© Jordan Gale for The New York Times
Courtesy of the author
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.
"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 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.
Courtesy of the author
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.
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.
Courtesy of the author
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.
Courtesy of Shea Karssing.
"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.
Courtesy of Shea Karssing.
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.
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.
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.
Courtesy of Shea Karssing.
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.
Courtesy of Jen Podany
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jen Podany, founder of Bluestone Sunshields. It has been edited for length and clarity.
Near the end of 2024, my family of five had once again escaped Los Angeles for the quiet we found 10 hours south in Snowflake, Arizona.
We'd been doing it for years, renting an Airbnb in Snowflake, a town of 6,000 in the middle of nowhere, switching off amid the miles of empty land.
It had started as a stopover on our way to visit my husband's family in New Mexico. We fell in love with the town, and from then on, we'd visit whenever we needed to get away from the busyness of LA.
In Snowflake, we felt like we could catch our breath. Our souls calmed each time we arrived and ached to stay each time we left.
Back in LA, specifically Burbank, the five of us — my husband and our three children, whom we homeschooled — lived in a duplex made up of two connected apartments. We lived in one of them, which had two bedrooms and one bathroom. From the other apartment, my husband and I ran our two separate businesses.
Courtesy of Jen Podany
The duplex was in a neighborhood near a busy street, and we had to be cautious about letting the kids go outside to play because of the cars. I was always holding someone's little hand when we were out, just in case. You could hear planes flying back and forth into Burbank Airport. As our kids and businesses grew, we felt increasingly confined.
Then we saw a house on the market in Snowflake, and I felt in my bones that we should put in an offer.
It was a four-bedroom house surrounded by land, chickens, cows, and a crazy turkey. We could buy it and have our own place to stay when visiting, rather than always renting an Airbnb.
We bought the house for about $500,000, and on our first visit to stay in it in January 2025, none of us wanted to go back to Burbank.
We knew then that we'd make Snowflake our home. And so we did.
In so many ways, our life looks exactly like life in LA. Our routines have remained the same. Every morning, just like in LA, we start our day at a coffee shop. Except in Snowflake, there's only one place to go instead of 20 choices. We work, we homeschool, we eat our meals, and we go to sleep — just like we did in LA.
Courtesy of Jen Podany
But by transplanting our lives to a quiet town, we all feel calmer and more peaceful.
Personally, my nervous system has regulated. In LA, I felt like the world was constantly coming at me, like I was being bombarded and reacting to everything around me. Here, I feel like I'm in the driver's seat, with a clear head.
Not only has it been good for my well-being, but it's also been good for my business. The move has given me the mental space to think bigger. It's led to greater creativity, paving the way for business growth.
My kids love Snowflake, too. I didn't have to convince them about the move.
They have the freedom to be out of the house without worrying about cars and crime. Just a bike ride away are other kids with whom they are often found playing.
I think kids grow up quickly in cities, and living here, I feel like my kids get to just be kids. It's like going back to being a kid in the '80s, and I love that for them.
The house is bigger, so we aren't living on top of each other, but they've also got endless outdoor space to explore.
Even though I lived in LA for 20 years, we never experienced friendship and community as we have in just over a year in Snowflake.
Courtesy of Jen Podany
We can't leave the house without seeing someone who wants to stop and talk. Everyone here is on "mountain time" — slowing down. No one is rushing around, head down, looking at their phones, too hurried to have a conversation.
Everyone is present and friendly.
My husband and I still occasionally have to go to LA for work, and each time we come back home to Snowflake, I take a deep breath and know we made the right decision to relocate our family.
Courtesy of the author
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.
Courtesy of Kate Loweth.
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?
Courtesy of Kate Loweth.
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.
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.
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 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.
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