• 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.

• I thought I'd live in New York City forever, but I hit my breaking point and moved to Nashville.
• I could enjoy many things I love about city life and get more space for less. I even fell in love.
• It's been about a decade since my move, and I'm happily living here with my husband and two kids.

New York or nowhere. It's a T-shirt and an Instagram, but it was also my personal motto for most of my young life.

I was born in the Bronx, got my first post-college apartment in Queens, spent nearly a decade in a fifth-floor walk-up in Manhattan, and brought my first baby home to Brooklyn.

In high school and college, I spent time living in Connecticut, Poughkeepsie, and Scotland, but always felt the draw back to NYC.

By age 30, I'd spent most of my life in the city, and was living my own NYC dream working at a buzzy women's media company.

I had never imagined living anywhere else. Then, I hit my breaking point.

After a reality check, I gave myself permission to leave New York

New York wasn't just my city; it was a huge part of my identity.

However, I was burned out at my job, underpaid, and commuting hours on the subway between Manhattan and my shoebox of an apartment in Crown Heights.

I was paying a nanny most of my salary just so I could have the privilege of … not seeing my newborn.

After each day speed-editing dozens of articles and pumping breastmilk in a closet at the office, I would sprint to the subway at 7 p.m. in hopes of seeing my son while he was still awake.

I would never make it back in time. I'd kiss his sleeping face, pay the nanny, and cry.

By the time my son outgrew his bassinet and needed to transition to a crib, it became clear my tiny apartment was too small for us.

A crib and an adult bed didn't fit in the space, so I gave the latter away and spent the last six months of my New York life sleeping on a bedroll on the floor.

And I finally gave myself permission to consider the impossible: leaving. I just wasn't sure where to go next.

Nashville wasn't the plan, but it was the answer

I knew I wanted to live in a city, but I needed somewhere cheaper (and way more chill) than New York.

I didn't want to relive my teen years in the Connecticut suburbs, or even that blissful but too-quiet year in college when I lived on the coast of northern Scotland.

I wanted my son to grow up in a real community: walking to public school and the playground and pizza parlor like I did as a little kid in the Bronx. I wanted to take him to museums and music venues.

Soon, Nashville was on my radar — once I factored in my other wants, it seemed like the biggest, most diverse, most affordable city I could afford.

I told my employer I was moving, and that I could quit or they could let me go remote. They let me keep my job. I bought a four-bedroom house in East Nashville with a monthly mortgage that was close to half my rent in Brooklyn.

My new block had coffee shops, bars, a pharmacy, a pizza parlor, a bodega, and a vintage store that was also an art gallery that was also a music venue. So Brooklyn! I felt right at home.

Sure, at first everything felt … slow. I didn't live near downtown, so the bustle dial was turned way down.

Initially, it was hard to sleep without sirens and shouting outside my window. But as the weeks turned into months, I started to notice I was breathing easier.

Nashville gave me more space — not just physical space (for a crib and a bed, imagine!) but space in my day that was no longer spent commuting, hauling a stroller up and down stairs, and rushing to the laundromat.

It gave me more accessible green spaces than New York had; my son and I could be out on a hike within 20 minutes, no Metro-North train ride necessary.

Without a long commute, I had time to make real dinners, to lounge on porches, and to get to know my neighbors. I made friends, joined a nonprofit, and started teaching yoga at the local studio.

I had the emotional space to date around casually and have fun.

When my son was 2 ½, I met one particular musician. He was calm but passionate, goofy but grounded, Southern polite but also punk rock. He loved my son.

By year five in Nashville, we were married. Year six, he adopted my son. That same year, our second son was born.

Moving was the best decision I was scared to make

There's a common fear among people who leave big cities that we're somehow giving up. I definitely felt it.

I worried that moving to a smaller city would mean trading ambition for comfort. My work changed, yes.

I later shifted away from a traditional media job into freelance and consulting work, but I'm making more money now since I'm paid per project rather than being expected to work endless hours for an unchanging salary.

Now, I work smarter, not harder. I live smarter. I've stopped defining myself solely by my ever-climbing corporate media job title, or my precious 917 area code.

Nashville gave me the space to grow in unexpected directions. I have a garden, I volunteer, and I made friends who didn't care about who I worked for. I built a community that is unparalleled in its supportive and radically inclusive nature.

This city isn't perfect, but it's become home. At the time, leaving New York felt like the biggest risk of my life. Today, I think of how scared I was of the best decision I ever made, and laugh.

It's been nearly a decade since I left New York, and although I still visit my "hometown" often and miss it dearly sometimes, I don't regret the move for a second.

Well, maybe I just regret not leaving 10 years earlier.

• Growing up, I struggled to travel with loved ones who weren't as interested in sightseeing as me.
• Now, I've created the "50/50 Rule," which allows me to spend half of my vacation time alone.
• I've found that spending some time by myself and some with others is key to a great trip.

When I was a teenager, my family and I traveled more than 5,000 miles from San Marino (the country, not the city in California) to Seattle for vacation.

One of the places I was most excited to visit was the Museum of Pop Culture, but unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to fully enjoy it.

As I slowly took my time admiring the artwork and taking in the many exhibits, my group rushed through the experience — and I felt pressured to keep up. I left the stunning electric guitar display I was interested in behind for fear of holding everyone back.

Now that I'm well into my 20s and can set my own boundaries on trips, I've decided things will be different thanks to what I call the "50/50 Rule."

Spending some time alone is key to maximizing my vacations — and my rule is already paying off

My rule is simple: When I'm on vacation with others, I'll spend about half my time with them and the other half alone.

This allows me to see things I'm interested in that my travel companions don't care about, and gives me an opportunity to explore places in greater depth.

In March, I put the "50/50 Rule" to the test for the first time during a trip to Valencia, Spain, with my aunt, my cousin, and my cousin's friend. Although we spent a big chunk of the trip together, I made time to visit two museums, the Church of San Nicolás, and a show at the Hemisfèric alone.

It was lovely wandering through the exhibits at the Centro de Arte Hortensia Herrero, admiring the works of art at my own pace. I was especially grateful to be alone when a big group of chatty tourists made it challenging to see the various pieces.

Since I was alone, I had the opportunity to wait for them to go into the next room so I could enjoy everything in silence.

If I'd been with my family, they probably would've rushed through the exhibits, as they often do. Instead, I got to calmly enjoy the museum, and I was glad to have this break to myself.

It might sound selfish, but I think the rule benefits everyone

Initially, I worried that wanting to spend time alone would cause friction among the group, but I think clear communication helped prevent this.

Before we left for Spain, I made a list of places that interested me, and my family and I discussed our preferences on our way to the airport.

From there, we planned a loose schedule of landmarks to visit together, and I established that I would spend the last morning and, if possible, part of the first day alone. I clarified that my solo time would benefit everyone since no one would get bored or annoyed by the itinerary.

Although my aunt agreed to the plan, she was worried the vacation would become too difficult to coordinate. In the end, though, everyone seemed happy with how the trip went. My cousin and his friend got to spend some time wandering the city just the two of them and my aunt actually got to enjoy some alone time, too.

Someday, I hope to spend a long weekend solo traveling through a city in Europe. But for now, I love that my "50/50 Rule" gives me a taste of the experience without causing me to feel lonely or unsafe — and I still get to bond with the ones I love most.

• After working remotely from Bali for two months, Sonya Moore was craving peace and quiet.
• She traveled with a friend to the neighboring island of Sumba.
• The natural beauty, lack of traffic, and smaller number of tourists made for a great getaway.

In March, I decided to take advantage of my flexible schedule and spend two months in Bali, working remotely and exploring the island.

I had already visited Bali many times, and I'm a big fan. But over the years, as its fame has spread, it has become busier. Bali's iconic charm and unique energy are still there, but they now coexist with big crowds and heavy traffic.

During my time there, I relished much of what Bali has to offer: yoga, massages, sound baths, authentic spiritual traditions, gorgeous style, and delicious food. I found pockets away from the crowds in the less-developed regions of Bangli and Sidemen. But after a few weeks in Ubud and south Bali, I found myself craving peace and quiet — specifically, a break from the ever-present sound of motorbike engines.

Luckily, I had planned to wrap up my time in Indonesia with a weeklong side trip to the nearby island of Sumba with a friend.

Overpopulation was no longer a problem

Sumba is a 90-minute direct flight from Denpasar International Airport. It's about twice the size of Bali, has one-sixth of Bali's population, and a fraction of its tourists.

It's also known for limited WiFi and cell service across large swaths of its undeveloped territory. There's no signage on the main roads indicating the island's scenic spots, making it hard for visitors to find them without a local guide. We hired a guide my friend found through Facebook, and we're glad we did.

Sumba's natural beauty lived up to our expectations. The rock-framed sandy coves, the turquoise lagoon, the landscapes of velvety green hills, and the waterfalls left my friend and me in awe. We were charmed by goats lounging by the side of the road and by horses meandering across expanses of golden savannah.

And most of the time, we had the sights all to ourselves. Sometimes, groups of local kids would come over to talk to us. The roads were free of traffic.

Along with the absence of tourists and traffic came the absence of extensive food and massage options, which we had grown accustomed to in Bali. I never found wine or cocktails anywhere in Sumba, though I imagine they're available at the handful of 5-star hotels on the island.

Most people in Sumba didn't speak much English, including our guide, so we needed translation apps to communicate most of the time. When there was no cell service, we had to resort to hand gestures.

And punctuality? We found out that it's not a thing in Sumba. Our driver tended to show up 15 to 20 minutes after our agreed departure time, then order himself a coffee before we left, then stop to pick up his breakfast at a roadside shop or get gas. He was an excellent drone videographer and photographer, though, which helped make up for his relaxed sense of time.

A true mental reset

Our four-day guided Sumba road trip covered a lot of ground.

After the road trip, we spent three nights at a boutique hotel on a deserted stretch of white sand beach in East Sumba, about an hour from the airport, and it was there that we found total relaxation.

Shaded by tall cemara trees, the temperature was perfect both day and night. We were lulled to sleep every night by the sound of gentle ocean waves lapping the shore.

Our hotel, Cemara Beachfront Suite, was $80 per night and came with great service. The staff brought us tea with little desserts every afternoon and were always ready to provide any extras we asked for to make our stay more enjoyable. Except wine. Next time, I'd bring a bottle or two in my suitcase, along with a good book.

The attentive care of the staff and the idyllic setting allowed us to completely unwind and fully enjoy just being there. We could have happily stayed much longer.

Sumba's wild beauty and serene relaxation provided the perfect complement to Bali.