarity, it was time to get practical. I turned again to ChatGPT, this time for help with polishing my résumé, crafting standout cover letters, and preparing for interviews.

Starting with my résumé, I fed ChatGPT my old document alongside descriptions of the roles I was targeting. Within minutes, it transformed my résumé into a crisp, impactful summary of my professional achievements. It suggested action-oriented language and quantified outcomes, things I hadn't thought to highlight on my own. My previously bland document suddenly felt dynamic and compelling, accurately reflecting my experience and capabilities.

Next, I tackled the dreaded cover letters. Each application felt like writing a small autobiography, a tedious task I usually procrastinated endlessly on. With ChatGPT, the experience transformed. I provided basic details about the role and why I was interested, and the AI-generated, polished, tailored cover letters genuinely sounded like me, only better. Minor tweaks aside, the AI-driven drafts were ready to send out immediately, saving me countless hours of stress and editing.

Then came mock interviews. ChatGPT proved invaluable here, simulating realistic interview scenarios and offering insightful feedback on my responses. It didn't just spit out generic interview questions. It tailored them specifically to each role, asking about industry trends, hypothetical scenarios, and even personal motivations. The AI coached me through my answers, helping me refine my responses to ensure they were concise, authentic, and impactful.

Landing the ideal job: Full circle with AI

The impact of these preparations was swift and substantial. Within just two months of starting this tech-driven job hunt, I secured a role at a cutting-edge tech company developing AI specifically designed for lawyers. It felt surreal yet perfectly aligned. After all, my journey began and ended with artificial intelligence.

This role wasn't just a paycheck. It was a full-circle moment, merging my long-standing passion for law with my newly sparked enthusiasm for technology.

Would I use AI to job hunt again? Absolutely. In fact, I can't imagine tackling such a stressful process without it. AI didn't just streamline tedious tasks. It empowered me to present myself authentically and strategically in a fiercely competitive market. It took the overwhelm out of job hunting, making the process not only manageable but surprisingly enjoyable.

In a world increasingly defined by technology, leveraging AI in your career search isn't just clever. It's becoming essential.

Whether you're pivoting careers, re-entering the workforce, or just exploring new opportunities, AI could be the ally you never knew you needed. For me, embracing AI was the smartest professional decision I made in years, proving that sometimes the best way to adapt to change is to lean into it fully.

• My parents met while traveling in 1971 and were married six months later.
• I've learned a lot from their marriage of over 50 years that has inspired me in my own marriage.
• They've shown me that conflict is healthy and normal, and so is having different interests.

My parents recently celebrated their 53rd wedding anniversary. They met while traveling through Spain in 1971 and married six months later.

My mom has always said it hasn't all been rainbows and butterflies. But they've worked through the hard times and persevered with their marriage, even when things have been tough.

Though I'd always secretly been terrified of commitment, I was also lucky enough to have their solid example of what a strong marriage could look like, and I married Sam — the love of my life — in 2015. The lessons I've learned by watching my parents' marriage have made it all the easier to walk in their footsteps, and now Sam and I have been happily married for a decade.

They taught me it's OK to have different interests

Aside from their shared passion for travel, my parents are opposites in so many ways. My mom loves art and languages, going to the theatre, and watching movies.

My dad, on the other hand, has always enjoyed playing and watching sports, collecting stamps, and doing crosswords. In his 50s, he randomly decided he wanted to run a marathon and ended up doing four. My mom has never run a day in her life.

However, they share a few fundamental values that have always kept them on the same page: a love of learning and acquiring general knowledge, a belief in seizing the day and making the most out of each moment, the importance of keeping the flame alive, and the belief that family always comes first, no matter what.

My husband and I are also polar opposites in many ways, but like my parents, our core values are aligned.

Growing up, I saw that conflict is normal and healthy

While I was growing up, my folks often had heated arguments. Sometimes, there would even be periods where they weren't speaking together because they needed to cool off.

However, my parents always resolved the issue with respect and open communication. Through watching them, I learned that conflict in a long-term relationship is unavoidable and normal. There are bound to be differences in opinion, values, needs, and wants, but it's how you handle and resolve the conflict that matters.

They showed me the importance of space in a relationship

My parents have always made a habit of giving each other space — space to pursue hobbies they enjoy, space to travel independently, and time alone to recharge when needed.

My mom is hugely independent. During my childhood, she worked hard, saved up, and took my sisters and me on international trips while my dad stayed home and continued working. She's always said that it's important to be your own person and to follow your dreams.

My husband and I are similar in that we both have our own interests and give each other space in our relationship. We take turns going on solo international kid-free holidays, then come back recharged and ready for family life. Having downtime from each other helps us to keep the spark alive and to appreciate what we do have even more.

I know that marriage takes work

No marriage is perfect. Most of us derail at some point in our relationships, but if you truly love each other, you can usually get it back on track.

I know there have been times when my parents' marriage has been on the rocks. There have been enormous life challenges to navigate, and both of my parents would admit they've made mistakes.

But ultimately, they love each other deeply. This all-consuming, enduring love has helped them tackle every hurdle together and emerge stronger.

Of all the lessons they've taught me about relationships, this was the most important: Love is worth fighting for. Always.

• My mom was recently diagnosed with Stage 3 uterine cancer and is going through chemotherapy.
• I join her for each chemotherapy treatment, and we talk about her exciting days in the Air Force.
• Her stories are the remedy we needed. They are helping us both cope with the pain.

As a child, my mother had a habit of pointing out various military planes in the sky and explaining their names and purposes.

I heard those same planes zoom overhead on various military bases when I watched her, clad in an Air Force uniform with her short red hair peeking out stubbornly under her hat, command the respect of fellow officers with an ease I admired.

It seemed like nothing could phase her — when it came to overseeing aircraft maintenance squadrons, Lieutenant Colonel Stinson — my mother — was in her element.

How ironic it was that after everything she faced fearlessly in the Air Force, cancer was the one thing that scared her.

Hearing my mom had cancer was a shock

Having retired as a lieutenant colonel after 20 years of service in the early 2000s, my mom had enjoyed post-retired life in San Antonio.

Early this year, she told me of pains in her abdomen that were unbearable. Her doctor recommended a hysterectomy, and during her operation, the doctor removed a large cancerous tumor on her uterus. However, some of her lymph nodes also looked concerning, so some biopsies were taken.

After her hysterectomy, my mom seemed more energetic, returning to the vibrant woman I remembered. During the two-week wait for those biopsy results, I truly believed they wouldn't show cancer. I was wrong.

One of her lymph nodes had cancer. Hearing the Stage 3 uterine cancer diagnosis shattered my delusion. A sense of shock surged through my body that left me feeling strangely numb. I heard the doctor say, "Chemo," and "hair loss," and after weeks of holding back tears, I started to cry.

No prescription can ease the shock of a loved one's cancer diagnosis. However, stories from my mother's past have become the remedy we sorely needed, as I sit with her through each chemotherapy treatment.

We got to talk a lot about the past during her treatment

The older I got, the more I told myself that I would record her story one day, but time slipped by. Then, when I heard the doctor diagnose her with cancer, time seemed more finite.

"You were doing the 'Captain Marvel' thing before it was cool," I'd told her one day while we were sitting in the chemotherapy treatment center.

Becoming a commissioned officer in the Air Force after college had always been my mom's dream. But as she jokingly told me, the Air Force wasn't exactly seeking experts in radio—her major in school.

Instead, there was a greater demand for aircraft maintenance officers. So, after graduating, she found herself in maintenance school — a path she hadn't planned for — and nearly failed out. Still, she was determined to succeed.

Despite the initial setback, my mom slowly but surely rose up the ranks. A combination of her hard work and aptitude for leadership, recognized by the performance boards of her superiors, determined who should be promoted.

Watching her eyes light up with every story she tells is medicine my heart didn't know it needed.

I had taken the stories for granted

My mom had repeatedly told me that she had two major life goals — one was to serve her country. The other was to be a mother.

She had dealt with her fair share of workplace sexism during her tenure, rode in a fighter jet twice as a passenger (another requirement for officers in maintenance squadrons), fallen asleep in cargo planes, helped found a Logistics Scho, overseen the flyover for the late senator Barry Goldwater's funeral, and been invited to be a White House aide.

I had taken her stories for granted growing up, and now I hungered for more of my mother's memories: how a wing commander visited her in the hospital after she gave birth to me, seeing a picture of her in uniform, back turned to the camera, walking toward a fighter jet with her hair firmly in place.

Lost in a sea of memories that weren't mine, I felt a spark reignite in my soul, a fire that had dimmed ever since I had heard the cancer diagnosis. Her stories kept the blaze of the future alight in us both, something more powerful than any fighter jet engine could muster.

My mother has always been a fighter, and she still is. I was doing her a disservice by being sad.

• I was not sleeping well, overweight, overeating, and generally not physically or mentally well.
• I told my family I needed time away. I chose a wellness retreat for a week in the mountains.
• The retreat cost $6,900 and was worth every penny. I'm still seeing the benefits months later.

A $6,900 wellness retreat for a week in the mountains of British Columbia sounded indulgent, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something had to give.

I was burned out, foggy-headed, overweight, and feeling a little unmoored.

I'd recently had surgery, and while my doctor had given me the green light to return to all activities, including exercise, I was completely unmotivated to work out.

My sleep was also off, and my eating habits needed an overhaul. I generally eat healthily, but I'd slumped into a bad habit of overeating.

Adding to that, I'm a mom to two high-energy teen boys and had reached a point where I felt maxed out in the parenting department. I didn't hide it, though.

I was honest with my family and told them I needed a reset, that I wasn't feeling my best physically or mentally, and that this retreat was something I was doing for my health. They were supportive.

It's been over two months since the retreat, and I'm completely transformed. I don't have immediate plans to return, but the benefits were so amazing that I would consider going back. It was worth every penny.

Why this retreat was worth it for me

While the $6,900 price tag for Mountain Trek Health Reset Retreat is considerable, it covered everything: guided hikes, yoga, spa treatments, educational talks, and meals.

I learned about the retreat from a friend. It's caffeine- and alcohol-free, with limited sugar/carbs, and focuses on lots of activity, including hiking several hours each day.

I looked at other places, but what really sold me on Mountain Trek was the combination of physical activity, healthy eating, and expert-led classes on topics like sleep.

As a middle-aged mom, this sounded like exactly what I needed.

The retreat taught me how to improve my mental health back home

I have to say, there was something nice about not having to take care of my family and instead having someone take care of me.

I didn't have to plan meals or schedules each day, so the decision fatigue I was feeling at home was gone, and my mind could be more present.

Of course, when I returned home, decision-making turned back on, but I found a way to better manage it.

I now meal-plan on Sundays, which has significantly improved my mental health, and my mind is calmer during the week.

I also learned the phrase micro-dosing happiness. It's about creating happy moments throughout the day.

I never thought of happiness as a practice, but the more I sought out and focused on those small microdosing moments, the better it made me feel.

The biggest surprise of the whole retreat

The hiking is what attracted me to the program, initially, and turned out to be the biggest surprise of the whole retreat.

Hiking is my happy place: I've hiked the Inca Trail in Peru and trekked through Patagonia in Chile.

So, when we were told they divided hiking groups into four categories (1-4, fastest to slowest), I figured I'd fall into group 2, given my recent surgery and weight gain.

It was a huge wake-up call (and a hit to my ego) to find out I had to fall behind to group 4, the slowest. Turns out, group 4 was fabulous.

Because we hiked slower, I was able to take in the beautiful flowers, frogs, deer, and other wildlife while the women and I bonded over our various life struggles.

I grew to accept — and appreciate — the slower pace. And the connections I made with those women, as well as the rest of the people at the retreat (there were 13 of us, three men and ten women; Mountain Trek limits it to 16 total), were one of the best parts of that week.

My week in the mountains was the perfect reset I needed

Back home, I'm still seeing the benefits.

I've rediscovered my motivation to move and am committed to the gym five days a week, walking with a friend three to four times a week, and sitting less overall.

I break up my day with movement breaks, even if it's just going up and down the stairs for five minutes.

I also finally curbed my overeating habit. The retreat offered six small meals a day without second servings. I was hungry the first couple of days, but my body adapted after that, and I've kept my portion sizes smaller at home, too.

The new routine makes me feel more energized and less stressed. It's largely thanks to the retreat and admitting to myself that I needed a break, and being brave enough to take it.

I met several people on the retreat who were regulars, and I could see myself going back. I missed my husband and kids, but to spend a full week really working on myself — emotionally, physically, mentally — was a gift.

• Eric Morrow was diagnosed with severe prostate cancer at age 49.
• He had no symptoms aside from a slightly enlarged prostate that showed up during a colonoscopy.
• His primary care physician never tested him for prostate cancer despite Morrow's family history.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Eric Morrow, a prostate cancer survivor, US Air Force veteran, and volunteer advocate for Zero Prostate Cancer, a nonprofit focused on supporting patients and eliminating prostate cancer. It's been edited for length and clarity.

I was diagnosed with prostate cancer on June 8, 2021, at 49. It was shortly before my 50th birthday.

I'll admit I did not know a lot about prostate cancer then. I knew it was fairly common and, to the best of my knowledge at the time, I thought it primarily affected older men in their 70s and 80s.

Five years prior, in 2016, I'd learned that my father had previously had prostate cancer and that he was in remission after being successfully treated.

So, the next time I saw my primary care physician, who was assigned to me through the Air Force, I told her about my family history and asked if I should get checked for prostate cancer.

She said that I was too young and didn't need to worry about getting screened until my 50s.

The phone call that probably saved my life

In 2020, my PCP said I was old enough to have a colonoscopy to check for colon cancer. That's when it all started.

After my colonoscopy, the gastroenterologist said my colon looked great, but my prostate looked a little enlarged, and I should schedule an appointment with a urologist.

I had no other symptoms to suggest I had prostate cancer. Also, this was during the height of the pandemic. I got distracted by work and didn't make the appointment immediately.

I was really lucky that the doctor called me back a month later to see if I'd seen the urologist. It was a really simple follow-up, but that phone call prompted me to make the appointment and probably saved my life.

My PSA level was in the hundreds

The urologist scheduled me for a digital rectal exam and an MRI, and then drew my blood for a PSA test, which measures specific proteins in the blood to identify possible prostate cancer.

I got a call a few hours later about my PSA level. I was told that anything over four would be a concern for a man of my age. My PSA level was 225.

The urologist said there could be many reasons for my extremely high PSA levels, but a later biopsy revealed that I had prostate cancer with a Gleason score, which measures how aggressive the cancer is, of nine. The highest the scale goes is 10.

I got the trifecta of treatment: surgery, radiation, and pills

I was lucky enough that the Department of Defense's Center for Prostate Disease Research at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, was nearby, and my case was aggressive enough to qualify for their treatment.

There, I had a cancer team including a urologic oncologist and radiation oncologist who recommended a multi-step treatment involving surgery, radiation therapy, and hormone therapy to turn off testosterone production in my body.

I started surgery in July 2021, after which I had issues with incontinence. Despite physical therapy to improve it, I never regained full control of my bladder. This made the radiation therapy, which came about five-and-a-half months later, very challenging.

Each time, I had to come in with an empty rectum and a full bladder. The full bladder basically pushes the rectum, so it's not as much in the field where they're going to shoot with radiation.

Each of the 39 radiation sessions I completed only lasts about 15 minutes, but I had a hard time getting my bladder full enough and then holding it long enough for the therapy.

To get through it, I'd play a game with myself: They had music going, and I would just listen to the music and try to memorize it. Then, I went on Facebook afterward and posted a list of all the songs — it became my "Playlist of the day" for friends and family.

The androgen deprivation therapy, aka hormone therapy, was a shot that I got every three months, along with pills that I was taking every day. I did this therapy for about 24 months.

The side effects were pretty harsh. I experienced hot flashes, mood swings, additional abdominal fat, loss of muscle mass and bone density, and it killed my libido. I got back into lifting weights that I hadn't been doing for probably more than a decade, and that helped minimize some of the weight gain and muscle loss.

Since coming off hormone therapy, my testosterone has luckily gone back to pre-treatment levels, and my PSA level has remained undetectable.

I quit my job after getting cancer

I wouldn't wish cancer on anybody, but the one thing it does give you is perspective. I realized I wanted to do something more.

So in December of 2022, I left my job with a medical device company I'd been with for over nine years. I was ready to give back to the prostate cancer community.

I'm now doing a lot of work on a year-round basis with Zero Prostate Cancer. I also volunteer at Walter Reed, where I received my cancer treatment.

I also speak with new prostate cancer patients and try to give them hope. I tell them, "Four years ago, I was sitting right where you are and I thought I was going to die. But I'm still here, and I'm doing OK."

• My boyfriend and I have been dating for two years, and we've been long-distance the whole time.
• While it's hard being apart, we make sure to plan exciting dates when we see each other.
• We plan to live together eventually, but right now, we're focusing on our goals.

My boyfriend and I hit it off at a mutual friend's birthday party and went on a date a few days later. Though he lives in Boston and I live in New Jersey, we still wanted to keep seeing each other.

When I went to visit him about two weeks later, he asked me to be his girlfriend while we were at an EDM concert. But I was worried we were moving too fast, and I rejected him.

Things changed on the morning of our last day together. I had a seizure while we were having breakfast together, and he came with me to the hospital. It was then that I realized how serious he was about me, and we made it official in the emergency room. That was two years ago, and we've been together ever since.

We always say 'good morning' and 'good night'

Being five hours away from my boyfriend is difficult, but we have a lot of things we do to make it work. For example, we always say "good morning" and "good night" — this may not seem important, but being able to start and end our day with the thought of each other helps us remember that we always have one another.

We text and call as much as we can, but we also try to get at least one FaceTime call in a day. FaceTime helps us feel as though we're together physically, even when we aren't.

Despite our efforts, time apart is saddening. There is a certain type of grief that comes with a long-distance relationship. The physical feeling of losing your partner every time you leave each other is agonizing, even when you know it's just temporary.

We plan exciting dates when we're together

Sometimes, it can feel like I'm counting every minute of every day: the time we have until we see each other, the time we have together until he leaves, and then repeat. It can get exhausting, but it's also what makes our moments much more special.

In the limited time we have together, we try to do something exciting. We plan fun dates and go to concerts and festivals. Between visits, we plan almost every detail, like where we're going, how we're getting there, and my favorite, what we're wearing. We're both really into fashion and like to create matching outfits, especially for music festivals and raves.

We also plan low-key fun nights at home, which consist of a bottle of wine, watching anime, and listening to music. Sometimes, we do this while we're apart, but it's always better together.

Our time apart is just as important as our time together

I don't think a partner should define how I live my life, and the time we spend apart is just as important as the time we spend together. If I were to put all my happiness on the shoulders of my partner, it would be difficult to grow on my own.

My boyfriend and I are in our early 20s. He works for USPS while planning to finish school, and I'm looking for a full-time job. The distance gives us time to focus on our goals while supporting each other from afar. It also gives us the opportunity to have different experiences and talk about them when we come back together.

We hope to move in together soon, but we also know that we need to accomplish our goals so we can afford to live together without giving up the exciting things we like to do together.

It is hard not to have the opportunity to be together physically, but we're not in a rush, and for now, we've found ways to make it work and appreciate what we have, including our moments apart.

• My husband and I make good money and live on the Upper East Side but are frugal with groceries.
• We keep our weekly grocery bill under $100 a week, and that feeds us plus a Sunday dinner party.
• Our secret involves a mix of creative cooking and a little financial savvy.

When I moved from Nashville to New York, I expected new experiences. However, one thing I still can't get over is how casually people spend on food.

I noticed ordering delivery or grocery shopping daily to satisfy a craving was more common. At first, I was excited to explore the city's culinary scene and began eating out more and indulging myself.

However, I quickly grew tired of spending $14 for a tuna sandwich that I could make at home in four minutes for a fraction of the cost.

My husband and I make good money. He works on Wall Street, and I'm a food stylist, meaning I make food look beautiful for NFL campaigns, fashion editorials, and magazines like Bon Appétit.

At home, though, I cook like a freelancer on a budget.

We live on the Upper East Side, and while we could spend more money on food, we share a core value: our money should work harder than we do. So, we keep groceries simple — and cheap.

Our weekly grocery bill rarely tops $100, and that's including shopping for the dinner guests we host almost every Sunday. That $100 ends up feeding the two of us for five breakfasts and dinners, plus one dinner party for six.

Our secret? A mix of creative cooking and a little financial savvy.

Sunday supper is the key to my success

Each Sunday, I cook a meal for six and always take the time to make extra, ensuring there are leftovers. This food becomes the foundation of meals for the week.

Roasted veggies go into Monday's grain bowl. Extra herbs become a seasoning for homemade dressings.

All the meal prep I do for Sunday becomes ingredient prep for the rest of the week, saving me both time and money. No scraps or leftovers go to waste — we save everything.

On set for my job, there's a golden rule: never throw anything away. It's not just for sustainability, we might need to re-shoot a veggie sandwich eight hours later, which means rebuilding the exact same sandwich without needing to buy new ingredients.

That habit of saving partial ingredients to get the same — or sometimes better — results followed me home. Now I see leftovers as ingredients in disguise.

A few slices of cheese from Saturday's snack board top tuna toast on Wednesday. And with a quick broil, a sad tuna salad becomes a delicious tuna melt. That's $14 saved.

We used to eat out three or four times a week, but since I've stopped seeing leftovers as scraps for trash and started seeing them as opportunities, home cooking has become easier than takeout.

Now, we have to justify a date night because our fridge is full of food we want to eat.

We also save by stocking up on staples and buying in bulk

We love Japanese, Italian, and Tex-Mex cuisines, so we always have tamari, rice, tomato paste, olives, tortillas, and salsa on hand. With these ingredients, I can make something delicious from whatever's in the fridge.

Buying in bulk also helps. Our freezer is stocked with almond flour tortillas (half the price at Costco compared to the corner store). We get 10-packs of Beyond Meat patties for what two cost elsewhere. They're quick, versatile, and a lifesaver on busy nights.

A few Saturdays ago, we were short on time before heading to Yankee Stadium. In the fridge were kale stems, tired bell pepper slices, half an onion, mushrooms, and garlic. I sautéed everything with a Beyond patty and taco spices, then added tortillas, eggs, and leftover cilantro from Sunday's fried rice. In 15 minutes, we had protein-packed tacos that kept us full until we hit the concession stand.

The trick to spending less than $100 a week on groceries isn't restrictive diets or rigid meal plans. It's barely wasting a thing and using what we already have in smart, flexible ways. It's scrappy, satisfying, and surprisingly elegant.

• When my sister was dying of breast cancer, she made me promise I'd live my life to the fullest.
• At first, I didn't follow through, but eventually I found the courage to act on my promise.
• I decided to move on my own to a beach town, where I met my husband.

When my older sister called to let me know that the painful lump in her breast was not a clogged milk duct from nursing her newborn, my world shattered. My 31-year-old sister was diagnosed with stage 3C breast cancer.

I immediately purchased a one-way plane ticket to stay with her and help with my 2-year-old nephew and newborn niece. Over the next two and a half years, I watched my once strong and bossy sister slowly become bedridden. She then became unable to walk or breathe without oxygen.

In our final conversation, I told her I wished I could take her place. After all, I had no children and was in an unhappy marriage. My sister replied that she was glad it was her and not me. She said she wanted me to have children and truly experience life.

She then asked me to promise to live a life for both of us, doing the things she wouldn't be able to do. She encouraged me to create happiness despite whatever difficult decisions I'd have to make. I made her that promise, altering my life forever.

At first, I couldn't handle the grief and ignored the promise I made

Her passing, though ultimately expected, rocked my sense of mortality and shattered me. We had always talked about growing old together in a nursing home and bickering with each other when we were 95, sharing a room like we did when we were kids.

At 27, I was deeply cognizant that I had no guarantee of time. Like everyone else, I thought I had decades before thinking about mortality, let alone a bucket list.

I was in denial for years. I lacked direction, strength, and self-worth.

Running became my outlet for grief. When I'd get tired and wanted to stop, I pictured my sister in her wheelchair, gasping for air, and took another step for her.

After my sister died, I had no mental or emotional energy to deal with my failing marraige. Having a baby didn't fix it.

I wondered if this was the life my sister envisioned for me as she was dying. Suddenly, I knew it wasn't. At 29, I finally admitted I was anything but happy and knew it was time to make a change.

I eventually acted on the promise I made with my sister

Braving the judgment I knew I'd face, I left my marriage and moved states with my infant and two large dogs to fulfill my dream of living near the beach despite having no family nearby to help. I started saying "yes" to more things and tackling my newly created bucket list.

An opportunity to visit Hawaii arose, and I jumped on it. In just one week, I skydived, got scuba certified, hiked a mountain at sunrise, and swam with sharks.

Keeping my promise to her — to say yes, to create happiness — changed everything. I gained confidence and self-esteem. That transformation led me to my life partner and now-husband, whom I met on the beach. We got engaged and married on that same sand.

Having my second child with him and feeling renewed in my career and personal relationships, I now live a life my 90-year-old self — and my sister — would be proud of.

I choose myself daily and remove what doesn't serve me. Every year, I celebrate aging; each birthday I see means I'm still alive, and I will never take that for granted.

I still live near the same beach where I rebuilt my life, and my car is covered in sand, dog hair, kids' toys, and sunscreen — just as I had always hoped.