• Heidi Widmer is a 35-year-old who moved into an apartment building in Los Angeles in July.
• For the first two weeks, she heard a loud sound from the apartment above and was annoyed.
• She found out the noise was being made by her neighbor, who has Parkinson's.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Heidi Widmer. It has been edited for length and clarity.

In July, I moved into an apartment in Los Angeles, exhausted from a six-day drive across the country from New York. All I wanted to do was get into the apartment and sleep, and luckily, my bed had been delivered on the same day I arrived.

Trying to fall asleep at 2 a.m., all I could hear was a loud noise coming from the apartment upstairs. It sounded as if someone was bowling. Although I was tempted to shout for them to be quiet, I held my tongue — I was the new neighbor and didn't want to be difficult.

But the noise just didn't seem to stop. Whoever lived up there also never came downstairs. Who lives up there? I thought to myself.

I realized my neighbor had Parkinson's

Two weeks after moving in, I heard someone coming down the stairs and had to get a glimpse of who lived above me.

Peeking out of my door, I saw Carole for the first time, slowly making her way down the stairs, shaking badly from what was clearly Parkinson's, and trying to carry a bunch of bags full of recycling.

Just as I was about to open the door to see if she needed help, she dropped all the bags with only a couple of steps left. I burst out of my apartment to help her.

"Oh my gosh, thank you," she said in her sweet British accent. "Did you just move in? Am I too loud for you?"

In that moment, I felt totally and completely humbled.

Having grown up in the Catholic church, I was taught never to judge a book by its cover, and with Carole, I hadn't even seen the cover. I judged her simply by the noise she produced upstairs. How could I be so judgmental?

It turns out that sound had been Carole rolling a three-wheeled, broken chair across her floor to get to her mini fridge — the mini fridge social services had given her when her refrigerator broke. She had to hoist herself out of her broken chair to get down and access the mini fridge.

That was the noise.

I was determined to figure out what I could do to help

Two days after we met, I knocked on her door. She peeked through and nervously let me in. The conditions inside weren't great.

Although she can live independently, she just needs a little help. I later learned that she doesn't like accepting help from people, especially social services. The fact that she is frightened of the very people meant to help her breaks my heart.

That day, I took all of her trash out for her, reassuring her I wasn't judging her at all.

In the weeks and now months that have followed, I have been up to Carole's to help with the trash, cooking (she'd only been having microwave meals), cleaning, and contacting the landlord to get him to replace and repair items in the apartment. We've decorated her apartment, too.

I raised $80,000 to help her out

Together, we made her an Amazon wish list, and I shared it on social media so that people could order things she needs and have them delivered directly to her. People have been so generous, purchasing things like an expensive Buddhist "butsudan" that Carole didn't expect anyone to buy.

We set up a GoFundMe, which has raised about $80,000, and we plan to use the funds to have a stair lift installed for her. Any leftover money will be spent on in-home care as she continues to age and her Parkinson's Disease progresses.

I know I've been helpful to Carole in these last few months, but she's been the perfect person at the perfect time for me, too. Moving to LA, I had hardly any connections. Lots of Carole's family members are either no longer living or back in the UK (she moved here in her 20s as an au pair).

Carole became the family I haven't had, and I became hers. We text back and forth each day, and I see her most days. She calls me granddaughter, and I see her as my grandmother.

When I've had a hard day at work teaching at a local middle school, Carole is ready to give me a big hug when I get home. She's been my safe space, and I've been hers. The universe knew we needed each other.

It's an unlikely connection, but it shows that when you lead with kindness rather than judgment, the person you were ready to judge can become someone you can't imagine your life without.

• My family of five moved from a small country town to a city earlier this year.
• I wanted to spend more time with my parents, and there is plenty to love about the city.
• However, I miss the slower pace of life and the close-knit community.

I've always been a city mouse, so when we decided to move from Melbourne, Australia, to Bright in country Victoria in 2021, I wasn't sure how long I'd last. Our family ended up falling in love with the slower pace of life and the people, and spent four years in the small alpine town at the foothills of the Victorian Alps.

But in January, we moved from Bright to the Gold Coast, where I grew up. My parents' health was declining, and I wanted to spend quality time with them before it was too late.

Moving from a small regional town of fewer than 3,000 people to a city of almost 700,000 was a profound lifestyle shift for our family of five. We had to make new friends, learn how to navigate a traffic light again (joking!), and get used to the buzzing city life.

Overall, we've gained a lot from moving to the city, and I feel it's been especially beneficial to our kids, as it's helped build resilience. But there are definitely things about country life that I do miss, if I'm being honest.

Life is full of trade-offs, and we've definitely made a few.

We've gained convenience and accessibility

In country Victoria, our nearest major retailer was an hour's drive away. If the kids needed new shoes or I needed new underwear, off we'd drive to the nearest major town. It often felt like a mission just to access simple amenities.

Nowadays, everything we need is at our fingertips. If we want to eat Italian one night and Nepalese the next, we can. The Gold Coast has all the amenities we need, and a good mix of beaches, hinterland hikes, nightlife, festivals, and an up-and-coming food scene.

There are more career and education opportunities

Cities generally offer better career and education opportunities, without a doubt. In our family, my husband has probably benefited the most in that regard.

When we moved here in January, he expanded his Muscle Freedom remedial massage and myotherapy business and started a clinic on the Gold Coast. Since then, the opportunities have been incredible, and he's treated some of Australia's biggest sporting identities. That would likely never have happened in country Victoria (unless they were holidaying there).

Likewise, our kids seem to be thriving at school and in their extra-curricular activities, many of which were unavailable where we used to live.

I enjoy the anonymity, and the diversity here is also a big plus

When I was having a bad mental health day in Bright, there was no escaping friends and family (bless them). Once, at the supermarket, I was weeping in the bread aisle, only to be greeted by my husband's cheerful colleague, who was keen to chat about the weather. I wanted to scream and run away.

In the city, I quite enjoy the anonymity and being a number in the crowd, especially on harder days.

I also love having access to a diverse range of art, music, entertainment, and food on the Gold Coast. After four years living in the country, I began to feel a bit starved of culture.

My kids are also mingling with children from different backgrounds and walks of life, which I am really happy about.

However, we miss having nature at our doorstep, and wide open spaces

Bright is surrounded by mountains, forests, rivers, and cycling trails, with gorgeous national parks a short drive away. It really is a smorgasbord of activities for outdoor enthusiasts.

The Gold Coast has plenty of sunshine and offers some spectacular natural scenery, but you do have to drive to access it. I've actually put on a few kilos living in the city, and I think it's mainly because I'm not walking or cycling as much.

When we recently returned to Bright for a family holiday, I realized how much I've missed those wide open spaces. The air seems to feel fresher there.

Living in suburbia on the Gold Coast, the blocks are tighter, and some areas feel like the properties are on top of each other. Even as I write this, I can overhear the next-door neighbor arguing with her husband about his messy household habits.

I also miss the close-knit community and slower pace

I've been lucky enough to make some wonderful friends on the Gold Coast. The kind who check in on us when we're sick or offer to babysit if my husband and I need a night out. But it also seems that people are busier in the city, and get-togethers happen less often.

In a small town like Bright, it's easier to catch up with people because everyone lives close by. I found that living in the country helped me form deeper connections with friends. That brought a sense of security, knowing that someone always has your back.

Since moving to the city, life has felt frantic. For the first six months, every weekend was jam-packed with catch-ups with family and new and old friends.

In a small country town, the pace of life was much slower. Recently, while we were holidaying in Bright, I felt my shoulders relax, and my stress levels decrease. There's something to be said for a simple life.

What our next chapter holds

We'd intended to give the Gold Coast 12 months and then make a call about where to base ourselves long-term. But now that we're almost at that mark, we've realized it's too soon to make a decision.

And so, we'll be spending 2027 here, then reassessing our options late next year. Part of me craves the open skies, fresh mountain air, and the stillness I took for granted in the country, but I'm also enjoying having Aldi a kilometer away and more choices overall.

I suppose at the end of the day, there's no perfect place to live, just places that suit you at different life stages. For now, the Gold Coast is giving us convenience, variety, and time with my folks, and I intend to enjoy the best of what city life has to offer.

• Sometimes I have to take my child out of school for healthcare appointments.
• Perfect attendance can depend on health, access to care, and whether a parent can leave work.
• I'd rather schools reward kids for showing up after hard times than for perfect attendance.

Whenever I schedule an appointment during the school day, I feel guilty.

I ask for their latest available appointment. If that doesn't work, I pull up the school calendar. Then I start doing the ridiculous parent math: How long is the drive? What class will my child miss? Can I get them back before the final bell? Is there some magical way to make a 10:30 appointment happen without blowing up half the school day? Usually, there isn't. So I take the appointment.

I'm a mother in rural North Carolina. Healthcare providers aren't always five minutes down the road, and appointments that fit perfectly between school dismissal and dinner aren't exactly falling from the sky. Sometimes the appointment you need is at 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday. And sometimes you take it. I still feel guilty about it almost every time.

I want my child in school. Of course I do. I know how quickly one missed class can turn into a missing assignment, which then becomes another assignment they don't understand because they missed the first one. But I also have to take care of my child. Sometimes those two responsibilities bump right into each other. And that's probably why perfect-attendance awards have always bothered me.

My child is my priority

I understand why schools care about attendance. Kids need to be in classrooms. They need instruction, routine, relationships with teachers and classmates, and all the little pieces of school that are hard to recreate at home. When a child is missing a lot of school, I absolutely think families should be supported in figuring out why and helping that child get back into a routine.

But perfect attendance is something different. An unbroken attendance record isn't necessarily a measure of how hard a child tried. Kids don't choose when they get the flu. They don't control when the specialist finally has an opening. They can't give their parents paid time off, fix the car when it won't start, make the school bus come down a road it doesn't serve, or move a doctor's office 45 minutes closer to home.

The certificate may have a child's name printed on it, but there's a whole lot of family circumstance behind that streak. I work for myself, which gives me more flexibility than many parents have. I can move things around when an appointment pops up. That doesn't mean the lost work hours don't matter, but I can usually make it happen.

A parent working an hourly job may be making a completely different calculation. Can I afford to lose three hours of pay? Will my boss be irritated? How many times have I already had to leave early this year?

And that's before we even get into transportation, housing instability, access to healthcare, chronic illness, or any of the other things families may be dealing with that nobody sees when the certificates get handed out. Those circumstances matter. They just aren't evidence that one child tried harder than another.

One sick day shouldn't erase a year's worth of effort

As parents, we already have to make enough judgment calls when our kids are sick. Is this a stay-home sick or a send-them-and-see sick? Are they actually exhausted or just really, really not interested in going to math?

We're told attendance matters. And it does. We're also told to keep our kids home when they're contagious because sending them to school sick exposes others to illness. Both things can be true.

Then we turn around and give an award for never missing a day. That's where I get stuck. One fever in October can knock a child out of the running for an award handed out in June.

I don't want to hesitate before keeping my sick child home because some part of my brain is thinking about an attendance record. And I definitely don't want my child learning that dragging yourself through school when you feel awful is proof that you're more dedicated.

Sometimes staying home is the responsible choice. Sometimes missing school for an appointment is the responsible choice. And sometimes the impressive part isn't never missing school at all, it's coming back.

I'd rather see schools recognize persistence

I'm not suggesting schools stop caring whether kids come to school. Chronic absenteeism is a real problem, and families dealing with it may need more support, not less. But perfection doesn't have to be the prize.

Recognize the kid whose attendance improved from one grading period to the next. Celebrate shorter milestones. Acknowledge the student who had a rough stretch and worked their way back into a routine.

Despite my views, I know I'll keep doing the school-day appointment math. I'll keep asking for the latest opening. I'll keep checking the calendar. I'll keep trying to minimize what my child misses and help them catch up when missing school can't be avoided. And I'll probably still feel a little guilty every time.

My child may never earn a perfect-attendance award. I'm fine with that. I'd much rather they learn that taking care of themselves is responsible, staying home when they're contagious is considerate, and showing up again after a hard stretch is something worth being proud of.

• Of course I'm a fun aunt, but I've figured out a way to be so much more to my nieces and nephew.
• Spending meaningful one-on-one time with each of them has deepened our relationships.
• My "Auntie Emily Days" let each child enjoy personalized adventures based on their unique interests.

You know those TikToks about the childless, traveling aunt? The one who's somehow always at an airport, has a suspicious amount of money, occasionally shows up with gifts she definitely didn't need to buy (while carrying yet another new designer purse), and is never quite sure what time zone she's in? Yep, that's me.

For years, I happily embraced the stereotype. I'd swoop in for birthdays and holidays, always say yes to dessert (and extra dessert), create a little chaos, then head back to my own wonderfully independent life.

I assumed I understood the assignment. Bring the snacks. Buy the birthday presents. Show up to holidays with something fun tucked under my arm. Be loud, be silly, make them laugh, then hand them back to their parents when the day was over. It was the best kind of job. I got all the joy without much of the responsibility.

Or so I thought.

As my nieces and nephew got older, I realized something that surprised me: I wasn't really getting to know them as they were maturing into their own people. I had to ask their moms what they wanted for birthdays, or worse, I just bought out the toy section at Target and hoped something would stick. I also didn't know who they were when they didn't have to compete for attention or weren't trying to impress me with the farthest throw, the coolest dive into the pool, or the biggest burp. That's when "Auntie Emily Days" were born.

Their day reflects their personality

Rather than trying to squeeze meaningful time into crowded family gatherings, I started planning one-on-one adventures with each child — all seven of them.

Before we get together, they give me a guideline of what they want to do, and then I execute. Sometimes it's easy; dinner at The Melting Pot and a few hours spent at a cat café. Sometimes it's a bit more complicated with a sleepover at the Freehand (it has bunk beds!) and sightseeing in New York City.

Yes, I pull out all the stops I can, like ice skating at Wollman Rink and dinner at Bad Roman for one; an Oheka Castle lunch and manicure/pedicure with Starbucks for another; calling in a favor for on-field access for my nephew. Then each goes home with a little gift to remind them of the day.

But the itinerary is never really the point. The point is that each child gets a day built entirely around their interests. For a few uninterrupted hours, they don't have to compromise with a sibling or wait their turn. They feel seen, heard, and don't have to compete for attention. And that's when I started seeing parts of their personalities I might have otherwise missed.

They're different when they're one-on-one

While I have a firm grasp on all of their personalities, it was shocking to me how different they were one-on-one. Emma is the coolest kid and thankful for every experience, treating every moment as if it's the best she's ever had. Zoë can turn almost anything into a joke and somehow finds the fun walking through the most crowded street in New York. Jessica is analytical and technical, but away from her sisters, her wonderfully goofy sense of humor takes over. Jocelyn has a confidence and spunk that's impossible to ignore, yet she's remarkably intuitive. JJ is quieter than the rest, preferring to observe first and ask thoughtful questions later. Isabelle is sweet, demure, and quiet, and simply a joy to be around. And baby Isla is a force of nature I know I'm going to love hanging out with when she gets a bit older.

Without siblings or parents nearby, they open up completely. They tell me about school friendships, worries they haven't shared with anyone else, and things they're excited about. I may not run back and tell their parents everything, but it may give me a little sway over the Christmas list. It's amazing what children reveal when they feel like someone is listening only to them.

Connection isn't built at birthday parties

The biggest surprise wasn't how much I learned about them; it was how much they began trusting me.

I'm not their parent. I don't have to enforce bedtime, nag them to do homework, or beg them to get off their tablet. But I'm also not just the adult who appears a few times a year with presents.

Over time, they learned that our conversations stay between us unless they need my help. They've discovered that they can tell me about a bad day without worrying I'll immediately relay every detail to their parents. That doesn't mean I keep dangerous secrets. It means I respect them enough to let them own their stories. That trust changes everything and, I believe, will be vital as they age.

The moments that matter most stay with us

When I think back on our days together, it isn't always the tickets or the destinations that stand out. It's sharing French fries while they tell me their new favorite joke or something silly their sibling did. It is being absolutely frozen on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry staring at the Statue of Liberty because it was on our list. Or hearing an unfiltered opinion about school, extracurriculars, or something bothering them. It's watching them become confident enough to order for themselves at a restaurant — and then hearing they are doing that at home, too. It's nice when you realize a conversation we had in the car or a little encouragement during one of our adventures didn't end when I dropped them off.

For a long time, I assumed choosing not to have children meant I'd miss out on watching kids grow up. I couldn't have been more wrong. I get a front-row seat to their lives, just from a different seat. I get to celebrate their milestones, encourage their interests, answer the occasional hard question, and then, yes, send them home to their parents at the end of the day. It turns out that's exactly the role I was meant to have.

Showing up is more than just being around

I don't make every baseball game, I'm not in the audience for every cheer competition, I can't be there every Saturday. But now I know that the intentional time I had with each child carries a bigger weight than just showing up, saying hello, giving them a hug, and going home.

By carving out uninterrupted time with each child, I've been able to create something that doesn't happen naturally in the chaos of their family life, or in my own solo life.

Yes, I will always be the fun aunt, but instead of just "she was around," my intention has become "she showed up." I want them to remember having someone who listened without interrupting, who asked questions because she genuinely wanted to know the answer,; who made space for their interests, even when they weren't her own. Not someone who just said, "Sure, you can have another piece of cake, I don't care." (While still also allowing them to have more cake.)

• I've made it nearly 10 years into motherhood without telling my daughter a lie.
• I don't believe in white lies, even when telling the truth makes parenting harder.
• I think being honest has helped my daughter trust me and brought us closer together.

From where I stand, it seems like most parents lie to their kids, at least once in a while.

I am of the mindset that lying, whether to adults or to children, is wrong. Because I view it this way, I am uncomfortable with it and refuse to do it. My husband respects my stance, though he doesn't always follow suit and has told our child a handful of lies. But in the past decade since I became a mom, I have managed to avoid it.

I don't think I'm better than other parents, and I don't think anyone else is bad for harmless untruths. I just knew going into this that I wanted to approach parenting differently in a lot of ways, and this is just one of them.

Not lying doesn't equal to sharing every detail

This doesn't mean I divulge every secret. Kids don't need to know every detail about everything, even when they ask questions.

I was rather vague when she wondered why one of our relatives split up with her husband less than a year after the marriage, for example: "He did something really bad, and it hurt her a lot. She's not able to forgive him," I said, that was the end of the conversation.

I believe it is OK to keep some things a mystery indefinitely, to delay certain conversations or, when choosing to reveal things, to do so in an age-appropriate way (for example, where do babies come from?). But as far as not speaking any falsehoods, I have been consistent.

She asked me if Santa was real

I didn't tell her that Santa existed, but of course, as a toddler, she started believing through other friends, family, and Christmas marketing. I thought it was lovely and let her believe. Why spoil her fun?

But when she was a little older and asked me point blank if Santa was real, I replied in a curious tone "Hmmm, what do you think?" and instead it turned a situation where she started wondering aloud and trying to reason whether it was possible. I listened in the car, nodding along in the parent drop-off line at school. I also told her that a lot of people — including kids in her class — do believe in Santa, so it wouldn't be nice for their parents if she expressed her doubts to her peers. She agreed and went along to the classroom. Granted, I got lucky that it went in this direction. I was able to stay true to my "no direct lies" approach while not shattering a very magical childhood belief — one I remember fondly from my own youth.

And other common ones — like lying about a pet fish dying, or telling the truth when asked about a dinner ingredient, knowing there'd be resistance, or whether I remembered to do everything she asked of me — I don't lie about those either.

These were not always easy conversations (those situations alone resulted in her first lesson about death, her stubbornness to try some foods, and me disappointing her and admitting that "no sorry, I didn't babysit your stuffy while you were at school; I forgot this time.").

Honesty has brought us closer together

If she questions what I think of the makeup she did on my face, I enthusiastically compliment her creativity and say how fun it was to be in her makeover chair; I don't lie and say that the electric pink eyeshadow is the best color ever. I feel that it has built more trust between us and brought us closer. She knows that when she asks mommy something, I'm going to be straight up with her. She doesn't seem to doubt me or second-guess what I say.

As a parent, I understand that we are wired to protect our children. But with lying, I think parents are often trying to protect themselves. We want things to be easier, understandably. We want to say the place is closed instead of just telling the truth that we are just too tired to take them today. We want to tell our kid, "Yeah, the spider is gone now, honey," so they'll sleep well instead of saying that I actually have no idea where it went.

But avoiding discomfort is not a strong enough reason for me to lie to my daughter. It's not just that I believe lying is immoral; it's also about feeling that she deserves the truth. Plus, if honesty is one of the values that I'm trying to teach her, I want to set a good example by being honest with her.

• I'm a lawyer who decided to work in AI to try to get ahead of this technological curve.
• Over the last two years, I've struggled to keep up because AI is advancing faster than I expected.
• I feel overwhelmed and burned out by the constant conversations around AI.

For most of my career, I was a lawyer. There was something reassuring about how expertise worked in law. The longer I practiced, the more I knew.

But after years in a demanding profession, I burned out. It wasn't that I stopped enjoying law. I just needed a change.

Around two years ago, I started shifting my career toward AI because I thought it was the future. I didn't want to wake up 10 years later and realize technology had changed my profession without me.

It seemed like the smartest career move I could make. Now, I'm not so sure.

Joining the AI boom early seemed like the perfect career move

I made the transition while the AI boom was still gaining momentum. Ironically, I landed a job at a legal tech company thanks to a conversation with ChatGPT. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to combine my experience with my growing interest in tech.

My role involved testing the most advanced models, comparing their capabilities, and exploring how they could be used in legal work. I felt like I was ahead of a major change rather than trying to catch up with it.

I also became the go-to person for anything AI-related among my family and friends. People would ask me which tools to use, whether AI would replace their jobs, or what I thought about the latest developments. I enjoyed being the person who seemed to understand something that everyone was suddenly talking about.

But that feeling didn't last as long as I expected. Slowly, I began to realize that this wasn't just another new technology. It was something evolving at an almost frightening pace. And being close to it didn't necessarily mean being able to keep up with it.

What initially felt like an advantage was gradually becoming a source of pressure.

Things that took me weeks to learn or build became obsolete almost overnight

New frontier AI models and companies seemed to arrive every few weeks, each promising capabilities that the previous lacked. Just as I began understanding one model, another would appear, forcing me to reconsider everything I thought I knew about what AI could and couldn't do. There was barely enough time to breathe before "the next big thing" came.

What frustrated me most was how quickly my own work could lose its value. I spent weeks developing solutions to problems that a newer model could suddenly solve within a few minutes. Things I had carefully learned a couple of months earlier became unnecessary after a single product announcement. It was strange to put so much effort into something only to discover that the technology had already overtaken me.

And the constant learning didn't stop when I finished work. AI was everywhere. It was in the news, on social media, in conversations with friends, and in almost every discussion about the future of work. Sometimes, after spending an entire day testing models, the last thing I wanted to hear about was another breakthrough.

Yet I still felt an obligation to read about it, afraid that missing a single development could leave me even further behind. I was getting tired.

Accepting uncertainty became the only way forward

For years, I had measured my professional progress by how much I knew and how confident I felt about my abilities. AI challenged that completely. I began to question whether being good at my job meant knowing the latest developments or simply knowing how to adapt as everything changed. It was uncomfortable to accept that experience and hard work might not always provide the certainty I was used to.

I also started questioning how much of my personal time I was willing to sacrifice to stay relevant. I didn't want every conversation, evening, or weekend to become another opportunity to learn or talk about AI. I began making a conscious effort to disconnect after work, even if that meant missing an announcement or falling behind on the latest developments. For the first time, I was choosing not to know everything.

I don't regret moving into AI, but I no longer feel as certain about the decision as I once did. The technology isn't going to slow down. All I know for sure is that we are living through one of the most important inflection points in recent history, and perhaps that's what makes it all so overwhelming.

• I used to push myself at work, outearning myself year after year.
• When my dad died, and I heard how people talked about him, I reevaluated my approach.
• Now, I still make enough to cover what I need, but I'm living a fuller life.

I'm a reformed workaholic. I'd love to say I slowly came to realize that my value isn't monetary or based on how high I can climb a ladder, but that epiphany wasn't achieved in a growth-centric way. Instead, it was a surprising side effect of losing my dad suddenly in September 2024. He was there, and just like that, he was gone. And my willingness to burn myself out died that day, too.

In the flurry of administrative chaos and world-wrecking grief that follows sudden death, it took a while for me to notice the change. It was normal to work less while grieving. Except it's now almost two years later — and yes, I'm still very much grieving — but I am back in the flow of working. And it looks completely different.

I had been working hard for years

When I was balancing full-time teaching with a writing side hustle, I regularly pulled ridiculous hours, working from 7 am until late at night. Not only that, but I was also frequently working both weekend days and throughout school vacation. I even had an accident in May 2024 that put me out of work while my arm was in a sling to help the broken bones heal, but once I was back, I hit my highest earning month of all time. But then my dad died, and I just don't care the way I used to.

There wasn't an inheritance that suddenly made working optional. And it's not all-consuming depression either — the months that followed were immensely dark, but I'm doing really well from a mental health perspective now. Instead, there's been a reshuffling of priorities. My identity fundamentally shifted in 2024. I came entirely too close to dying in an accident while riding horses, where doctors couldn't fathom how I survived without paraplegia, and then, mere months later, my dad had a heart attack at 65.

The way people spoke about my dad made me want to live a fuller life

The eulogies poured in for my dad, who was a beloved doctor. Hundreds of people messaged us, telling stories of my dad's generosity, his kindness, adventurous spirit, talent, sense of humor, and utter chaos.

The sheer number of anecdotes was almost mythical, as it seemed impossible that someone could do so much with their time. My dad even started kitesurfing in his 50s because he thought it would be cool, and regularly drove hours out of town to reach the nearest dam to do it. His last kiting session was the week before he died. He was an astronomer, a chess player, an artist, a rugby fanatic, a dear friend, a dedicated husband, and the best dad anyone could wish for.

It made me look at my own life. I was out-earning myself, year after year. But I lived in a city that gave me little joy, and my hobbies were…well, just reading. And often, I was only reading self-help books to help me earn more or be more productive.

It's not that I took a step back from work. I just didn't step forward again. I have ongoing luxury travel copywriting clients. I still do a fair bit of journalism and a little bit of coaching essay writers. I ensure I earn enough to make ends meet — pay my mortgage, set aside money for my retirement, health insurance, and so on, but that's it. Once that goal is met each month, my foot comes off the accelerator, and I focus on life instead.

I moved to the coast and qualified as an advanced open water scuba diver. I knock off early on Fridays to hit the beach if it's a nice day, and I'm dabbling in surfing. I've started lifting weights. I have more friends than I've ever had before. I've started painting, and my guitar has been dusted off and tuned again.

I don't have it all worked out. I'm still trying to figure out what life without my dad can possibly look like. I just know how much life he crammed into the years he had, and the best way I can honor him is to try to do the same.

• Peter Csathy is a studio exec, startup CEO, media and tech advisor, music dealmaker, and podcaster.
• He calls leaving a Hollywood studio job for a startup the 'stupidest' decision of his career.
• In the long run, it led him to achieve higher heights of personal and professional satisfaction.

The following is adapted from a book excerpt.

I began my career as an entertainment lawyer in a major firm. It was a lucrative, predictable professional path that likely would have generated more money over time than my far more circuitous one —studio executive, startup CEO, media/tech advisor, music dealmaker, author, podcaster — has.

But early on, I chose a different path to pursue my bigger dream of playing a part in a major Hollywood studio. And after seemingly endless rejection, and through sheer tenacity and will, I scored the lottery when I found my way "in" — jumping the industry's velvet rope and landing in the senior executive ranks at Universal Studios.

And then, just a few years later, I left. I left to enter the great unknown of entrepreneurialism — into the world of internet 1.0 in the late 1990s where dreams were big, but salaries small. Never mind that; I was going to score big and fast in my inevitable IPO.

Only I didn't, and my decision to leave Universal in favor of an overblown internet startup (a digital greeting card company, for God's sake!) became my stupidest decision in my professional career.

My wife, Luisa, was pregnant with our first child, Hunter. It's not as if we had built a substantial nest egg up to that point. And I had been making a nice salary in Hollywood, with plenty of upward room to grow. When I announced I was leaving Universal, in fact, the big boss at the time offered me an important, prestigious new job with significantly more money. But I left anyway.

And then internet 1.0 crashed and burned — and my digital greeting card company with it. All while Luisa watched and wondered, "What the hell was he thinking?"

'Young, dumb, and done'

She was absolutely right, of course. She always has the better judgment and pulse on things. And so, at the time, we both felt that I had cratered both my career and our financial security. Young, dumb, and done.

But you know what? My worst professional mistake ultimately became my biggest professional and personal break — the best thing that ever could have happened to us (although we certainly didn't see it that way at the time, and for several years thereafter).

Here's the thing. My impulsive decision to leave Hollywood led me onto a completely different, non-linear entrepreneurial path. A path that led us down to San Diego for my next gig, pioneering online music company Musicmatch (which was acquired by Yahoo!). That's where we had our second child, Luca and settled in the beautiful hamlet of Rancho Santa Fe.

I didn't play it safe, and that decision to "go for it" opened up a whole new career path for me that I couldn't see at the time, one where I could have significantly more impact and be significantly more creative. It enabled me to take more risks, pursue more dreams, and achieve higher heights of personal and professional satisfaction (even as those risks also certainly led to more heartburn).

Now, we can't even imagine a life without Luca and his big sister Hunter anywhere else. Their lives — all of our lives — have been idyllic here in Rancho Santa Fe. Could I have been equally happy in a Hollywood studio and living in LA? Maybe. But we certainly wouldn't have had the wonderful life we've had in the same way. I'm grateful for that.

Pursuing dreams — putting yourself out there — is a far riskier way to live. But it all led to the personal and professional life I'm living today. For me, the trade-off was worth it.

Not all dreams work out — and that's okay

More recently, Luisa dreamt big and leveraged her deep spirituality to build a youth empowerment and community organizing business — something she was born to do. She's a quiet force of nature; people just gravitate toward her, effortlessly. And her business was beautiful — meaningful, impactful.

But ultimately it was all-consuming and didn't give her the satisfaction she was hoping for, because not all dreams do.

But Luisa acted. She tried it. No regrets. Who knows where that experience leads her next? It certainly expanded her network of people she respects, and those new relationships can lead to other new opportunities. It also gives us more priceless time to explore this country's great open roads together in our Sprinter van — which has always been another dream of hers. The Sprinter is her happy place when she takes the dogs to the beach, opens the back doors, and takes in the sunsets over the ocean. Now she can do all of it with no regrets of wondering, "What would have happened if I tried?" "No regrets" is a great way to live, even if there's some heartache along the way.

Our two children Hunter (now 26) and Luca (24), not surprisingly, are pursuing their own dreams too — Hunter as a creative in the entertainment business, making it entirely on her own, and Luca as a filmmaker, with no roadmap of getting from point A to point B. Both have chosen what many would caution as being an alternative, or even impractical, path.

But because we're all dreamers, Luisa and I believe they will be better and more fulfilled because of it, no matter what happens. It will add to their lore and expose them to entirely new things — all of which can add to their long-term happiness.

Gretchen Rubin, bestselling author of The Happiness Project, is widely known as being a leading expert on the subject. One of her famous mantras is, "Enjoy the fun of failure." She teaches that you simply aren't aiming high enough if you're not experiencing some level of failure or intense stress. I certainly did when my digital greeting card company flopped. Rubin's research shows that true satisfaction doesn't come from static comfort and financial security. It comes more from taking action and stretching your capabilities.

Meanwhile, research by renowned relationship psychologist Dr. Eli Finkel concludes that one of the single biggest predictors of marital success is when spouses support and champion each other's dreams. He calls this the "Michelangelo phenomenon" — a spouse's support sculpts away excess stone to help reveal the core essence of their partner's dreams. Those spouses who prioritize money over dreams, on the other hand, risk creating dangerous fault lines of toxic resentment and contempt.

How to dream big in your own life

Here are some ways to begin to "dream big" in your own life — whatever "big" means to you, because it certainly doesn't mean you need to make a career change).

1. Ask the question. This week, ask your spouse or partner, "What's a dream you've never pursued?" Then listen. Just listen, without arguing how practical it is. The "asking" is a small act of love by itself.

2. Name the cost. Every dream worth chasing costs someone something — time, money, stability, sleep. Be honest about what your dreams cost. Pretending there are none is how resentment grows. But resentment grows even stronger if you don't pursue them.

3. Create space for dreams. Don't wait until "things calm down," because they never do. Open up a specific block of time, money, or attention for one or both of you to pursue a dream in the next 12 months.

4. Cheer them on! Tell your spouse and kids that you believe in their dreams. They should never need to wonder. Silence smacks of indifference.

5. Separate the dream from the outcome. Luisa's business didn't go as planned. But the "win" was in the trying. Measure dreams by whether you acted on them, not by whether they paid off. Because many times the pay-off isn't the obvious one.

Adapted from 'Hiding in Plain Sight: 10 Secrets to a Happy Marriage & Family' by Peter Csathy.

• Taryn White is a freelance travel writer and the founder of travel and lifestyle brand The Trip Wish List.
• She's used points to book trips to places like Puerto Rico, Bali, Sydney, Prague, and Johannesburg.
• She shares her strategies for booking with points, including positioning flights and comparing options.

I've been collecting airline miles and credit card points for more than two decades, long before the influx of social media posts promising things like a "free" business-class seat to Europe.

Over the years, I've redeemed points for everything from weekend getaways to Puerto Rico to long-haul international flights to Bali that would have otherwise cost thousands of dollars.

Looking back, I realized that earning points is actually the easy part. The real challenge is knowing how to use them well, and I haven't always been strategic about it.

Here are the three key strategies I've learned that I use to travel the world for less.

1. Build a flexible points ecosystem

Don't put all your eggs in one basket when it comes to miles and points. One of the most important strategies in maximizing travel rewards is to build a flexible "points ecosystem" rather than relying on a single airline, hotel program, or credit card.

My current points ecosystem includes two American Express cards, one Chase card, and one Capital One credit card; co-branded airline and hotel cards for United, Delta, and Marriott; and memberships in dozens of airline, hotel, and rental-car loyalty programs.

Most of my travel credit cards have annual fees, ranging from $150 for my Delta SkyMiles Gold card to $895 for my American Express Business Platinum card. When the value I receive from the benefits — annual travel or hotel credits, free-night certificates, airport lounge access, checked-bag benefits, elite-status perks, and travel protections — exceeds the annual fee, the card earns a place in my points ecosystem.

2. Learn airline and alliance sweet spots

One of the biggest misconceptions about airline miles is that you should use the airline's own miles to book its flights. That's often not true; the exact same seat could actually cost fewer points through another loyalty program.

Many airlines belong to the three major airline alliances — Star Alliance, Oneworld, and SkyTeam — or have individual partnerships that let members redeem miles for flights operated by partner carriers. The number of miles and taxes or fees required can vary significantly from one loyalty program to another. It's worth checking multiple partners before transferring points or booking an award.

Similarly, I rarely book flights using points directly through credit card travel portals, because they usually operate at a value of one cent per point, and I can often get more value from my points elsewhere.

When searching for award flights, I almost always start with Roame Travel, a platform that compares redemption prices across multiple airline programs. I use a free account, which is more limited in search functions than their paid subscriptions, but it works for my needs.

For example, for Star Alliance flights, I check programs like Air Canada Aeroplan, Singapore Airlines KrisFlyer, and All Nippon Airways Mileage Club. I also keep an eye on Alaska Airlines Mileage Plan and Virgin Atlantic Flying Club because both frequently offer excellent partner award opportunities as well as awards on their own flights.

That strategy paid off while planning a trip to Africa in January this year. I transferred Amex points to Virgin Atlantic to book a one-way flight from Washington Dulles to Johannesburg for only 13,500 points, plus $229.40 in taxes and fees. It was the lowest cost long-haul redemption I've ever booked.

It also required far fewer points than a credit card travel portal would have charged; the same one-way flight would've likely cost around $1,000, or 100,000 points if booked through a credit card travel portal such as American Express Travel.

3. Don't be afraid of positioning flights

Many travelers search only for flights flying out of their home airport or exact departure city. Sometimes, though, booking a flight to a different airport — positioning to another city — means a better fare or cheaper award redemption. From there, you can use a budget carrier, train, or car to reach your final destination.

I've built entire vacations around positioning flights. Rather than a hassle, I see them as an opportunity to experience multiple destinations on a single trip.

On a family trip to Europe three years ago, I wanted to visit Croatia and Montenegro, but there wasn't any award availability for our preferred range of dates. Instead, I booked four one-way tickets on Lufthansa Airlines to Prague using 122,000 Singapore Airlines' KrisFlyer miles and $1,148.00 in taxes and fees. We spent three days in Prague before road-tripping through Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, and Montenegro.

For the return journey, I booked our flights home from Heathrow because I found four economy tickets for only 98,000 Flying Blue miles and $804 in taxes and fees. We flew from Dubrovnik to London on a separate low-cost carrier the day before our flight home, turning the connection into a mini getaway in London, where I redeemed hotel points for a one-night stay.

Positioning flights require extra planning. Because the flights are booked separately, I always leave a generous buffer between them in case of delays or cancellations.

It's important to approach travel rewards wisely

Travel rewards credit cards can be incredibly valuable, but only when used responsibly. Always pay the balance in full every month — otherwise, the interest racked up on credit card debt can quickly outweigh the value of any points or miles you've earned. I've never viewed points as a reason to spend more. If I can't pay for a purchase immediately, I don't make it. The rewards are an added benefit, not the goal.

I've also learned not to chase every welcome bonus by churning credit cards, which is the practice of opening and closing credit cards for the purpose of getting lucrative sign-up bonuses given to new accounts. Sign-up offers can be valuable, but they work best when they align naturally with purchases you were already planning to make.

Today, my philosophy is simple: Earn points strategically, redeem them when they help me take a trip I really want to take, and don't obsess over squeezing every last fraction of a cent out of every redemption. The best use of miles isn't necessarily the one that produces the highest spreadsheet value; it's the one that gets you on the plane, lets you experience another part of the world, and leaves more money in your bank account for the next adventure.

• I spent years preparing my kids for college, but I overlooked some essential life skills.
• I never properly taught them to clean toilets, repay debts, or recognize health problems.
• Now I'm trying to fill those gaps and accept that parenting doesn't end when kids leave home.

Last week, a friend asked if I knew of any jobs for her recent graduate. Between his rigorous academic load, sports, and club activities that landed him in a prestigious university, he'd never held a job.

"My fail," she confessed.

My kids have had jobs, but I have parenting fails of my own. I'm concerned that, in the grand scheme of middle-class privileges, we forgot to teach our children some basic life skills: scrubbing bathrooms, repaying debts, and self-attunement.

I crammed as much as I could into the first 18 years of their lives, but juggling my small business while parenting didn't leave time for everything. I found myself tossing last-minute advice like grapes while driving each to their respective dorms: Carry your drinks with you at all times — even to the bathroom. Know where Student Health is located. Sit in the front rows; meet your professors. Skip the jugs of BORG.

We didn't teach them everything they need to survive, let alone thrive, but I'm hoping it's not too late to offer some guidance.

Cleaning their toilet

The bathroom might be the most inhospitable location in either of my sons' living quarters. The filth lurking below the interior rim is as confronting as the overspray of urine where the lid hinges.

To protect them from chemical toxins, I reflect that I never handed my kids a cleaning wand. They'd wiped down sinks, vacuumed, and washed clothes, but the toilet was off limits. Instead, I'd taken the plastic brush into my own hand or, worse, hired a housekeeper. It should have transitioned at some age, but between my own squeamishness about cleanliness and their protests at reaching inside the bowl, I failed.

I'm consoled that it appears statistically unlikely that anyone would catch a disease from their lack of sanitization, but in the interest of raising functional adults within accepted cultural parameters, I'm impressing upon them the virtues of hygiene and housekeeping as attractive to a future partner, while clamoring to provide motivation.

My kids had no fiscal responsibility

To teach financial awareness, my husband and I set up checking accounts and outlined budgets with our kids in their last year of high school. What we failed to do was teach them the importance of paying bills or repaying debt — imperative when adulting to secure credit, rent your own accommodations, and eventually live a fiscally independent life.

We felt like we were on the right path when our kid bought his first (used) Toyota Tacoma, and we helped by providing a partial private loan to make it possible. The idea was for him to pay us back in monthly installments, no matter how small, but that quickly fell by the wayside when he felt $20 too nominal a transaction to matter.

He eventually paid off the entire debt in a lump sum, and we blew off his breach of our contract, but when a second kid dismissed our financial agreement, I knew we'd made a mistake. It's a lesson worth reworking in the interest of said kids' futures — perhaps we should've enforced stricter consequences for non-payment or suggested a bank loan that has natural repercussions for non-compliance? Idk, but that's my hot tip.

I told them to 'read the room,' but also, they should read themselves

This broad term refers to an individual's ability to assess themself in their environment, mentally and physically. I'd always advised my kids to "read the room," but now I implore them to read themselves — better.

By the end of high school, I'd encouraged my kids to schedule their own doctor appointments but still played caregiver when advising them to stay home from school (with a fever) or insisting on their attendance (to avoid truancy). Collectively considered, I might have disabled their agency given that one of our kids landed in the emergency room after ignoring cold symptoms that manifested as chest pains in the middle of the night, his freshman year of college. Diagnosed with an acute case of pericarditis, his heart was stressed. He spent three harrowing nights in the hospital and continued with six months of follow-up as an outpatient; it was scary. I couldn't conceive how quickly an active young person's health had plummeted so drastically. "This must be super rare?" I asked the attending physician.

"Not really, it's a textbook response to strep throat," the doctor replied. Then, turning toward my kid, he asked, "Didn't your throat feel sore?"

"Not really."

Dropping our youngest child to start her college career on the opposite coast this fall, we kissed and hugged. "Have fun — these years are the best!" Then I added, "but it's normal to feel lonely at times. It's OK to be uncomfortable." I reminded her exactly what I probably needed to hear: "Discomfort breeds growth." And maybe that's how I'd reframe my embarrassing "fails" — as an opportunity for growth, because isn't that why we all went to college in the first place?