• My daughter and I took the scenic route from Oregon to her college in Missouri.
• We camped near Yellowstone, explored Wyoming, and visited South Dakota landmarks.
• The trip gave us precious time together before she started her independent life.

After buying a car for my daughter to take to college, the problem was getting the little Mazda from Portland, Oregon, to Fulton, Missouri. Maria and I are fun in the car, but awful at driving long distances.

We checked the miles, over 2,000, and groaned.

"Are we doing this?" I asked. "Remember Eugene?"

We laughed, thinking about the time after an exhausting day, we couldn't manage the usual three hours from Eugene, Oregon, to Portland without stopping every 10 to 15 minutes. We took turns saying, "Your turn," as we blasted cold air and chomped Good 'n' Plenty licorice to stay awake. Eventually, we napped at a rest stop. I finished the drive and let Maria sleep.

We took the scenic route to college

"Let's make it an adventure," Maria said when we were debating whether to take the scenic route. She knows I love sleeping in a tent and waking up outdoors. Being in nature would ease my aching heart, already missing her. I savored our time before we even started.

We mapped our route, picking the long way. In Yellowstone, we tented next to a motorhome complete with a satellite and TV. We cracked up as we popped up our two-person tent in the RV's shadow. In the morning, it was a quick coffee and on to gawking our way through the park, pointing at bison, moose, elk, deer, wolves, and more. At a geyser view spot, a tourist tried to touch a bull moose with a huge rack of horns while onlookers poised their phones.

We made so many memories together

We drove across Wyoming with its wide-open spaces and the prettiest blue skies. Then camped at Custer State Park, our tent site flanking a river. In the morning, we plopped on a log and sipped cowboy (unfiltered) coffee. "So much better than flying," I said, surprising myself.

Our awe was mild at Mt. Rushmore, where we snapped bad tourist pictures, pretending to squish the presidents' heads between thumb and index finger as a curly-haired woman in white pointy Keds glared at us.

Then, onto Crazy Horse: a massive monument of Crazy Horse, the Lakota leader, still being carved out of the mountain. I cried at its mass, its beauty, its story. For scale, Mt. Rushmore could fit in the finger that points to his people's land.

Next was the iconic Wall Drug, where we stretched our bodies, then drove on to the Corn Palace. "All corn?" I asked. Yes, beautiful, detailed murals crafted of corn and other grains covered the Moorish building.

The road trip made me less sad to see her go

Endless signs in Kansas enticed us with the World's Largest Prairie Dog, a live five-legged cow, plus rattlesnakes. Even though the prairie dog turned out to be a 15-foot-tall, four-ton concrete statue, it topped our list for fun roadside attractions and included a bonus rattlesnake "pit" in a gift shop where rattlers slept in terrariums. The cashier's nametag said Suzy. She hit the tops of the cages with a cane, startling the snakes to shake their rattling tails. We jumped too.

"It's OK," I told Suzy, my hand up in the universal sign for stop. "Let them rest." "You paid to see 'em," she rasped, whapping another terrarium as Maria gave her the side-eye.

We held our belly laughs in until we reached the car.

We stopped at rest stops and gas stations. Drank sparkling water (me) and soda (her). Snacked on chips and Wheat Thins. Took rinse showers at campsites. The only time we drove semi-sleepily was through Kansas with the obligatory, "Are we there yet?" And "Can you drive?" It wasn't as bad as that haul from Eugene home, but the straight flat is hypnotizing.

"My turn. I got you," Maria said, tightening her ponytail and her resolve. I saw her on the cusp of her grown life as she drove the last leg, singing full tilt, our playlist a mix of Garth Brooks, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Chicks, and more.

Willie Nelson sang us across the country. We played "On the Road Again" every morning, every time we restarted, every time we crossed a state line. Whenever I hear "Making music with my friends" it's my daughter I think of.

Once we reached Fulton, Missouri, I knew I could fly home without my girl. We were both ready. While it was bittersweet to drop my dream-chasing kids — first my son, then my daughter — at college, that year my excitement for her overshadowed my sadness.

We'll always have the rattlesnakes. We've laughed about them ever since.

• Our friendship formed over questionable decisions, break-ups, hangovers, and, eventually, the messy business of becoming adults.
• Then, three baby girls born in three cities over three weeks started a completely new chapter.
• Our connection became our parenting lifeline, proving that the best friendships grow with you.

"What a night!" "I barely slept." "I don't even know what time I went to bed."

The same statements can have very different meanings in different stages of life. My friends and I used to worry about where everyone was at 2 a.m. Now, we worry about whether everyone's baby has pooped that day.

Laura-Kate (Lauks), Kirsten (Kirst), and I met 25 years ago at an all-girls boarding school in South Africa, then partied our way through university and early adulthood. For years, our biggest problems were nursing sore heads with painkillers and junk food, who was dating whom, where we were going that weekend, and whether anyone had taken a particularly unflattering photo.

Then, the three of us had babies all within three weeks of one another, reaffirming our bond and allowing us to evolve together in new and exciting ways I never imagined.

Real adulthood happened

Lauks got pregnant unexpectedly, bravely navigating the challenges of being a semi-single mom with a husband who works abroad for up to three months at a time. In the same period, Kirst and her American husband settled in the US, and I was undergoing IVF treatment. We all had our own challenges.

Fast forward a bit, and Lauks told us she was expecting another unplanned surprise. It was a contrast to my own fertility journey, which had been a roller coaster of disappointments, including a failed embryo transfer. I was about to undergo a second transfer when she gave us the news over group text.

Lauks lives in a town about an hour from me. It happens to be on the way to my fertility doctor. On one drive home, soon after sharing her good news, I stopped to see Lauks to congratulate her. I was also six weeks pregnant at the time. I remember sitting there in the cafe trying to get the words out: "I'm pregnant." Cue the ugly crying.

Of course, my next phone call was to Kirst in the US. Little did I know that she had some news she was itching to tell me too. All three of us were pregnant at the same time.

The tone of our WhatsApp group changed immediately

After comparing and complaining about our pregnancy symptoms for months, one baby arrived, then another, then another.

We all arrived at motherhood differently, but we each welcomed a baby girl into the world within three weeks across three different cities (and two continents), and our friendship acquired an entirely new vocabulary.

We had once bonded over crushes, kisses, and hangovers. Now, we talked about latching, snot-sucking, and the intricate details of every strange rash. The conversations may have been less titillating, but somehow, they were even more intimate.

Our WhatsApp group became a kind of 24-hour maternal helpline. "Does this look normal?" Reply at 3 am: "Yes, unfortunately." We sent memes when we were too exhausted to form sentences. We celebrated first smiles and first rolls. We talked about periods, pimples, sex, husbands, and everything else that apparently becomes acceptable conversation once you've been friends for 25 years.

Then, the group chat blew up with more surprises

Earlier this year, Kirsten let us know that baby number two was on the way. This time, it was me bubbling over inside, dying to tell them that I had gotten pregnant naturally. In August, Kirst gave birth to a baby boy, and my baby girl arrived in September.

Although we haven't been in the same room since Kirst moved to the US three years ago, we remain as close as ever, if not closer. My girls are my cheerleaders, doulas, online health advisors, and a massive reason why I've stayed sane (enough) as a mother. They've shown me the power of long-term friendship and the ways women can lift each other up.

In another 25 years, we'll be in our 60s

I can't help but imagine what another 25 years will do to our friendship. We'll be in our 60s, and the kids will (hopefully) be fending for themselves out in the world.

Along with the gray hairs and wrinkles, our priorities will have probably changed once again. After the first 25 years, I've learned that the best friendships don't stay the same, they grow with you. So I know my besties will still be there for me, just with entirely new things to commiserate over, cry over, and kill ourselves laughing about.

• When it comes to money, I'm a big budgeter, and my husband prefers taking risks.
• Now that we're building a house together, our differences are causing some disagreements.
• We've learned to stay flexible and balance each other's approaches.

My husband and I have very different ideas about financial responsibility.

When we're feeling stressed about money, my instinct is to run the numbers and account for every financial what-if. He's a big-picture dreamer who sees what something could become and is more willing to say, "We'll figure it out."

His attitude has paid off before. He had the vision for our first home, which we bought for under $100,000 and recently sold for a decent profit after 13 years of renovations.

I know some of the best things we've done together wouldn't have happened without my husband's willingness to take a chance, but our differences have still caused some friction over the years.

Now that we're building a new home together, we're trying to balance my need to plan for the unknown with his belief that we'll find a way forward.

After 13 years, we took a risk and sold our home

For 13 years, we'd lived in the same place. My husband had moved frequently as a child, and he wanted his two daughters to have a consistent place to call home.

Leaving this house behind was bittersweet, but my oldest stepdaughter had just bought her own house, and my younger one was heading off to college. We were ready for what came next.

We could have bought an existing house needing renovations. Instead, we found land in southern Maine that felt worth taking a risk on.

We've always loved the area. My family has an annual reunion there, where we spend a week at the beach. Our new property will hopefully give us that lifestyle without the summer crowds: It's more than 2 ½ acres with hiking trails next door, a nearby kayak and paddleboard launch, and the ocean just a short drive away.

We decided to go for it, and by the end of August, our old house was nearly empty. My younger stepdaughter left for college on a Wednesday, we moved the rest of our things to a rental on a Thursday, and officially sold the house that Friday.

Every estimate comes with an 'unless'

In September, we began building our 1,500-square-foot house.

We're now paying $3,000 a month for a rental home — with a construction loan on top of that — and keeping track of a lot of numbers, from lumber and labor to excavation, plumbing, electrical, permits, and finishes.

My husband is doing most of the construction himself, which is what makes this project possible. If we had to pay for all of the labor, we probably couldn't afford to build right now.

However, that's not to say this hasn't been a very stressful time. We think we've accounted for everything, but every estimate has an asterisk: Unless lumber prices go up. Unless a contractor's price changes.

Unless we hit ledge — that is, solid bedrock beneath the soil that can be expensive to excavate. We might have to rethink the foundation or adjust the entire plan once we see what's underground.

I find that uncomfortable, but my husband doesn't.

We're leaving room to adjust

My husband can picture what this property could become over time, and has big dreams for it.

He wanted a garage, a small cottage where our family could stay when they visit, a little more space, and nicer finishes in some areas. I kept bringing us back to what we could afford right now, and how much we wanted to keep in savings rather than put everything into the house.

After a lot of discussion, we decided to start small. We're building for the life we have today, while — at his request — leaving room for the one we might want tomorrow. The garage and cottage can wait. For now, we're focusing on getting the house right without stretching our budget too far.

That means staying flexible. For instance, my husband wants a finished basement, and I agreed, knowing this would give us the option to add a third bedroom down the road.

Though the cost difference between a basement and an unfinished crawl space isn't huge upfront, hitting ledge could put us thousands — or even tens of thousands — over budget.

We're willing to give the basement a shot, but if excavation costs start climbing, we may have to scale back to a crawl space and save the extra bedroom for another day.

We have a plan, but we know it might change once we get further into the build. I'll keep making the spreadsheets and asking for the numbers. He'll keep looking at the big picture and reminding me why we decided to do this.

This project, and my husband, have taught me that financial responsibility isn't necessarily about eliminating every risk, but knowing which risks are worth taking and staying open to changing course.

• A year after my breast cancer diagnosis, I'm rejecting the "fighter" and "warrior" labels others put on me.
• I'm tired of the pinkwashing that feels like it's turning a terrifying disease into a cheerful marketing campaign.
• I'm grateful for my care and the people who supported me, but I don't need to find a silver lining or turn my experience into an inspirational story.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago, and with Breast Cancer Awareness Month underway, I have a confession that feels almost sacrilegious: I hate breast cancer culture. I hate the "fighter" and "warrior" labels I didn't ask for, and I especially hate the over-the-top pink branding that I see so much.

I didn't ask to join this club. I didn't want to lose my hair to chemo or have my breasts amputated. I didn't choose to worry about whether my kids and relatives might also develop this horrible disease. And I hate pink; I always have. I'm grateful for my treatment and that I've weathered it all relatively well. I just feel pissed that this was my lot in life.

As I reach the anniversary of the day my "before" split into the "after," I don't know what I'm supposed to call myself now. "Fighter" doesn't feel right. "Warrior" definitely doesn't, and "survivor" is complicated.

I didn't choose to fight cancer

I understand that people mean well when they call someone a fighter. They want to acknowledge what she's enduring and remind her she's strong. Pink ribbons and awareness campaigns can raise money and encourage screenings, and those are all wonderful things. But in the rush to turn cancer into a story about courage and hope, there's little room for the less inspirational feelings: anger, resentment, exhaustion, and fear.

I didn't fight cancer in the way people seem to imagine. I showed up for appointments, followed my doctors' recommendations, and endured treatment because I wanted to live. I didn't have some extraordinary reserve of bravery. I didn't get to opt out. What was the alternative?

I didn't earn a special title by going through chemotherapy. I was a person with a disease who wanted to get better. Sometimes I was scared. Many days, I was exhausted. Sometimes I was just trying to get through the day.

I'm over the pinkwashing of breast cancer

And the pink. Everywhere, pink. Pink products, pink merchandise, pink marketing campaigns. Sometimes the branding feels like a cheerful coat of paint over a genuinely terrifying experience.

Cancer isn't cute. Losing your breasts isn't a lifestyle rebrand or a "free boob-job." Buying a pink water bottle doesn't necessarily make anyone feel less alone in a hospital room.

I don't begrudge anyone who finds comfort in a pink ribbon or a community of fellow patients. My problem is with the expectation that breast cancer should come packaged with a neat, uplifting message. What if I don't want to embrace this experience? What if I don't feel grateful for the lessons it taught me?

I'd happily trade every bit of perspective I've gained for the life I had before my diagnosis.

Finishing treatment doesn't mean everything's over

There's no clear finish line. Treatment ends, and everyone wants to celebrate that you've made it through. You want to celebrate, too. But you're also left processing what happened to your body, what you've lost, and what the future might hold.

As much as I try to go back to my "before" life, I'm constantly holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to potentially drop.

Before cancer, I didn't spend much time thinking about my identity. I was busy being a mom, wife, sister, daughter, and working woman. Now, I'm still figuring out how much space cancer deserves in my life. I don't want every conversation to be about my health. I don't want people to expect me to inspire them simply because something terrible happened to me.

I'm grateful to be here, but I'm still angry

I'm grateful for my doctors, the people who showed up for me, and the advances in medicine that gave me treatment options. I'm grateful that I've come through this in relatively good shape. But I can appreciate the care I've received and still be furious that I needed it.

As I reach this anniversary, I don't need a label to make my experience meaningful. I don't need to turn cancer into a lesson or find a silver lining in every awful moment. I don't need to be inspirational.

If you want to support someone with breast cancer, you don't have to call her a fighter. Acknowledge that what she's going through is hard. Offer an ear or, better yet, a DoorDash gift card. Let her feel however she feels.

As for me, I'll mark this anniversary with gratitude, anger, uncertainty, and the knowledge that I'm still here. That's enough.

• When my husband and I became empty nesters, he retired, too.
• We used to have busy, individual lives, but now we are always together.
• It took a lot of adjustment and honest conversations, but we're learning to navigate our new normal.

My husband and I have been married for 26 years, together for 32. That's more than half my life. I thought we'd experienced just about every version of our life together.

Then we became empty nesters. And then my husband retired.

We're now together 24/7 with nowhere else we need to be, and I realized that all these years, I'd never spent this much time with him.

Since the day he brought home his office belongings, I've caught myself thinking more than once, "Oh, you're still here?

Our home feels different now

Without school schedules or workdays organizing our lives, we have more unstructured time than we know what to do with. We navigate quiet hallways lined with unoccupied bedrooms.

We now split the responsibility for coddling our cat, who suffers from separation anxiety. We announce, "We're back," to the furniture and the cat, forgetting we left the house otherwise empty.

Our aching hearts inspired us to collaborate on a shared list of silver linings. We drafted wish lists, imagining what we could do now that we no longer had to accommodate five personalities with varying interests.

While we shared many ideas and dream list to-dos — things like traveling to Tuscany for cooking and painting retreats — we hadn't anticipated that our day-to-day would also require attention and planning.

The trouble with together-time all the time

Throughout our marriage, my husband and I had always noted how similar his parents and mine were. Connected at the hip, one parent was seldom without the other.

We, on the other hand, prided ourselves on allowing each other space. We'd spent decades insisting we weren't like them — valuing independence, traveling separately, and encouraging each other to pursue our interests.

Then, when my husband retired, we instantly became our parents. With freedom to do whatever we wanted, we fell into the rhythm our parents had modeled: together all day, every day.

Sometimes you really can have too much of a good thing.

I'm an introverted writer who loves spending time in my rich inner world. He's an extroverted adventurer always on the go — kayaking, swimming, walking on the beach, sometimes all three in the same day.

One day, the realization that we had to structure our time hit hard. I'd been sitting at my writing desk when my husband opened the door to ask what we were having for lunch.

Not wanting to be rude, I talked with him for a moment, then asked for a few minutes to finish my thought. He left. I stared at my screen, hands still on the keyboard. My thought was gone.

While we enjoy being together, we're learning the importance of agreeing on when to be together and when to allow each other space.

We're creating a new rhythm

Mornings offer the perfect opportunity to plan our day over coffee, breakfast, and a card game — usually rummy. Between playful attempts to end each other's winning streaks, we check the weather, compare plans, and decide what we'd like to do. Our morning ritual helps shape our lives now that external demands no longer impose structure on our time.

Unless we have plans with friends, mealtimes serve as natural meeting points. An unexpected result: his cooking is improving. I'm now enjoying gourmet meals in the middle of the day, and again at dinner. He gets to run around outdoors, while I get to lock myself in my attic feminine sanctuary and write.

In the evenings, we wind down together. After sharing a home-cooked meal, we enjoy a movie or simply each other's company.

We're embracing new opportunities to grow together

Now that we're home together most of the time, honest communication, negotiation, and compromise have become essential tools. After decades of countless demands on our time, we're now free to choose how we spend it.

We're not always perfect. Some days, I join him outdoors when I'd rather stay home. Sometimes he interrupts when I'm in the flow.

I'm learning to ask for space when I need it. He's learning that he can pursue his desire to travel — even without me.

After 32 years, I never imagined we'd have to learn how to spend time apart. Having all the time in the world together doesn't mean we have to spend every minute of it that way.

These days, staying happily married sometimes means knowing when to leave each other alone.