• When I was pregnant with my fourth child, I found out he had a life-threatening heart defect.
• He had his first surgery at 5 days old, and I wasn't able to hold him for 55 days.
• A stranger said the words I needed to hear until my son was able to come home.

When I was five months pregnant with my fourth child, I found out I was having a boy — my first after three daughters. I was elated. But that moment of joy quickly blurred into fear when doctors also told me he had only one functioning kidney and a life-threatening heart defect called aortic stenosis. His heart wasn't pumping blood properly. The outlook wasn't good.

Every specialist I saw repeated the same idea: That's a big surgery for such a tiny body. As the pregnancy progressed, the condition worsened. They told me they would try to keep him inside for as long as possible to let him grow stronger, but at 38 weeks, they decided to induce me.

They said if he cried at birth, I'd get to hold him briefly. He let out a cry — a strong one — but I only saw his face for about a second before they whisked him away. He was transported to another hospital where they'd prepare him for open-heart surgery. I was too weak to sit up, so I asked a nurse to take a photo so I could see what he looked like after they cleaned him up and were about to load him into the ambulance. He was beautiful.

I didn't get to hold him for 55 days after that.

On day 5, he had open-heart surgery

Levi was born on October 18, 2023. His surgery took place five days later, on October 23. That was, without question, the most stressful day of my life.

At the time, I was freelancing. In theory, I had the freedom to work on my own schedule. But there was no schedule anymore — just fear, doctor's updates, and daily NICU visits. I couldn't focus. I could barely reply to emails. I eventually reached out to my editor and explained that I was emotionally unavailable and needed to step back. I expected silence and maybe a well wish or two. Instead, she told the CEO of the company about what was going on.

And he did something I'll never forget — he started a fundraiser to help us through that time. He didn't share my name, just a picture of Levi and a short version of our story. Donations started pouring in. Strangers left messages of encouragement, prayers, and hope. Within a week, over $10,000 had been raised.

It was humbling. I remember sitting with tears in my eyes, grateful that someone — many people — cared. I emailed some of the donors to thank them. One woman responded kindly, and I sent her a photo of Levi in return. She replied with a message that would become a lifeline for me in the months to come:

"Levi will be home, and he will heal well, and you will be loving him up soon. Of that I am sure."

I didn't know how much I needed those words until they became my anchor

What stood out wasn't just the sentiment — it was the certainty. That confidence from a stranger, spoken without hesitation, felt like a warm blanket wrapped around a shivering soul. It reminded me that sometimes, even when things are falling apart, someone else's belief can keep you stitched together.

Because things did fall apart.

Levi didn't wake up a few days after surgery like many babies do. He was hooked up to tubes and surrounded by machines for weeks. The left side of his heart, which had been compromised from the start, remained weak. Then the right side began failing. He developed two blood infections, then thrombosis in his groin and neck. Fluid built up around his heart and lungs. The complications were relentless. Every step forward was followed by another setback. I began to fear that maybe we wouldn't get the storybook ending.

And yet, that stranger's words echoed in my mind.

I repeated them to myself like a mantra on long rides to the hospital, on tear-streaked days when doctors couldn't give answers, on quiet nights when I'd sit with my girls and pretend everything was normal. Her assurance carried me when I had nothing left to hold onto. That confidence became mine.

He came home

The first time I held him — really held him — was 55 days after he was born. I had dreamt of that moment, but nothing could've prepared me for the wave of emotion that hit. I didn't want to let go. I finally had my son in my arms. He smelled like hospital soap and baby lotion and something uniquely his. I cried, and I smiled, and I told him I was proud of how strong he was.

As the weeks passed and Levi slowly began to heal, I stayed close. I held him through setbacks and celebrated every little win: a removed tube, a better scan, a good day with no new alarms. And then, one day, it was over. No more timed visits. No more sterile gowns and masks. Just me, my baby boy, and the chance to love him freely, just like she said I would.

When we were finally discharged, I wrote that stranger again: "He made it. He's coming home."

She responded with joy, and we still exchange messages now and then. I send her updates, photos, and a small window into the life she had faith he would eventually have.

In a world that can often feel indifferent or rushed, her words were a stillness. They were a pause, a gift, even. She didn't have to say anything at all, but she did. And what she said mattered more than she'll ever know.

• When my son was a senior in high school, he chose to move in with my 77-year-old mom.
• He doesn't have to worry about paying rent in our expensive city, and he's gained independence.
• My mom likes having help with chores, and his moving out has been good for him and our relationship.

When I got divorced, my two children and I moved back to the house I owned before I was married, which we'd kept as a rental property.

At 800 square feet, the two-bedroom cottage is ideal for two people, but it's a tight squeeze for three. My 13-year-old son got the smaller bedroom, while my 9-year-old daughter and I shared the larger one.

By the time my son was in high school and my daughter in middle school, they both desperately wanted their own space and more independence.

However, we live in Denver, one of the most expensive cities in the US. Upgrading to a bigger home wasn't an option — and my son couldn't afford his car and rent for his own place on the income from his part-time lifeguarding job.

So, he chose to move in with my 77-year-old mother during his senior year of high school.

Now, he's got more independence without the burden of rent

At my mom's house, my son has a spacious bedroom with a full bath in her finished basement, which includes a laundry, gym, and living room.

By living with his grandmother, he's able to avoid paying rent (and save money) while still having the independence that comes with having his own space.

When he moved in, my mom laid out clear rules and expectations of what he needed to help with around the house.

So far, he's been making dinner for her a few nights a week and helping with cleaning and other items on her to-do list. It's been a great lesson in independence for him, and it's been nice for my mom to have extra help around the house.

The move has also been beneficial to my relationship with my son. We set intentional boundaries that could bridge living at home and being 100% independent.

He doesn't have to coordinate all of his plans with me anymore, but he's also responsible for knowing what needs to be done with his schoolwork and housework and making it happen.

Now, he manages his schedule so he sees his friends plenty — and I'm no longer stressing about nagging him about homework and chores.

My son has also matured in a way that's really surprised me

After a couple of months of this living arrangement, a new confidence emerged in my son's personality and attitude.

As he got closer to graduation, he hit his stride with finishing school, working, saving money, and managing his household responsibilities.

Over several weeks, we were also able to have a lot of mature conversations about what he thought his future would look like.

Through high school, my son was unsure about attending college — he'd simply say he didn't know what he'd major in and didn't want to take out loans for tuition.

After a few months of his newfound independence, though, he was able to share his anxieties about college with me with more clarity and detail and less apathy.

Ultimately, he's decided to attend an affordable local community college in the fall and transfer to a university next year. I'm pleasantly surprised by how he was able to make such an important, mature choice on his own.

All in all, this unconventional living situation has been great

Even though this living arrangement is unconventional, it's been a game changer for all of us.

My son has gained so much independence. We've also improved our relationship, taking space as needed and coming together for meaningful conversations about his future.

And, of course, it's been helpful for my mom on a practical level.

Based on this experience, I'd encourage parents to think outside the box when it comes to living arrangements that an older teen might benefit from.

My son has been thriving after having a taste of what it means to live on his own as an adult — and, at my house, my daughter is thrilled to finally have her own space to decorate.

• I moved my family to Thailand for a better quality of life.
• I want to retire by 50, and Thailand offers a cheaper cost of living to make that happen.
• Here's a tour of our beautiful apartment in the heart of Bangkok that I could only dream of having in the U.S.

It took me too many years of my life to realize I don't want to work until a typical retirement age. My ex-father-in-law was a catalyst for this realization.

I met Steve when I was 17 (I'm now 44), and he was one of the hardest-working men I knew. There were times when he held two or even three jobs to support his family, and he worked hard at everything he did.

What's sad is that he worked until the day he found out he had stage 4 pancreatic cancer; he died three weeks later at 61.

His death was part of the reason I decided I didn't want to work into my 60s, and conversations with my children helped me see that my identity is more than my work.

Although I own a business, I'm working toward the goal of retiring by the age of 50, and moving to Thailand is the only way I could make that dream a reality.

We moved to Thailand for a better quality of life.

Retiring early in the US would be difficult due to the high cost of living and healthcare, even with insurance. My wife and I decided that moving out of the US permanently would be our best option to achieve our financial independence goals.

After researching, we decided to move to Thailand, a country with a relatively easy visa process, affordable healthcare, cheaper everyday living expenses, and a thriving economy.

My wife, our daughter, our niece, and I secured five-year Destination Thailand Visas (DTV) within a few weeks after deciding to move.

I found a beautiful apartment in the best location for a reasonable price.

It was easy to set up our life in Thailand, and I didn't have to go through the bureaucracy I've experienced my entire life in the US.

I landed in Bangkok and toured the apartments the next day. By the end of day two, we had signed a two-year lease for our dream apartment.

The rent is $1,200 a month, but our monthly living expenses for everything are less than $3,000 a month, which is about one-tenth of what we paid in the US.

Our apartment is close to Bangkok's public transportation.

The apartment is within walking distance to Terminal 21, a large mall, numerous coffee shops, restaurants, grocery stores, and healthcare facilities.

Bangkok is quite the city that never sleeps, and you can find many places that are open 24/7.

The apartment is just under 3,000 square feet with a comfortable living room and a balcony overlooking the pool.

The building and apartment are pet-friendly, so we brought our two cats with us. The building installed netting on the balconies so that the cats can spend time outside.

The apartment was furnished, but we also bought some of our things to make it more comfortable.

For example, I bought an 86-inch TV for the living room.

There is a nice-sized kitchen with a balcony — which houses our washer and dryer.

The kitchen is fully equipped with an oven, a gas stove, and plenty of counter space. Conveniently, a washer and dryer are on a small, netted balcony right outside the kitchen.

There is a formal dining room area, where we keep our filtered water.

We have a large dining room table, built-ins with storage space, and another balcony offers a dining area that's also netted.

Since the weather is good all year round, we're storing our larger suitcase on the balcony.

I turned the fourth bedroom and bathroom into my office.

I own a business and wanted a space to work outside our bedroom. The fourth room would typically be a maid's quarters or a small bedroom, but I converted it to my office.

I installed a mobile AC unit, bought a desk, and purchased a comfortable reading chair for breaks. The office is located on the same floor but is detached from the apartment, making it a quiet space.

Our primary bedroom is large with an ensuite and a balcony.

When we moved to Thailand, we thought we'd be moving to a smaller space than what we're used to in the US. But the apartment we got exceeded our expectations in terms of size.

The master bedroom came with a king-size bed, a large TV on top of built-ins, lots of closet space, a large bathroom, and an area for my wife to have a mini office.

We are quite comfortable.

Our daughter and niece have more space than they had in the US.

Our daughter and niece live with us, and occupy the second and third bedrooms, which are also spacious. Each room has a bathroom, a queen-size bed, and a good-sized TV.

Our daughter's room also features a separate vanity area.

We're very happy with our new family home, especially since it's saving us money.

I'm not sure if we'll stay in this apartment for all five years of our visa, but we're very happy with it right now.

The apartment has more space than anticipated, it's close to everything we need, and the building staff has been incredible.

We made the right move for our family, and we've accelerated our journey toward financial independence by increasing the amount we're saving.

• My teen wanted to get a job at a camp this summer, so I helped her through the application process.
• She was unsure what to put down as skills and and who to list as references, so I guided her.
• Her experience helped her stand out among the 100 applicants we heard she was up against.

"I want to be a camp counselor next summer," my 16-year-old daughter (now 17) proclaimed one day.

Luckily, she said this in December, just in time to start applying. From my own experience as a camp counselor at her age, I knew that most applications for this type of summer job are often due between January and March.

She set her sights on a familiar place

She decided to apply to the same camp she attended from age 8 to 11, a place she loved spending her summers. I let her know that her years as a camper there were valuable experience and something she should mention when she eventually filled out an application.

I guided her through the application process

Once she decided that this was the summer job she wanted to go for, I decided to help her figure out how to get it. First, I told her to search the name of the camp online along with the words "camp counselor application." After finding it I asked her to check the deadline. It turns out I was right about the time frame, since it was due in early February.

At first, she was worried that she didn't have any prior work experience, but I reassured her that camps often value leadership roles at school and participation in extracurricular activities. I also pointed out that her high GPA and academic awards could work in her favor. Plus, she did have experience looking after her younger cousins, which I assured her would count for something.

As she filled out the application, she asked me for feedback about which activities to include (she does a lot!). After some discussion, she decided to highlight that she founded and serves as president of her school's environmental club, an activity that showed both her leadership skills and her love of the outdoors. Since the camp she applied to is an outdoor adventure camp that visits different parks, it felt like a perfect activity to feature.

When she got to the section for references, she had no idea what it meant or who to include. I explained that if the camp is considering her for the position, they will contact the people she lists and ask whether she is responsible, hardworking, and reliable. I suggested she include the teacher who oversees the environmental club, her karate sensei, and someone who has known her since preschool and now works at the recreation center where the camp is held.

I also explained that before listing someone as a reference, she needed to ask if they were willing to be one. At first, she was hesitant to include the person who works at the camp because they hadn't interacted recently, and she felt nervous about reaching out. I told her that personal connections can sometimes help you get a job. Even though she wasn't entirely convinced, she agreed to reach out and ended up including this person.

She got an interview

A few weeks after she submitted her application, she received an email from the camp asking to set up an interview. She was excited but admitted she was also a little nervous. Since she participates in musical theater, we decided to "role play" a mock interview using possible questions. She said our practice session helped her feel more confident and ready for the real thing.

Following her interview, she felt both excited and hesitant. The job seemed like a perfect fit, and they asked some of the questions we had practiced.

"I think you were right about the personal connection," she explained. It turns out they mentioned the person during the interview. She was surprised that I was probably right. I don't often hear "You're right, Mom" so that was a win for me!

Even though she was clearly excited about the possible job and interview, she didn't want to get her hopes up. "They told me there are over a hundred applicants, and most of them are older than me," she said.

She got the job

Weeks passed without any word from the camp. Just when she thought she didn't get the job, she received a packet in the mail confirming that she did. She was beyond excited to start her new position and I was happy our work paid off.

She just finished her third week as a camp counselor and loves it. Being outdoors in parks, interacting with other campers and counselors, and reliving her own camp days have made the experience fun. "I don't even feel like it's work," she said to me.

I'm so happy that she found the perfect fit for a summer job. She loves it so much that I'm now wondering if maybe it's time I start asking her for career advice.

• When my kids moved out, I wasn't prepared for how unnerving the silence would feel.
• I spent years pouring into everyone else and had to relearn what brought me joy.
• Now, I've rediscovered my voice, embraced life over 50, and found a new kind of purpose.

For years, my life ran on a nonstop loop of various sporting events, travel to tournaments, and coordinating team dinners. My son and daughter both played travel sports. I was usually the team manager, organizing hotels, carpools, and group texts. Our weekends were booked for years. My house was the hub for prom, homecoming, and all the in-between moments. I worked, yes, and enjoyed it, but everything always came after my role as "Mom."

Then one day, the house was quiet.

I thought I'd be ready for the empty nest phase. I had friends who raved about the freedom. But I wasn't prepared for how unsettling it would feel.

When the noise stopped, the questions began

It's not just that the kids were gone. It's that everything that made our life feel full — the chaos, the laughter, the messy rooms, the mudroom full of shoes — was suddenly gone, too. I found myself lingering in the kitchen, waiting for someone to walk through the door. I missed the clutter. I missed the noise. I missed them.

And then I started missing me.

When you spend two decades being everything for everyone, it's easy to forget who you are outside of that. I didn't feel sad every day. I just felt like I was adrift. Untethered. Like I had checked all the boxes, and now I didn't know what came next.

I had to slow down long enough to figure things out

Initially, I stayed busy because that was what I knew. But eventually, I ran out of things to organize. I no longer had to pack the car with chairs and coolers. There were no games, no events, no post-practice dinners — just space.

And it turns out that space makes you listen.

That's when I started writing again. I remembered how much I loved telling stories — especially the stories of women like me who were figuring out this next chapter.

I still love the title "Mom," but I've loosened my grip on it

Don't get me wrong, I still love being a mom. But I've learned I can't hold it the same way I used to. My adult kids don't need a team manager. They need a sounding board. They need to know how to get their car repaired, which insurance to choose, or how to cook their favorite meal. They need space to grow. And I needed to realize that being a great mom now looks different from what it used to.

I no longer center my life around them. I cheer them on from the sidelines of their lives, but I've finally stepped onto the field of my own.

I started to live for myself

This isn't a story of an impulsive reinvention. I didn't sell everything and move across the world. But I did reinvent — quietly at first, then boldly. I let go of the version of me who only knew how to give. I started choosing things that lit me up.

I launched a podcast to spotlight women navigating life after 50, which has also become a regular television segment. I became a lifestyle expert on TV. I started writing professionally. I built a TikTok community from scratch, proof that midlife is not a slowdown, but a second wind.

The truth is, I never stopped being me. I just buried her under everyone else's needs. And now, I'm carefully, and sometimes clumsily, unearthing her again.

I'm not chasing some youthful version of myself. I'm claiming the wisdom I've earned and the freedom I nearly forgot I had.

This isn't the end of anything. It's just the first time I'm living fully as me.

• We bought our dream mountain home just outside of Boulder, Colorado.
• It had stunning views from roof-height front windows and nearby hiking trails that our dog loved.
• We knew the risk of wildfires when we bought, but the scope of mitigation was larger than we thought.

When I first set foot inside, I knew it was special.

My partner and I had been living in a 1,150-square-foot home in Boulder, Colorado, enjoying a 2.75% interest rate, but we were feeling cramped.

We both worked from home and shared a tiny desk in our spare bedroom and a full-sized desk in our dining space. Dinner parties required creative planning, and we had no garage or basement for storage.

Then, one day, our realtor excitedly called us up. A house that checked nearly all of our boxes was just about to hit the market. She asked if we could come see it right away.

The neighborhood was comprised of sprawling land plots and spacious homes tucked into an impressive foothill, with a winding road connecting them. Our future house was at the very top.

As I stepped inside, I could see Boulder's grasslands reach out toward the horizon through roof-height front windows. Take just a few steps into the backyard, and the craggy peaks of the Rocky Mountains poked into the sky.

It was true mountain living, but only a 10-minute drive to Boulder's city limits. To us, it offered the best of both worlds: access to the community we loved, while gaining plenty of space to work remotely and feel connected with nature.

There was one major downside, though.

We'd have to factor wildfire risk into our day-to-day lives

Worsening drought conditions accelerated by climate change were leading to destructive, difficult-to-predict wildfires in the Western states, including Colorado's Front Range.

Our realtor connected us with her friend, a retired fire department chief, and we walked the property together.

He pointed out the changes we would likely need to make: updating the roof with fire-resistant shingles, adding a gravel barrier, taking down trees, and keeping wild grasses trimmed.

He said to start by contacting a local nonprofit, Wildfire Partners, that assesses wildfire risks for homeowners.

So, after closing on our dreamy mountain home in the winter of 2022, we scheduled our assessment. Since Wildfire Partners would not come until spring, and our yard was blanketed in a protective layer of snow, we shelved our concerns for the first few months.

We faced a steep learning curve

We assembled mood boards on Canva, scoured vintage rug resellers, and shopped for the perfect leather couch to complete our dream living room.

Our houseplants thrived, and our sweet dog fell in love with the trails that started outside our front door.

As the springtime rolled in, we watched the evening thunderstorms roll over the plains. Some mornings, we even woke up above the clouds.

Mountain living wasn't all rainbows, though. Upon moving in, we had a long list of tasks to complete. We needed to install a radon fan. Our well required treatment for T. coli (total coliform) contamination. Getting contractors to come out was a monumental task.

We also discovered that many of the seller's renovations were hastily slapped together. We wondered what other corners he might have cut, and how much of our planned wildfire mitigation budget would have to go toward these unexpected fixes.

The scope of wildfire mitigation was larger than we expected

When the Wildfire Partners representative came out that spring, he tagged over 30 trees that we would need to cut down. His 17-page assessment also involved trimming ladder fuels and fireproofing our house's exterior.

If and when we completed our wildfire mitigation checklist, Wildfire Partners would come back, verify the work, and issue a certification. They would also match up to $2,000 of arborist-related costs, but the rest would be on us to fund. The proposed scope of work would cost upwards of $50,000, or several thousand less if you were able to DIY some projects.

Our assessor assured us that most people take years to complete their checklists due to the time, money, and effort required. My partner and I debated our plan of approach and decided we would sleep better at night knowing we had taken all the necessary steps to protect our home.

A grassland fire put us on edge

That first (and only) summer in our dream home, we spent weekends working toward our certification. We felled dozens of trees, stacked logs, and gave them away. Friends pitched in, and a kind neighbor lent us chainsaws.

We trimmed the wild grasses that covered our hillside. We installed a gravel barrier around the house to reduce the likelihood of a stray ember landing and catching flame. We interviewed contractors for more complex projects, like installing roofing and ledge flashing.

It was hard work, but it was rewarding. Before we knew it, we were only a few list items away from earning our certification and feeling accomplished.

Then, one afternoon, a small wildfire broke out at the bottom of the neighborhood hill.

A neighbor told us that someone operating a weedwhacker had nicked a rock, and the resulting sparks had started a brush fire. I watched smoke curl over the ridge, and refreshed my neighborhood message board, anxiously waiting to find out if we needed to evacuate.

Fortunately, the firefighters acted swiftly, and the winds were not blowing that day, but this fire event brought back a devastating memory from just a few years prior.

On December 30, 2021, a grass fire in Boulder County transformed into a suburban firestorm, fanned by wind gusts of over 100 miles per hour. In a matter of hours, the Marshall Fire had claimed two lives and over 1,000 homes. People had minutes to evacuate. My partner and I read stories of neighbors knocking on doors to ensure no one was left behind, since there was no statewide alert system.

Wildfires are not only frightening because they are destructive. They are also infamously unpredictable. Just one ember—deposited by the wind onto a combustible ledge—could be the difference between avoiding disaster and losing your home.

That's why our friends at Wildfire Partners were so stringent about handing out certifications. Details that could appear insignificant, such as decking gaps or the type of mesh covering your vents, actually make a big difference. There was also hope—but not a promise—that the mitigations would help keep homes like ours insured.

Insurance trends made us question our purchase

In 2024, the insurance landscape began to change. We heard through the neighborhood grapevine that a neighbor's insurer had dropped them.

A friend in another part of the state also lost her coverage. Finally, we read that State Farm, our insurer, would no longer issue new home policies in California. Could Colorado be next?

It occurred to us that our safety net, which we paid thousands of dollars annually to secure, might not be there for us when we needed it.

We started wondering what would happen if we lost everything. Would our insurer provide us enough to rebuild in place? Would we even want to? And in the absolute worst-case scenario possible—if a fire broke out, would a neighbor rescue our dog if we were unable to get to her?

Over beers, the same neighbors who lent us yard tools recounted tales of their most recent evacuation. The 2020 CalWood Fire had burned over 10,000 acres. On their wall hung a framed photo of the blaze, which had ripped through the foothills just across the canyon and leveled 26 structures.

I was in awe of their casual attitude, but they revealed important truths. We cannot control nature, no matter how many preventative checklists we complete. Also, we are far from experiencing the worst impacts of climate change, especially as our government takes steps to halt climate action.

Committing to life in a wildland-urban interface would require acceptance and a come-what-may point of view on the matter of wildfires, which we weren't sure we were up for.

We sold in 2024

Our life on the mountain was far from perfect, but it had become our home.

We looked forward to the wild irises and larkspurs blooming. We even felt fond of the wild band of turkeys that sometimes woke us up at 6 in the morning. Could we really leave it all behind?

Despite everything, we were not resting easily. No matter how much we enjoyed it in the present, we feared our dream home could not be insured or sold in the future. This is not a dealbreaker for our neighbors, who plan to spend the rest of their lives in this special place—come what may. It doesn't matter because they are in their forever homes.

As it turned out, we were not in ours.

Our trusty realtor listed our dream home in the spring, and by summer, it closed. Although we came out in the red, we exhaled a massive sigh of relief. A few days after closing, a wildfire broke out in South Boulder, and I told that familiar pang of fear to take a hike.

For those willing to accept the risk, our former mountain home is a magical place to live. We just weren't those people.

The offers and details on this page may have updated or changed since the time of publication. See our article on Business Insider for current information.

• My parents sold their home of 40 years and retired to Barranquilla, Colombia.
• They enjoyed 15 years there, but a diagnosis of Alzheimer's disease changed everything.
• Now they're back in in Houston, and I'm navigating their care and finances.

When my parents retired at 70, they both knew immediately where they wanted to go.

With its year-round temperatures of 80 to 90 degrees, peaceful blue waters and a welcoming and lively culture the seaside city of Barranquilla, Colombia, called to them. After all, my Colombian father would be going back to his homeland, and my Cuban mother relished in the Latin culture that seemed so fragmented in the U.S.

They sold their home of more than 40 years in Houston and purchased a two-story condo with a partial ocean view for $135,000 USD. Their social security and retirement money went a long way in Barranquilla, where the average cost of living is much lower than it is in the US.

The move was great, until it wasn't

In the beginning, their retirement life was idyllic. They enjoyed afternoon coffee with friends at sidewalk cafes, they walked along the beach every morning and they would attend parties in their condo development with fellow retirees.

But one day, while they were visiting my family in Texas, my mother stopped and stared at my younger son splashing away in the pool. "Who's that little boy?" she asked. I stared at her face, as she scrutinized my son, with his dark curls and almond brown eyes that looked like mine. "Ma, that's your grandson," I said.

That's when I knew something was terribly wrong. On another visit, my father would wander in the kitchen aimlessly, looking for the cabinet where we kept our water glasses, despite the fact that he had no problem finding them a year ago.

A trip to the neurologist confirmed what I had already suspected. They both had Alzheimer's disease.

We needed to make a plan

While the diagnosis for both of them was still early-stage, I knew what the future held. My grandmother (my mother's mother) and my mother's brother both had Alzheimer's. Worst yet, my father seemed to be progressing at an alarmingly rapid rate. Unfortunately, retiring on the Colombian coast would be a dream unfulfilled.

They decided to move back to Houston to be closer to family and their doctors. They agreed to sell their condo and move in with us temporarily until we could find a suitable assisted living apartment. But it's been tricky. Some days, they would say they were moving back to Barranquilla permanently. It was a constant flip-flop, but my husband and I made an executive decision to keep them in Houston.

They've been living with us since February. In that time, I've had to reset all their passwords because they couldn't remember them. I spend every morning scrambling to the kitchen to make sure I'm there to give them their medication, a routine they consistently forget.

The biggest challenge, though, has been navigating foreign laws. One thing I did early on was get a power of attorney and medical power of attorney. While those two documents have been incredibly helpful in the states, I'm not entirely sure the legal weight these documents may carry in Colombia. I'm currently looking for a lawyer and a real estate agent abroad who can help me with the sale of their condo. Once that's taken care of, I then have to sell all the stuff they've amassed in the 15 years they've lived there.

I'm planning for my own future, too

Perhaps the biggest lesson I've learned in all of this is to be prepared. I plan to sign up for long-term care insurance so my children won't have to stress over how they plan to pay for my care in the same way I have had to with my parents. I've been taking steps to improve my health and I'm also financially prepared for the inevitable — when my parents pass away. Right now, though, I'm going to relish the time I still have with them, here, close to my family.

• My 4-year-old daughter will start primary school in September. She's excited, but I'm dreading it.
• It seems like moments ago that I brought home a baby from hospital, now she's growing up so fast.
• I feel like this is the beginning of the rest of her life and I'm not ready for the change.

'I will need a laptop when I start school,' my 4-year-old daughter confidently informed me.

She is due to start school in September and will be going to the lovely, tiny village school that is minutes away from our house in the UK.

I knew she'd need a pencil case and school shoes, but I really wasn't expecting her to need a laptop.

When I tried to reason with her, and point out it was unlikely the school would ask 4-year-olds to have their own computer, she answered, 'It's for my homework.'

That was that. She'd heard so much about 'big' school from older relatives, that she was convinced she knew what she was getting herself in to, despite me trying to tell her I thought it was unlikely the youngest classes were given homework.

Looking at her face, full of excitement, with messy hair and remnants of nursery school detritus on it, my heart broke slightly as I imagined what the next few weeks, months, and years would look like.

Things are changing

While my daughter sees school as her biggest adventure so far, I see it as the start of the rest of her life. And with it comes the inevitable highs and lows of growing up.

Along the way she's going to experience the joy of close friendships, the pain of friendship break-ups, the excitement of a school trip and, yes, the slog of homework.

After primary school, there'll be secondary school, maybe university, and a career to follow.

There'll be Sunday evening battles over getting bags ready for the school week, carefully planned camps to tide over the long summer break, and playdates with people who, I hope, will become some of our closest friends but who we haven't even met yet.

She is ready, I'm not

She still feels so small, but is also so determined to grow up in a hurry. She can't wait to be at school and keeps gleefully reminding her younger brother that she won't be at nursery school with him this year.

She says, "I am going to school and you are not, because you are only a baby."

Her indignant younger brother, replies, "Not a baby."

She is ready to leave him behind and move on, to a place where she's going to be the smallest fish in a large pond.

My heart is aching

I don't know when the novelty and excitement will wear off, but when it does I can't think of a way to sugarcoat the pill that this is her life for years to come.

But I also know that along the way I will have the privilege to witness her grow into a wonderful human being- shaped by everything life throws at her, beginning in the next few weeks and continuing for years.

Imagining my tiny girl in a uniform slightly too big for her, holding my hand nervously in the playground on her first day, my heart contracts.

I know that she is more than ready for this step, and as a parent, I have to let her fly and just be there to catch her when or if she falls. However, I will not be, under any circumstances, buying her a laptop.

• 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.

• I was accepted into a Ph.D. in economics program, which was a dream come true.
• But I was also offered a job at a startup that excited me, so I took the offer.
• The startup folded, and I'm unsure if I regretted the decision.

When I received an email saying I had been accepted into the university of my choice for a Ph.D. program, I cried.

Furthering my education had always been an important goal for me, but it was one I didn't achieve easily. I battled Graves' disease through my early college years, which meant I was in and out of the classroom. I constantly played catch-up, and never thought I'd graduate. Understandably, the thought of enrolling in a Ph.D. economics program was a dream come true.

I'm a forward thinker, so I started imagining my interactions with my professors and what kind of thesis I'd work on. Although the annual tuition fees would put a great dent in my pocket, I was determined to work for it. I would have to strike a balance between school, family, and side hustles.

But then I got an offer I couldn't refuse.

My friend was working on an intriguing startup idea

While I was still planning for my program that was meant to begin in early fall, I met a friend who talked to me about a startup company he started and was taking off faster than he could keep up. It was exhilarating, and he thought I'd benefit from the experience.

The company wanted to disrupt financial access in underserved economies, and it was doing everything from product development and data modeling to pitching investors.

This friend had always been a dreamer and succeeded in most things he put his mind to. As he assured me, the startup wouldn't be an exception, especially because he had channeled all his savings toward it.

However, he wanted to bring me on board because I had an analytical background in economics. To be honest, the pay he suggested wasn't great, but the opportunity was stellar with potential for growth in skills and finances. My role would involve leveraging my skills in data analysis and understanding market dynamics.

He suggested I take some time to think about it.

I decided to take the job offer

I went back home and spent the majority of my time online looking through the company pages and comparing them to others that were thriving in the same field. It looked promising, and I wanted to be part of something great.

However, the team required someone who would work in the office full time, and logically, I wouldn't be able to be present for classes and work at the same time.

After a lot of back and forth, I thought working for the company was a one-time opportunity, and I was leaning toward it.

I looked up deferral programs and decided to consult with my school to seek their opinion on deferring my course for a year or two and then rejoining. The department didn't have deferrals, and the dean advised against it.

But the faculty told me that I could reapply a year later. I thought, if I was accepted once, I could be accepted again, so I started working for the startup.

The job didn't pan out as I expected

Everything was great in the first half of my work year. We embraced a team spirit, brought a few clients on board, and were on a steady path to growth. However, somewhere in the middle, we lost the plot.

We struggled to fit some of the company's products into a market that wasn't ready, and, most importantly, we faced a severe lack of funding.

After a long time of trying everything we could, the startup folded.

Looking back on my decision

I had mixed feelings about turning down school. In some ways, I feel like a failure. I was depressed and sunk deep into hopelessness. I haven't reapplied to my Ph.D. program yet, and I'm not sure I will anytime soon.

In hindsight, walking away from an opportunity to further my studies so I could join a startup was a risk, but it was also a rewarding experience in itself. I gained immense experience and made connections I wouldn't have made in academia.

I learned what it means to build something from the ground up, even if it doesn't work out.

• My 2-year-old grandson, King, died in an accident as I was achieving major career milestones.
• The loss forced me to confront how I had been using external achievements.
• Through my grief, I learned what true success in life really means.

The call came while I was in the middle of producing a groundbreaking documentary sanctioned by the Napoleon Hill Foundation. I had also just been featured in Forbes. Everything in my career was accelerating exactly as I had planned.

Then came the news that shattered everything.

King, my 2-year-old grandson, had drowned in a tragic accident. The little boy who would stop whatever he was doing to run into my arms, whose face lit up every time he saw me, was gone.

I felt like an anvil had fallen on my chest. Every step I took felt heavy, and the more it sank in, the more I wanted to leap out of my body from the pain. My chest was heavy and I couldn't breathe. It was instant trauma and a shock to my nervous system that left me gasping for air.

But that grief taught me something valuable.

My grandson meant the world to me

My first thought was denial. He's so young. I was just with him. How could this have happened?

Just one month earlier, I had sent King and my daughter back to California. When their flight was delayed, King held onto my neck like he didn't want to let go before boarding. I never expected that would be the last time I would hold him.

King wasn't just any child to me. Our relationship was magical. When I would play meditation music by the group Beautiful Chorus, he would hear just the first tone and stop whatever he was doing to come sit on my lap and sing with me. He was even on key. When he stayed at my house, we would sing together, play the African drum, and he would dance while I cooked. We would laugh until our bellies hurt.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, producing a documentary about mothers who had overcome adversity to find success, and I was suddenly facing one of my greatest adversities.

I forced myself to sit with the pain of loss

I didn't use work as anesthesia. Instead, I allowed myself to feel everything without grabbing any vices as coping mechanisms. It was painful. My nervous system wouldn't allow me to rest, and when I did sleep, I woke up thinking about King.

The grief forced me to confront a fundamental truth: I had been building my identity on things completely outside my control. I realized that only the ego would allow me to believe that tomorrow is promised to me or anyone I love.

I couldn't run from the pain. I had to use the tools I had been building through plant medicine, meditation, breathwork, and stillness to sit with it and find peace with knowing there was nothing I could have done to prevent this.

My grief helped me better understand success

Before King's death, my definition of success was entirely external. Success looked like closing deals, taking meetings, and speaking at events. It was anything that fed my ego. I was chasing vanity metrics, using achievements to mask deeper insecurities I hadn't yet faced.

But when I lost King, none of that mattered — the Forbes feature, the Napoleon Hill Foundation project, and the speaking engagements. All of it felt meaningless in the face of this devastating loss.

I started understanding that true success wasn't about external validation. It was about healing trauma, facing my shadows, and addressing my addictions.

I know for a fact that if I hadn't been doing deep inner work before this happened, I would have been completely broken. The preventive inner work I had done gave me the tools I needed to process this unimaginable loss.

I now realize that inner work before something happens is the only way to have the tools needed to process the curveballs life throws at you with full impact.

King's death revealed the most resilient part of me. The part that won't quit, even in the face of unbearable loss. He taught me that true success isn't measured in Forbes features or foundation partnerships. It's measured in our capacity to love deeply, heal authentically, and find meaning even in our darkest moments.

Every time I hear that first tone from Beautiful Chorus, I remember my grandson's voice singing with mine, perfectly on key, and I'm reminded that the most important successes in life can't be quantified on any business metric.

• 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.

• I thought I would be raising my kids in a suburban house with a backyard.
• Instead, our family of four lives in a one-bedroom apartment with a study in an urban area.
• Living in an apartment was hard when our kids were babies, but now it's working for us.

I never imagined I would be raising my kids in a 900-square-foot apartment.

My husband and I had planned to move to a house in the suburbs just before our first baby was born. But then the pandemic struck, and real estate prices went up. Five years later, we still live in the same apartment, and now there are four of us.

For a while, I felt inadequate about our living situation because we didn't live in a house with a backyard for our kids to run around and play in. Now I've realized that there are benefits to living in an urban apartment for our family, especially once the baby phase was behind us.

Living in an apartment was hard when our kids were babies

There were things I really didn't like about living in an apartment when my kids were babies.

For starters, it was hard to find room for all of the baby stuff. Some baby items just wouldn't fit neatly anywhere, such as the double stroller and the travel crib.

It also seemed like the noises were amplified in our apartment, so our babies' cries felt louder than they really were. I was constantly worried that we were disturbing our neighbors' sleep.

With only one bedroom and a study, I felt frustrated because I couldn't take a proper break from the demands of motherhood unless I left the apartment.

We socialize with other families who live in apartments

That push to get out of the apartment for more space hasn't been all bad, though. It has led to more socializing with other families who live in our neighborhood.

Our family spends a lot of time at the local parks, playgrounds, and playgroups. In doing so, we've connected with many other families, who have become our broader support network.

Meeting other families who live in apartments has also helped to normalize our own living situation. It shows me that there's nothing wrong with raising kids in an apartment.

An urban apartment suits our young family

With nearly everything we need at our doorstep, walking everywhere keeps us active and allows us to live an almost car-free lifestyle. We hardly ever have to wrestle our kids into car seats, worry about parking a car, or fill up the gas tank.

When we don't even want to leave our apartment building, we use the shared communal space, which is equipped with a landscaped garden and grassy lawn—kind of like having a backyard.

We work together to keep our apartment organized and functional, and try to limit how much stuff we own. We gift each other experiences and prefer to borrow toys and books instead of buying them.

The smaller space strengthens our family's bond and fosters many shared experiences with each other. We intentionally gather together to do things as a family, yet we also feel comfortable doing independent activities side-by-side.

While things didn't turn out quite as I had expected, I think we're making the most of our living situation.

• About five years ago, my now-fiancé and I moved from Washington, DC, to a small town in Arkansas.
• The most surprising part of moving was seeing how many people in our new town were self-employed.
• The culture shift inspired us to open up a restaurant, and I love the way my workweek looks now.

I never expected to leave my city life for a small Arkansas town of about 16,000 people — but I'm so glad I did.

I first moved to Washington, DC, for school, but ended up staying for nearly two decades thanks to the incredible job opportunities, cultural experiences, and lifelong friendships I made there.

Then, COVID-19 hit. I was fortunate to keep my job in the nonprofit industry, working remotely throughout the pandemic — but my boyfriend, a chef, had a hard time finding work as one restaurant after another closed its doors or cut staff.

Suddenly, we wondered whether it made sense to continue paying rent for a pricey basement apartment in the nation's capital.

My partner had some job leads in his Arkansas hometown, which was also much closer to my family in Memphis. So, in August 2020, we packed a U-Haul and hit the road.

I was surprised to learn that so many people in my new neck of the woods were self-employed

Coming from Washington, DC, I was used to people working for large firms or the government in some capacity. During my first few months in town, as I worked long remote hours for my DC-based job, I was struck by the percentage of locals who were self-employed.

It felt like half the people I met were entrepreneurs — from a band manager and a lawyer with his own firm to personal trainers and dog groomers. Even many of the kids at the local high school were starting boat-detailing businesses or mobile car-wash services.

My now-fiancé and I would stroll downtown, checking out empty storefronts and dreaming about opening a small gift shop or burger bar of our own.

Although I hadn't seriously considered it before, the idea of being brick-and-mortar business owners suddenly didn't seem quite so far-fetched.

So, when a small café and marina became available, we took the plunge

We invested our savings and became proud owners of a lakeside burger and po'boy shop.

We knew my fiancé would be the head chef and manage day-to-day operations. I expected to keep my office job and help serve customers on the weekends. Fate had other plans, though, and I was laid off right as the deal went through.

Now working on the business full time, I still help take orders and serve food, but I also handle a wide range of administrative tasks, from running payroll to paying county liquor taxes.

I also handle marketing efforts, like designing promotional fliers and managing our social media. Plus, I fill in wherever and whenever I'm needed — whether that means stocking food deliveries, mopping floors, coordinating events, or making fries.

The road forward hasn't always been easy, but I love my new career

We knew the restaurant business was notoriously challenging, and we saw that firsthand our first summer in operation.

Fully staffed, we opened for both lunch and dinner, but because our space mainly consists of outdoor seating, lunch service was largely empty during weeks of 90-degree heat.

The next season, we pivoted, limiting operations to late afternoon and evening hours and leaning into showcasing local musicians on weekend nights to make the most of prime patio hours.

Through the whole experience, I've learned how much I enjoy variety in my workweek. It's also been incredible to become a more active member of my community — I've gotten to know neighbors, donated meals to local sports teams, and exhibited artists' paintings on the walls.

Being new entrepreneurs has been a process of constant learning and frequent adjustments, but five years later, we have no regrets — just a lifestyle and business we love.

• My 88-year-old grandmother has a bustling social life and has always lived in the present.
• She doesn't spend too much time worrying about the future and stays open to trying new things.
• She's inspired me to enjoy my life instead of worrying so much about where to live and what to do.

Every Wednesday night after graduating from college, I sat in my grandma's living room and spiraled about my future.

How could I decide on the one thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life? One city to live in? One partner to marry?

She nodded and listened while filling our plates with kugel and mandel bread. "Emma," she'd say after my lament. "I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up."

My 88-year-old grandma has always lived in the present

My grandma Reva leads the most fulfilled life of anyone I know — not just the 80-plus-year-olds.

Now 88, she told me her secret is to "just live in the moment." And, throughout her life, she's stayed open to giving things a try if they sound interesting.

At 18, she took a leap of faith by marrying an Army man she met through a letter because, she said, she had "nothing to lose." That leap led to a 65-year marriage. The two kissed goodnight, held hands, and slow danced until the very end.

With her "I'll try it out" mindset, she bounced around jobs, only staying where she could find the fun.

As a retail employee, she quit on day one after meeting a rude coworker. As a legal secretary, her "boss was a putz," so she moved on to work for my grandpa's accounting firm. That job was hard work, but she loved the vacations after every tax season.

When that closed, she went to work for my dad. There, she made a best friend and stayed a while. "We used to laugh at all the clients, but I whipped that place into shape," she told me.

When my grandpa passed five years ago, she moved out of their family home and into a one-bedroom apartment. For the first time in her life, in her 70s, she was living alone.

Aside from the new digs, we figured her life would remain relatively unchanged. With her weekly mahjong and canasta games with friends, Friday night family dinners, and frequent calls with her 13 grandchildren, Grandma's life seemed content as is.

Instead, she chose to lean into this new chapter in her 80s and fill her life with even more joy and community. She and her apartment neighbors (turned friends) now spend their winters gossiping in the party room and summers book-clubbing at the pool.

Last week, she was too busy tasting each of her neighbor's "signature drinks" to take my call. "I never went to college, now I get the sorority-house experience," she told me. "It's made my life more beautiful."

Once again, my grandmother's life led me to reflect on my own. My grandma lives such a rich, social life — people even recognize her by just her laugh. If someone so happy has spent her life finding joy in the present, why was I so worried about the future?

She's inspired me to lean into present feelings while making peace with future uncertainties

So, I took her advice. I decided I no longer needed to know what I wanted to do when I grew up — just what I wanted to do tomorrow.

Swallowing my fears, I quit my job in Chicago and moved to New York City. Living in Manhattan, my decision paralysis dissipated.

I made new friends and kept the old. I signed up for the intimidating extracurriculars, and my comedy classes quickly became the highlight of my week. I dated without the pressure of finding one "forever person," and forged connections I'd otherwise convince myself out of.

By this playbook, I realized that tomorrow, I wanted to be a writer. So, I gave up my spot in my graduate program and applied for journalism school instead.

Just a few weeks ago, my grandma was "too busy clapping to take photos," as I walked across the graduation stage to collect my degree.

These days, neither one of us knows what we want to be when we grow up — but I'm no longer worried about it. All I know is we're happy today, and I'm excited to figure out what I'd like to do tomorrow.

• We bought our Subaru Outback in 2018 when we had our first child.
• It's been a super reliable car, but with three growing kids, we've outgrown it.
• We tested the new electric 2025 Volkswagen ID Buzz, and we loved it.

We've had our Subaru Outback since 2018, when my first child was just a newborn.

Now that our kids are 7, 5, and 5, while the car is still as reliable as day one, it's become a source of stress because our kids fight so much in it from the lack of space.

My husband had been suggesting a minivan for our family, with three rows to space the kids out and sliding doors for easy loading. I, however, refuse to be a minivan mom. I find them ugly and impractical.

That all changed when I saw the new electric Volkswagen ID Buzz, so we decided to test it with our family — and now we are torn.

We need more space for our family so decided to test out the electric Volkswagen ID Buzz.

There's no denying we need more space in the car. With three car seats, growing limbs, and all the stuff from school and sports, the back row is tight.

That's the major cause of fights in our car, which makes any trip (short or long) incredibly stressful for whoever is driving.

As for the rest of the car, it's got what we need: a big trunk, the ability to place a turtle top, and an overall reliable engine.

My first car was a Volkswagen Golf, which I loved, so I've always been a bit partial to the brand. We also tested the Volkswagen Atlas Crossport, which has two rows instead of three, and even having just a bit more space in the second row made our kids more comfortable and manageable.

When we saw previews on social media of the ID Buzz, VW's new version of their 1950s Bus, I was intrigued. It looked cuter than a van, but still offered what we thought we needed.

The third row is a true row.

When the kids saw the VW ID Buzz, they all squealed in excitement. I won't lie, it looks so cool in person. Even while driving it to summer camp drop off, we saw people turn around to do a double take and kids pointing as we drove past. If you don't like the attention, be warned that this car attracts all the looks.

The ID Buzz we tested didn't have captain seats, so we had to lower one seat for one of our kids to sit in the third row. As I was setting up the car seats, I noticed that the third row is a full row. I'm 5'6" tall and was able to sit comfortably with extra space for my legs.

Loading the kids was pretty easy.

You can open the sliding doors with the key, and even with the seat lowered, it was easy for all three of them to navigate their bodies inside.

One detail I loved was the ability to open the doors three different ways: from the remote, as mentioned, from the actual door, and also from a button near the driver's seat.

This last option made it so I could get in the car, type in our destination on the screen, and not have to wait around to close the doors.

It doesn't have a ton of bells and whistles.

One of the biggest complaints online has been the interior design, which some feel is lacking compared to how innovative the exterior design is. For my family's needs, this wasn't a problem at all.

Coming from a 2017 car to a 2025 model, we could tell the difference in things like heated seats in the middle row and a more dynamic screen (our Subaru's screen doesn't even show a map). That said, the VW ID Buzz doesn't have that many bells and whistles, and I actually like that.

We recently drove a BMW 7 Series after getting a free upgrade from a rental car company, and I really disliked all the extra buttons in the back row.

My kids kept changing the temperature and radio station, annoying everyone.

The trunk space was limited but enough for day-to-day use.

The trunk space in the ID Buzz is nonexistent compared to the space in our Subaru Outback if the third row is in use. I do like that the ID Buzz has two baskets that can be covered by a platform, allowing us to store groceries or sports equipment without taking up precious trunk space.

While the amount of space wouldn't be an issue on a day-to-day basis, if we were going on a road trip, the space in the trunk does feel a bit limited.

But there was one major drawback for us.

Overall, I've found the Volkswagen ID Buzz easy to drive, fun, and reliable. While there's criticism for the range — which is advertised at 230 miles — as a city car to move kids from one location to the other, the range felt fine. We were able to run almost a full week without charging, and then stopped to charge while during groceries for about 30 minutes.

The one criticism I have for the ID Buzz is its price point. The 4-wheel-drive, which is what we would need in Maine, is retailing at over $72,000. This puts it over our other car, an Audi Q7, the 2025 model of which is now retailing at $70,000 and is considered a luxury SUV.

• I'm a teacher who started experimenting with ChatGPT.
• AI helps me create study guides, bar graphs, and quizzes.
• The technology will never eliminate all of my duties, but it's made me a more efficient teacher.

I was anxious the first time I dabbled in ChatGPT. That's probably an understatement. I actually feared that someone was watching over me, lurking in cyberspace, waiting to sound alarm bells when I typed a certain phrase or combination of words into the blank search bar.

I'm a journalist and journalism educator. I teach kids about sourcing and how to avoid plagiarizing material. In my media ethics class, I ask them to sign a contract saying they won't use other people's material.

So what the heck was I doing playing with AI? And what if I actually liked it?

Spoiler alert: I did, and it's kind of awesome.

ChatGPT has become helpful for me

Teachers have focused so much on how our students might use AI to cheat that we may have forgotten how it can help us in the classroom and at home.

I'm using AI (specifically ChatGPT) in practical, everyday ways.

I recently completed a 16-week intensive ELA and math tutoring program in our local school district. The material I was given for the program didn't work well for my kids, so I ran it through ChatGPT to make it more digestible.

With AI, I can customize my lessons — quickly. Tens and ones review? No problem. Bar graph with ice cream flavors? Done. First grade fractions? Been there, done that, too. I've even started playing around with Bingo designs for fun.

I'm also using AI to play teacher at home. When my 6th grader needs to review states of matter or the history of ancient China, we turn to AI together. ChatGPT whips up multiple-choice quizzes (with answer keys) faster than I can make dinner. The same thing goes for studying India's monsoon season. Once, I even asked AI to create a quiz on how to spot fake news.

I recently looked back on my ChatGPT history and realized how much I had used AI to generate study guides, like the one I made for "The Outsiders," by S.E. Hinton. My son got an A on that quiz.

I don't think AI will ever replace me

As much as I've come to rely on AI, I've learned that it isn't going to solve all my classroom conundrums.

For example, it won't comfort a crying student because he or she did poorly on a test and fears her parents will ground her. AI isn't going to help me decide when a student is sick enough to visit the school nurse. It's not going to help me figure out why a student understands one concept of math but can't grasp another.

But given all the complexities and challenges of being an educator right now, I'll take the help, even if it means double-checking all of the facts.

I'm leaning into AI, but cautiously

I still feel a little guilty when I ask AI to check a sentence's grammar or to eliminate redundancies in my writing. I'm not sure if it's because I asked for help or because the work is often great.

Still, ChatGPT has made me more efficient as a teacher. I can easily whip up study guides that benefit my students and tailor lesson plans to them. All of this frees up time for me to connect with my students more easily and focus on other tasks.

I'm glad I took a leap of faith, and I plan on exploring AI as it continues to grow.

• Before having kids, my husband and I would travel carry-on only.
• With kids, we felt like we needed more space and often checked luggage.
• We took a trip through Sicily with carry-ons, and we are never going back to checking bags.

"Your bag didn't make it to this airport," the woman behind the counter told me in 2023. We had just arrived in Madrid, jetlagged, delayed, and exhausted.

Before having kids, my husband and I were experts at traveling with carry-on only, but since we had three kids in two years, our packing situation has become a little more, well, complicated.

That is, until this year, when I decided that we were going to try to travel without any checked baggage to Italy for over two weeks. It was a success, and I'm never going back to check luggage.

We got our kids cute roller suitcases

With my kids, everything new we do depends on the delivery. Knowing that they would moan if I simply said, "Everyone needs to roll their own carry-on," I decided to invest in cute, fun bags for them.

I got three Away kids' carry-ons in different colors. I figured they'd be into them because they are fun and smaller than a regular carry-on. I was correct.

They all practiced rolling their bags around the house and watched me pack their things into the separate compartments. We then talked about how they were responsible for their own bag at the airport and that we couldn't leave them behind.

I packed very light

We were in Italy for 16 days, and I decided to pack extremely light. Not just so the carry-ons wouldn't be super heavy, but also to have room for treasures I knew we would find in some of our magical destinations, and for new outfits.

I checked the listings for our Airbnbs and planned where and when we would be doing laundry. I ended up packing five outfits for each of us and bringing two pairs of shoes each.

In the end, because we spent so much time at the beach, I felt like I could've packed even lighter on clothes for the kids since they mostly wore bathing suits and flip-flops.

Having small bags made moving around Italy easier

Most of the places we stayed had stairs, which we didn't know in advance. The first house in Taormina had about three flights of stairs right as you walked in, on a flimsy staircase not for the faint of heart.

Bringing small bags made it easier to check in and out of places like these. We also took a trip to a remote island by ferry, and navigating the cobblestone streets and port was much easier with our carry-ons.

We each had a backpack to access things like passports, snacks, and stuffed animals. That way, once the carry-ons were zipped, I didn't need to get into them until the next location.

I'm not going back to checked bags

Now that my kids are older and we don't need to bring things like diapers, formula, car seats, and all the stuff that comes with babies, I'm ready to never check a suitcase again.

While it requires more planning pre-trip, I felt like it paid off significantly during our travels. My husband and I did, at certain points, take over our kids' carry-ons, especially when rushing to catch a connection or getting on and off escalators. Since our bags had four wheels, it wasn't super hard to do so.

And the idea of never losing a bag and having to track it with an AirTag from a different country sounds quite appealing to me.

• I missed being a part of my sons' daily lives, so when they were 23 and 24, I moved to be nearby.
• Starting over at 51 in a big city was difficult, and I became more needy than I was back home.
• I wasn't myself, and it wasn't working out for anyone. I moved back after one year.

It hit me on the seven-hour drive. The punch to the gut, the weight of the wrongness of it all.

I was on my way to a new apartment in a new city to be closer to two of my four sons, where I'd be just a 10-minute drive away from both.

The new place had everything I thought I wanted: a dishwasher, garbage chute, high ceilings, fast wifi, a little balcony and dining nook, and an app where I could press a button and summon a person if the washer or dryer broke.

I wasn't moving for the apartment, though. The lease in my hometown was coming to an end, so the time felt right for a move. However, the only reason I chose to leave my small town of 20,000 for Ottawa, Ontario, with 1 million people, was to be closer to my sons, who were 23 and 24 at the time.

My kids have always been my choice over dating, a career, and a marriage that left our little family hobbled but closer in the end. Why would they not be my choice now? My friends back home were fine, I told myself, but they weren't my sons, whom I raised to be my best friends.

I also thought they might need me since they were still at a young enough age where having a mom close by could help.

Really, though, I just wanted to be the kind of mom who could have a pot roast dinner with them on a Sunday and be part of their daily lives. I missed being part of their daily lives.

The move was scary but I told myself it was right, even though it felt off

I told myself this move was the smart thing to do, the right thing. Scary? Sure.

Trying to make a new life at 51 — when you're too old to make the young parent friends, but too young to make retirement-age friends — is intimidating. I knew in my bones that it wouldn't work, but I tried anyway.

I went to swing dancing classes in a church basement on Friday nights. I joined a gym, a women's dinner club, a regular yoga class. I played pickleball in the park. I taught writing classes at the local university. I shopped, and shopped, and shopped, an old thumb-sucker habit of mine when I'm feeling stuck.

I spoke to people all the time, and I listened to their stories, but I felt like none of us were ever having a conversation. We just volleyed questions back and forth.

It was the same with my two sons, who were grown men now. They made time for me and helped around the house, like hanging pictures and putting my bed together. However, then they'd go back to their own homes to their own lives, and I would be alone again.

Sometimes, I'd drop by unexpectedly for a visit, for a chat, for company, because I wasn't finding my own life here. I knew, though, that I was just adding myself onto their lives, not integrating seamlessly.

I wasn't myself here — I knew that, and so did they. Back home, I was the mom who had friends, went for hikes, and knew everyone at the farmer's market. I felt like this new mom was too needy for us all, especially me.

I moved back to my little town after 1 year in the big city

We all agreed that I had tried my best, but it just wasn't the right fit.

This time, driving back in my Nissan Versa, everything felt exactly right.

Later, we planned a trip for that summer. We got the entire family together for a week at the beach, where everything felt natural and balanced.

We could all just be adults together, swimming and eating, and playing cards. I felt glad for our time together, grateful for who we've become.