Leave it to Arundhati Roy to deliver a scorching, dizzying essay on the perils of artificial intelligence that references Greek mythology, Francis Ford Coppola, the Bible, India’s industrial history, and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Plus, Emily Dickinson features in the lede:

The auguries are raining down hard. Think or Sink. Comply or Die. Look Up or be Left Out. And so, with these not-so-gentle threats, it has come to pass that the Age of AI—Actual Idiocy, Actual Super Idiocy, Recursive Snowballing-Idiocy—is upon us. Heck, I’ve already used two dashes in this opening paragraph. That, as they say, is a tell. So, perhaps I haven’t written this essay at all. You’d have to use an AI app to check if it’s actually AI, and whether I’m really, or not really, or only partially me. You can no longer use your instincts. You have to use the App. Now that AI owns the em dash, what will future generations make of Emily Dickinson and her love of them? Has she been fed to the machine, too? Will they love her less? Are we being gradually locked out of language? Does it matter anymore?

• Last summer, Erin Levi left Connecticut and moved to Montreal on her own.
• She barely knew anyone in the city, and relocating at 42 gave her a panic attack.
• Moving to a new city while working for herself was hard, but it made her feel brave.

Last summer, I left my life in Connecticut behind and moved to Montreal on a whim, without a plan.

People told me I was brave.

Really? I'm a travel journalist. I've followed a snow leopard expert across Nepal; I've lived with a family in Uzbekistan who didn't speak English; and I've had a private encounter with the King of Bhutan.

Montreal is only a 6-hour drive from my hometown in Connecticut. It didn't seem brave to me. It seemed, frankly, safe.

Yet moving here at 42 gave me a panic attack. I hadn't been to Canada in more than 12 years and barely knew anyone.

After my parents dropped me off, we spent a few days exploring my new city together, where it's easy to get by without a car — it felt like the start of another semester abroad. Except this time, I was older and had no plans to leave.

The last time I'd been in Montréal with my parents was in the summer of 2003, before I left for a semester abroad in Hanoi. I had my first pho in Montréal's Chinatown.

So why Montreal?

A Facebook post on a full moon in May changed my life.

My lease in Ridgefield, Connecticut, was up. So was my relationship. My landlord wanted an extra $500 a month for the lofty, 1,100-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment in the woods that I had been sharing with my now-ex. That would bring the rent to $3,250 a month, not including utilities, which often reached $700 during the winter because of the high ceilings.

I saw all of this as signs to leave.

But I was about to write a check for $5,985 upfront for a $1,995-a-month, 900-square-foot, one-bedroom duplex nearby and buy a car.

Then a Canadian friend shared that her 638-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment near Montréal's Little Italy was available for 6 months at a writer-friendly rent: 1,100 Canadian dollars, or about $775 a month, including utilities, WiFi, furniture, and a beautiful patio. My friend is a professor and works abroad for half the year.

Ever since my first job at Tourisme Québec's New York office — the role that ultimately launched my travel-writing career — I'd wanted to live in Montreal. I also speak French. It seemed like a no-brainer, so I said "oui."

I found out that Americans can spend up to 6 months in Canada per visit. However, anyone who spends more than 183 days in the country in a calendar year may have to pay taxes. Foreign media workers like me also don't require a work permit. I consulted an immigration lawyer about staying in Canada.

My new life in Canada

Since moving, I've learned to row. I take weekly lessons at the Olympic Basin, where beginner courses cost CA$200 each. Gliding hundreds of meters solo in a scull has been one of the best antidotes to my anxiety. Socially, though, I should've joined the dragon boat team.

My neighborhood, La Petite-Patrie, is home to some of the city's top restaurants, including Vin Mon Lapin, Pasta Pooks, and Limbo. And Marché Jean-Talon — the largest open-air market north of Mexico — is my local grocer.

Some cultural highlights have included celebrating Jewish holidays at Leonard Cohen's shul, attending my first F1 race, cross-country skiing in Parc du Mont-Royal, and going to a hockey game solo.

Sure, there's been loneliness. There's been longing. It's not easy moving to a new city when you work for yourself. Nor is it easy being more than 10 minutes from my parents — and their delicious cooking. But I've also made new friends, hosted old friends, and opened my heart.

Brave, eh? Perhaps I really am.

• I was at a Flyers game when an 84-year-old woman appeared on the Jumbotron and stole the show.
• The crowd cheered for her and booed the mascot, Gritty, whenever the camera switched away.
• Watching thousands of strangers celebrate her brought me to tears during a difficult time.

Since our kids left for college, my husband and I have been to many Philadelphia Flyers games.

The most recent, against the Colorado Avalanche, felt magical, and it wasn't just the high of a second consecutive win after a nine-game losing streak. There was an older woman, way up in the upper section, who, in a purely joyful moment, stole the show and captured the hearts of all 18,353 of us in attendance.

I'm calling her Good Luck Granny.

People were being shown on the Jumbotron

During the third period, the Flyers were up 3-1, and the crowd was electric. Could they make it two wins in a row? During TV time-outs, cameras stationed throughout the arena pan to fans — parents holding ear-muffed babies aloft, kids jumping up and down, waving "My 1st Flyers game!!" signs — or to our beloved mascot, Gritty, in his Chaos Corner, doing what Gritty does.

I love seeing the reactions of people who make it on the jumbotron, and, yes, I may have, on occasion, attempted to wave at a camera pointed in our direction. Being at the game means losing myself and any worries I might have for a few hours in something everyone can agree on.

With less than 10 minutes left in the third period, the camera found a grey-haired, bespectacled woman, straight out of central casting, in a royal blue hoodie. She was chair dancing, arms up in the air, her bright orange Flyers microfiber towel ready for waving. The arena exploded into a unanimous uproar for this stranger.

The camera panned to Gritty, and everyone booed. Then they went back to the woman, and we watched her moment of recognition in real time along with the guy seated next to her who'd been pointing her out to the cameraman. She lit up and began pointing at herself, as she mouthed, "Oh, that's me!" This was met with uproarious cheers.

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and fought back tears as we continued to scream for her.

Everyone was excited for her

Everyone wanted more, and the camera operators obliged, cycling half a dozen times between Gritty, who played along with the boos and disappointment, and Good Luck Granny, who elicited raucous cheering, much to her and everyone's delight. I'm not sure why it made me so emotional, but the feeling remains.

After the game, fans followed and cheered her all the way out of the building, taking photos along the way.

Fans went crazy for her in the comment section, too. Under a video posted by Sports Radio 94WIP Reporter, Dave Uram, @anfieldcards wrote, "I sat right next to her and her daughter, she was crying after being on the screen. It meant so much to her. She's 84 years old but was screaming and cheering all game."

That woman was the distraction I needed

Maybe it's because 2026 has been filled with what feels like an endlessly worrisome, increasingly overwhelming news cycle, along with some personally painful moments. When my mother died in January, a few months shy of her 82nd birthday, I hadn't seen or spoken to her in 17 years. Not surprisingly, this has brought up some complicated feelings. Turning 59 this summer brought up a lot of thoughts, too (because I am a professional overthinker), about my own mortality and what the state of the world might be for my grandchildren.

For those three hours, though, being enveloped by the energy of strangers who come together for a shared, emotionally vested experience, the games have been a salve and a healing distraction. I also believe that now more than ever, we're all craving joyful, feel-good moments like cheering for an unsuspecting elderly woman in a crowded hockey arena.

So, thank you, beautiful stranger, our Good Luck Granny, for your infectious good vibes and an experience that will not soon be forgotten.

• I spent most of my adult life in cities before moving to a rural cabin for my husband's job.
• It was hard to adjust, and I had to confront many of my phobias before moving back home.
• Although I wouldn't choose to live in a cabin again, I'm grateful for what the experience taught me.

At the end of the summer, I packed my bags and two cats and got on a plane by myself, leaving our spacious home in Portland, Oregon, for a two-bedroom cabin in the remote woods of upstate New York.

I was planning to live there temporarily so I could spend some time with my husband, who had rented the place while he was working on a movie in the area. He had moved to the area a few weeks earlier to start work, and he would stay there until mid-November when the project wrapped.

His options for where to stay were limited: a room at a Best Western, or a quaint cottage with a wood-burning stove and brick flooring on a historic acreage with farm animals.

If I hadn't planned to come, he might have just chosen the hotel room, but he wanted a pet-friendly option with a little more space.

I saw staying in the cabin as a chance to slow down a bit after feeling work-related burnout — but I was nervous, too.

The cabin showed me what I took for granted at home

Immediately, there were some things I genuinely loved about rural living.

One of my favorite parts was the privacy. The cabin sat next to a creek and a grove of trees on a massive acreage at the foot of a mountain. It was part farm, part forest.

I rarely saw other people most days, and got plenty of work done. While at the cabin, I started working on the second draft of my novel while planning for my next full-time role.

However, it was also tough to adjust to rustic life. For most of my adult life, I'd lived in cities, including Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, and Portland.

Back home in Portland, I'd gotten used to our walkable neighborhood with incredible coffee shops just steps away, plus a slew of local wine bars, restaurants, and other small businesses easily accessible by bike.

Although there were a few charming spots in the general area, the surrounding town beyond the acreage was pretty lackluster, and we were living in a grocery-store desert. I was surprised by how little there really was to do, considering we were only about a two-hour drive from New York City.

Then there was the cottage itself. After living in a house with a dishwasher and an espresso machine, I had to get used to sputtering hot-water taps and Keurig coffee.

Still, none of these inconveniences was the end of the world, especially since I'd only be living here for one month. The biggest challenge, though, was confronting my obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Living near so many insects forced me to face my OCD

Rustic cabin living meant that there were bugs everywhere, pretty much all the time.

Moths, stinkbugs, crane flies the size of my palm, spiders, grasshoppers, and even crickets managed to sneak their way inside. Outside, I'd get swarmed by mosquitoes and gnats.

One night, I counted over two dozen sizable bugs that had somehow snuck into our cabin. Sometimes the bugs made me feel trapped because I couldn't fully escape them, no matter where I was.

This might be an annoying inconvenience for people used to suburban life or climates with fewer bugs, but for me — someone with OCD — it felt like a test from the universe.

Although every person with OCD can and will have completely different fears, obsessions, and compulsions, many of mine center on fears of germs, disease, or contamination.

For me, a fear of hurting myself or my pets due to something in the environment — for instance, ticks with Lyme disease — can trigger compulsive handwashing, body-checking, and a general sense of anxiety throughout the day. When these compulsions come into play, I often become less productive, more distracted, and late for everything.

The presence of so many bugs, plus corners layered with dust and cobwebs, triggered my fears of contamination and heightened my anxiety. Early on, I was even afraid of walking on the grass outside, since upstate New York has many more reported cases of Lyme disease than in Oregon, my home base.

I was also concerned that my spouse, while working on location in the woods or other areas, might bring ticks home on his clothes, transmit them to me, or fall ill from a bite.

Being exposed to my fears eventually helped them fade

Despite all of this, about a week in, I started to settle into cabin life a bit.

My fears were there, but nothing bad happened. The bugs didn't go away, but they didn't get us sick. The cats were happy. At one point, I walked across the grass to go see the goats on the property, and I didn't get any ticks.

It might sound silly, but for me, this was a bit of a breakthrough.

I love animals, nature, and traveling the world, but the intense, intrusive thoughts that OCD brings can make it difficult to enjoy a new adventure without a constant baseline feeling of anxiety.

The best part about living in this rural landscape was being able to see and get close to so many animals. On the property, there were free-range chickens and geese, plus wild turkeys, foxes, deer, and tons of blue jays.

And there was this squad of hilarious goats, sheep, and a cow. With time, I was able to enjoy the experience.

Spending a month in upstate New York isn't something I'd do again, and after a month at the cottage, I was excited to return to our spacious house and walkable neighborhood. But I'm grateful for the experience that allowed me to try out a new lifestyle, challenge my OCD, and come out stronger.

• Despite having a lot of friends in college, I felt like I was surrounded by strangers.
• After a careful analysis, I discovered meaningful connections fulfilled me more than casual ones.
• I stopped spreading myself too thin and have since focused my time on a smaller circle of friends.

My 21st birthday party was packed with a dozen faces I half-knew. They all smiled as I blew out the candles and made a wish, yet I felt as if I were surrounded by strangers.

As I looked out into the crowd, I realized that most of my friendships were surface-level, rather than genuine connections. We talked about upcoming school assignments, trending TV shows, and our favorite restaurants, but I wanted more.

What was supposed to be a celebration turned into a rude awakening: Did these people even know me at all?

I've always been someone with many hobbies, which meant making friends across all walks of life. Although I'm lucky to have so many people in my corner, there came a point where it felt like I was collecting friendships like tokens rather than forming meaningful relationships.

The realization set in: I had tons of friends, but somehow, I was lonely.

I needed to learn how to distinguish casual friendships from meaningful ones

Even years after graduating from college, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd been collecting the wrong type of friendships.

I realized many of my relationships had been rooted in transactions or shared activities, which may explain why I was still feeling lonely.

Upon reflection, I noticed that the most genuine friendships I had involved some emotional depth and connection. I only have two of these in my life — one who lives close by, and another who is across the country.

Regardless of where they are, the empathy goes both ways — I share in their joys and sit with them through their struggles, and they do the same for me. We're not just shoulders for each other to cry on, but supportive pillars who help each other walk through life.

These were the friendships that fulfilled me most, and I needed to make more room in my life for them.

In order to do this, I needed to figure out what was holding me back. I came to the conclusion that, when it comes to friends, I'd kept many people at a distance, afraid that opening up would make me seem like "too much" or leave me hurt again.

I'd also been spreading myself too thin, trying to maintain too many relationships instead of investing in the ones that mattered most. For example, I felt like I rushed through dinners to mentally check a box that I was keeping up the relationship. Not only was that a waste of time, but it led to major emotional burnout.

Now, I focus on a handful of friends with whom I can build a deeper bond. Even though I only have time to see a select few people, I make sure the few hours we spend together are packed with thoughtful, not superficial, conversations.

Recently, I spent some time with a work colleague outside the office, and we discussed how fitness helped us during difficult points in our lives. We connected on something beyond our jobs, and for the first time in a long time, I felt less lonely.

Once I stopped chasing a bigger circle and was more vulnerable, I felt less alone

At first, it was difficult to let go of my larger circle. There's nothing wrong with casual friendships, but they couldn't give me the depth I was craving.

Instead, the friends I need are the ones who will hold me up at my worst and cheer me on at my best without expecting anything in return — and I never think twice about doing the same for them. These connections take more time and care to develop, but are well worth the wait.

Once I started watering the friendships I truly valued, I noticed our moments together aren't rushed, and our connection is stronger now because of the care we put into each conversation.

This year, I'm thinking about having a birthday dinner with two or three close friends rather than a larger celebration. Ironically, when I began filtering superficial relationships out of my life, I felt less lonely — and that's all I could have ever wished for.

• Caitlin Conway is a mom of two who lives in Colorado.
• She sends her two kids, ages 8 and 5, to a forest school and homeschools them.
• She says the impact on them physically and emotionally is unparalleled.

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

Years ago, when my oldest was an infant, my husband and I had seen a documentary about outdoor schooling in Nordic countries. It really resonated with us, but it also felt intense because we're not used to seeing that kind of setup here. It was cool, but also terrifying — kids were using knives in the woods.

Then I found a forest school in Colorado, where we live.

We started forest school when my oldest was 4.5

We started my son on the coldest day of the year, in February, and I was nervous. We sent him out, and when he came home, he didn't say anything about the weather. He never even mentioned that it was cold; he was immediately engrossed.

It was his primary source of education until two years ago, through first grade. They age out of a full-day program around then, so we now homeschool and leverage a homeschool enrichment program for him because we were not ready to leave the program. My youngest attends forest school three days a week and is also homeschooled the other days.

The school goes from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. every day as long as it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit or warmer. Sometimes they have a shelter; sometimes they don't. They learn how to keep their bodies warm.

The primary focus is on social and emotional development. It gives kids opportunities to test their capabilities, both physically and emotionally. The guides are there to keep them safe, but they're not there to solve a kid's every problem. They learn to negotiate conflicts with each other and can get help when they need it.

When at home, we also prioritize being outside

We don't follow a strict homeschooling curriculum. Our main focus is on exposure. We homeschool so they can continue to stay outside and strengthen their bodies and minds. We've also found a group of people through forest school that we call our homeschool co-op. It's two other families, and we all help facilitate "adventure days" outside.

I'm not sitting at a kitchen table with them all day. We do an art program, and both kids also take piano lessons and swim. We also do our own work around reading, writing, and math.

I never expected to be homeschooling my kids, but they love it

I don't have an educational background. I come from early-stage start-ups and am currently a real estate agent. But I continue to double down on this method because I see an incredible impact on my kids' ability to adapt to different situations. They can sit still at a restaurant, but they can also jump off a cliff into a river. They know that bravery has a great payoff.

The hardest part is other people's opinions. We've had to defend what we're doing, something I'm sure every homeschool parent has had to do. An instant reaction to me sharing that my kids are in the woods all day is, "But how are they learning if they're not in the real world?" That can be frustrating, but I think it's important to make sure people know there are other options for early childhood development.

• Living abroad with only what fits in a carry-on has changed my definition of "enough."
• I no longer buy "just in case" stuff that rarely gets used, and I've found joy in a simple wardrobe.
• Ironically, the more I appreciate the things we own, the less attached I've become to them.

I'll admit it: I love shopping and the thrill of getting something new.

But ever since my husband and I started doing extended stays in Paris and other cities throughout Europe, I've surprised myself with how little I actually need.

We never check luggage because it's such a hassle, so whenever we get home after living out of carry-on suitcases for three months, I'll look around our apartment, open my closet, and think, "Wow, I forgot about most of this stuff."

Even though I'm a lifelong declutterer and keep our space tidy and organized, I've come to realize that getting by with only what fits in a carry-on has changed my definition of "enough."

Having fewer clothes makes getting dressed easier

It's kind of ironic that going to Paris, the fashion capital of the world, is where I've ended up with the smallest wardrobe. But as it turns out, having fewer options saves me a lot of mental energy and has made me more creative and intentional about what I wear.

I pack versatile pieces that work together so I can mix and match, rewear the same few pairs of pants, and do laundry every week. Even winter trips, when I have to pack bulkier clothes, have proven that I can get by with much less than I ever thought possible.

I have dozens of sweaters at home since I'm a bit of a collector, but all I really need are just a few Quince cashmere fisherman turtlenecks.

I also love jewelry, hats, and sunglasses, and usually have multiple options based on my mood. But being away for months at a time has made me realize that I'm perfectly fine with having just a few accessories to rotate through.

Whenever I get back from one of our trips, I end up editing my closet because I realize there's so much I don't wear. Yes, it's nice to have all my clothes and accessories, but it also gets easier each time to give stuff away to friends, family, neighbors, or donation centers.

I've stopped buying so many 'just in case' items

It's easy to imagine all sorts of scenarios where I might need certain things, especially when traveling. (Should I pack a pair of heels in case we go to an ultra-fancy dinner? Or what if I suddenly need that scarf I haven't worn in five years?)

News flash: I've never needed something I didn't pack. It's a lesson that has made me less likely to shop on impulse.

I still love going on a T.J. Maxx run and filling up a cart while browsing my favorite sites. However, before I make a purchase, I ask myself if it's something I'll genuinely use or just something that I might hypothetically need one day.

If it doesn't pass the reality check, I don't buy it.

I'm much more thoughtful about what I bring into our apartment

Because we're on the move so much, being at home feels even more comforting. I love that our space is decorated with objects that spark joy, but over the last few years, I've become less interested in accumulating stuff.

Instead, I find myself appreciating what we already have — from our shelves full of books and framed photos of our family and travels to my houseplants that our wonderful neighbors take care of while we're away.

Funnily enough, though, the more I appreciate the things we own, the less attached I've become to most of them. I don't even feel much of an urge to buy things for our apartment because I know we'll be leaving again soon.

Having more options doesn't necessarily make life better

Whether it's my wardrobe, household items, or even food, I've realized I don't need endless options. Like, do I really need 12 types of tea in my cupboard at any given moment? Often, I'm fine with just a few bags of my go-to blends.

Traveling with just a carry-on has made me realize that day to day, I tend to stick to my core favorites and don't really need a million choices for everything. I get plenty of variety when I'm out exploring.

At home, I'm happy to keep things simple and enjoy what I already have. That's more than enough for me.

• People often assume that my best friend and I are sisters, but our connection is a little different.
• She's the now ex-wife of my ex-husband, though we connected while they were still together.
• She has become my person, the one I turn to in good times and bad.

When my best friend Shelley and I are out together, people often ask if we are sisters, even though we look nothing alike. Shelley has dark hair, dark eyes, and very fair skin, and while I also have fair skin, I'm a blue-eyed blonde. We get the question so frequently that it's almost comedic.

"No," we tell whoever is asking, "we're ex-wives-in-law."

This always gets a laugh, and when we explain our story, it brings a moment of levity to whomever we've encountered.

Behind what we've made into a little joke for public consumption is a unique bond that a lot of people wouldn't understand. It's a bond forged by trials, reinforced by implicit trust and devotion, and topped off with a whole lot of laughter and joy.

Our connection is unique

"Our Husband," as we call him, was intent on Shelley and me getting to know each other before they married. He and I have two sons, and Shelley has two sons from a previous marriage who are about the same age as my boys.

This meant that we had many of the same interests as boy moms by default, but, as it turned out, we also shared many of the same tastes in music, art, and books.

One milestone event of my life occurred early in Shelley's marriage to Our Husband. Shelley and I went to see Prince in concert together shortly before his death. I will never forget that night, and I'm so thankful that I got to see him perform live. In retrospect, I could see the spark of our friendship starting to glow that night.

Strangely enough, though, the night that I count as the true beginning of our friendship was the night that the Diane Sawyer interview featuring Caitlyn Jenner aired. For me, this was one of those events in the cultural zeitgeist that seemed like it should be witnessed with someone else. As it happened, all four of our boys were on the swim team together, and the program aired on the night of a meet. So, I forced the situation. Our Husband was working that evening, and I told her I'd be over with food to cook dinner for all of us. I came to her house — the house that she shared with Our Husband, who was my ex, of course — and we made dinner for ourselves and the boys, drank some wine, and watched the interview. Our friendship grew from there.

Not everyone was on board at first

Shelley told me much later that she initially thought it was weird that, as Our Husband's ex-wife, I was so intent on being her friend.

She says her mother told her, "I think you might as well give in, I think she has decided you are friends." The truth is, I just plain liked her, and we had a lot in common, but her mom was right. I wasn't going anywhere.

The relationship evolved

Sadly, Shelley's marriage to Our Husband ended after four years. She has said that I put her back together after that all happened. I don't look at it that way. I simply was there for my friend. She emerged after that crisis like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon, and our friendship grew, battle-hardened, to a new level. Through all this, we shared parenting crises and triumphs, career battles and successes, and personal health scares.

Then, together, we went through something foundationally shattering for both of us. We both cared for our aging mothers, and connected even more deeply after they both died.

For a daughter, losing a mother is a life-changing event. On top of that, being a family caregiver, being involved in the deeply draining day-to-day process of shepherding a loved one toward and through their transition in death, is a solemn responsibility, the parameters of which are indescribable to anyone who hasn't experienced it.

As it happened, just by circumstance, Shelley walked those paths ahead of me and alongside me, and we held each other together through tears and laughter along the way. Shelley's mother died on March 18, 2019. My mother died on March 16, three years later. Shortly after she passed, Shelley, Our Husband, and I sat in my living room and toasted her with a round of her favorite drink, gin and tonics, in recognition of the valiant battle she had just completed.

Our Husband had thoughts

So how does Our Husband feel about Shelley and I being so close? For him, it's been kind of like the five stages of grief. First, he tried to deny that we were actually friends. Surely, we were just pretending to be friends — certainly, this was just a charade, we were just doing this to spite him. Then came anger. Apparently, we were friends, which just wasn't appropriate in his view. Next, there was bargaining. If we'd stop seeing each other, he'd be nicer. Then, of course, depression. Yes, Shelley and I were friends, and that just sucked. Now, there is acceptance. Sometimes, he refers to her as my "girlfriend."

Of course, a lot of time has passed, and I like to think that all three of us have grown a great deal. Shelley and Our Husband have been divorced for 10 years. My relationship with Our Husband has gone through many evolutions. He and I have been divorced for 14 years and apart for 17. Above all else, he gave me the greatest gift one human being can ever give another in making me a mother, and we have two wonderful sons who are young men now, out in society, being productive citizens.

Little did he know he'd also give me another wonderful gift when he got divorced for a second time. He gave me my best friend for life, my person.

• My husband and I took my 75-year-old mom to Croatia, Montenegro, and Bosnia and Herzegovina.
• During the two-week trip, I had to make some adjustments to my typical travel style.
• Overall, though, my mom really impressed me and I was surprised by what she could handle.

"I want to go to Montenegro," my mom told me over the phone. She was back home in Chicago, and I was in France, where my husband and I had moved three years earlier.

It wasn't entirely surprising. Since we moved abroad, my mom has been eager to travel more. But Montenegro? The idea felt a little random, which made it all the more intriguing.

Turns out she'd spotted a video of the country on Facebook, likely on one of the Polish-language pages she follows.

I was excited to share another adventure with her, especially one she'd chosen. And if we were going that far, I figured we may as well see more of the region.

After all, I'm a travel blogger and journalist, and my mom has become increasingly interested in seeing what I do and experiencing firsthand what I enjoy so much about travel.

She'd visited us a few times since we moved to France, but the Balkans would be a bigger adventure.

I planned for my husband and me to take her to three countries (Croatia, Montenegro, and Bosnia and Herzegovina) over two weeks. This meant navigating border crossings outside the European Union, handling several layers of logistics, and creating a plan that would work for my mom, who would turn 75 on the trip.

I knew my usual travel pace wasn't going to work for this trip, so we had to plan ahead

My husband and I are active travelers. We regularly rack up 20,000-step days, love a hike to a panoramic viewpoint, and push through heat and discomfort because we're of the "We may never come back here" mindset. Whenever we can, we also take public transit.

My mom travels differently. She spent 40 years as a server, so she's no stranger to being on her feet and is generally in good health, but retirement has slowed her down.

Even on her most active days, she moves at a gentler pace. Hills are particularly challenging, and long stretches of walking, especially on uneven surfaces, can catch up with her.

Before booking accommodations or transportation, I considered the physical demands of each day. I checked elevation changes for walks between hotels and the places we wanted to visit, looked for ways to avoid unnecessary uphill treks, and ruled out extra-long guided tours.

I also hired private drivers ahead of time to give us more flexibility. This way, we could tailor the stops to our needs rather than follow a big group's schedule, including when we stopped, where we were dropped off, and how long we stayed.

We made small adjustments throughout to ensure my mom was comfortable

We started with three easy nights in Dubrovnik, Croatia. During our stay, we explored the popular Croatian city's Old Town and lingered over meals of fresh fish. We spent a lot of time in the pool, since I learned my mom has far more energy in the water than on land.

After that, we were driven into Montenegro, where we learned the importance of rest. On a hot day in Perast, she loved the short boat ride to the man-made island, Our Lady of the Rocks.

But by midday, the heat had made us all a little testy. Ice cream helped, but the real fix was learning to schedule breaks before we reached the point of needing them.

My husband and I usually take a late-afternoon break rather than staying out until dinner anyway. With my mom, we just moved it up a few hours. She never asked us to accommodate her, but I learned to tell when she needed one.

Sometimes, the best adjustment was giving ourselves permission to split up. In the Old Town of Kotor, Montenegro, which was walking distance from our base in Dobrota, my husband and I hiked up to the Kotor Fortress while she stayed behind to rest and feed the cat that adopted us for our three-day stay.

When we got back, she was ready to go, and we spent a few hours exploring together.

Our next leg of the trip was to Bosnia and Herzegovina, which included a four-hour stretch of winding mountain roads that left all of us feeling a little green — my mom most of all. This is where a private driver really paid off.

He pulled over so she could get some air and rest, waited without complaint or worry that we were on a tight schedule, and let her ride up front the rest of the drive.

On a big bus, she likely would have had to suffer through it.

By the end of the trip, I was surprised by what she could handle

Our group of three felt almost like a well-oiled machine by our last stop to Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. At this point, I knew what worked and what didn't. Steep hills were a no-go. Long car rides were hard and great to avoid, when possible. She could handle a full day if we built in breaks.

In Sarajevo, we took several guided tours to learn about the city's history and war. My mom had lived through hardship herself in Poland before immigrating to the U.S. in the 1980s, so I wasn't sure how she'd react to heavier subjects. She was fascinated.

During the siege, a narrow tunnel — known as the Tunnel of Hope — was dug under the airport to move food, supplies, and people. Today, you can walk through a short restored section. I assumed she'd wait outside, but she walked right through.

That's what I learned most from traveling with my mom. I couldn't assume what she could or couldn't do. Instead, I simply had to pay attention.

She didn't need me to plan a completely different trip. She needed me to understand that her version of a good travel day looked a little different from mine, and that it can be just as full.

• I'm Gen Z and have always valued rest, leisure, and finding balance in my life.
• My 86-year-old grandfather has worked as a doctor for 60 years and refuses to retire.
• His dedication has changed how I think about ambition, purpose, and growing older.

As a Gen Z, I have struggled with my work ethic. I have learned to optimize leisure, travel, and rest, and to get into a flow state. However, my grandfather's work ethic has made me rethink my approach.

At 86, my grandfather refuses to retire. For the past 60 years, he has woken up at the same time every morning, showered, dressed immaculately, had breakfast, and left for his work as a general physician in his private clinic.

Barring sickness and rare travel, he has never taken a day off, never deviated from schedule, and has an enviable work ethic that I have not seen in anyone. My grandmother, who was 70, died last year, and he was back to work in a week.

He is the eldest son

Born in 1940 in the small town of Gonda in North India, he was the eldest of six younger siblings. In 1966, at the age of 26, he began his medical practice after completing his MBBS.

From the beginning, he has been focused on his career and his responsibilities as the eldest son of a South Asian family. He worked in big hospitals, then opened a private practice a few years later, and he also established a Rotary Club Chapter in his city, leading it many times in the decades that followed.

There has always been a deep sense of empathy in him, which has made him a very considerate doctor for those who are economically marginalized. Because he charged less, took his time to understand each patient's issue, and prescribed medicines with great care, he gained popularity in his city very soon.

After six decades, the patients who were once young men and women bring their grandchildren from different cities to be treated by him. Only two years ago, he scaled back his work, working only till lunch. So now many patients come home in an emergency. "I don't like turning them away. Helping them makes me feel elated," he told me in one of our weekly phone calls.

He doesn't want to retire

From his work, he built a home for his parents and siblings, and another for his wife and children. He paid for the education of most of his siblings and put down a significant sum when it was time for them to get married. In short, he has been responsible for every role and relationship in his life.

He has three kids, two daughters and a son. They feel as if he should take it easy. "Why don't you retire?" My mother asked him a few years ago, and he shook his head vigorously, as if the thought itself was impossible.

"There were friends who were much healthier than me. They retired early, and I have seen many of them pass away," was his response to my mom. He also feels that being in a perpetual state of rest will dull his senses. Barring a partial hearing loss in one ear and a decrease in activity level due to age, he is fit and completely Independent.

He makes time to enjoy life

He can decide if he ever wants to retire because he has built his own practice, which is a privilege. However, he hasn't denied himself the pleasures of life either. He took time off to go on vacations and spent dedicated time with his kids, parents, and wife.

From him, I am learning that having a work ethic also means having a deep respect for your own life. It is not just dedication to his work; his ethic showcases his will to live as long as he can, independently. I want to live a purposeful and robust life, helping and guiding others and being of use till it's time to go. I want to eat clean, work out every day, put in the work to nurture my ambition, spend time with my loved ones, and focus on my goals. His work ethic has also shown me how he values his time. He nourishes it, nurtures it, and uses it to build a better life for himself. An honorable relationship with time and hard work has led him here.

He wants to be a functional part of society, and it has given me a fresh perspective on how I want to live my life. It is an odd thought, but I aspire to have a work ethic just like his and not retire.

• At 55, I thought I would have already figured out where I want to retire in the next few years.
• Instead, I've been living out of suitcases and housesitting in different places to see what I like.
• I still don't know where I will retire, but I do have a much better idea of what I want — and don't.

I always thought I'd be settled somewhere for good by age 55, with a comfortable home, established garden, and chest freezer in the garage.

But after growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, raising my kids in Seattle, and becoming an empty nester, I realized I had no idea where I wanted to settle down.

For the first time in more than 20 years, I suddenly had the freedom to choose where I wanted to live.

So at 52, I started housesitting in exchange for places to stay so I could travel without depleting my savings. I quickly realized how much I enjoyed the nomadic lifestyle and how this gave me the opportunity to test out places I might eventually want to live in.

After a few months, I liked it so much that I gave away almost everything I owned, put the rest in storage, and decided to do it full-time.

That was almost three years ago. Since then, I've lived in dozens of cities, towns, and remote islands, from northern Washington to the southeastern coast of Mexico's Baja California peninsula.

Housesitting has changed my mind about what I thought I wanted

I typically stay in each home for two weeks to three months at a time, which allows me to get to know a new place without signing a lease, buying a house, or committing to a community.

Instead, I chat with locals, visit the library and grocery store, explore nearby nature trails, and try to imagine what it would be like to live there.

I ask myself a lot of questions: Can I tolerate this climate? Do I feel able to connect with this community? Could I live without whatever thing this place might be missing … which is sometimes as simple as my beloved Trader Joe's?

Throughout my stays, I've learned new things about myself and what I really want.

For example, I'd long pictured myself settling in a city since I've spent most of my life in major metropolitan areas.

So, I was thrilled to book a housesitting job right across the street from my old high school in San Francisco. I couldn't wait to walk the same streets I did in my youth and revisit my old haunts.

But the nostalgia wore off quickly, and a $105 street-cleaning ticket reminded me of the hassles of city life. I realized that a noisy, crowded, expensive city isn't where I want to settle after all.

These days, less traffic, more green space, and a slower pace feel more like my style.

After that stint in the city, I went to the other extreme and booked a multi-week housesit on a remote Pacific Northwest island where the closest grocery store was a ferry ride away — long enough to require ice packs and a cooler to get my frozen food home before it defrosted.

At first, I couldn't imagine staying there for more than a few weeks, but I quickly fell in love with the solitude and have returned several times.

I realized that being surrounded by water, going days without talking to another person, hearing owls hoot at night, and watching a mother deer and her fawn wander across the yard made the extra effort of island life worthwhile.

I was willing to plan errands around the ferry schedule and give up some of the conveniences I'd always taken for granted for that kind of peace.

Turns out, I'm more open to living in a remote place than I expected.

Now, I'm rethinking what it means to settle down — and if I'd even stay in the US

I'd also never even considered moving abroad until I booked a five-week housesitting gig for an American woman who had retired in La Paz, Mexico.

I felt inspired by my client's willingness to give up familiar comforts and conveniences to risk starting over in a new country in search of the life she wanted.

Although I'm not sure Mexico is where I want to settle, I loved my time in the Sonoran Desert and haven't ruled out retiring outside of the US. This experience helped me learn what living abroad was really like and realize I'm more capable of making that jump than I ever imagined if it's what I ultimately choose.

After trying out more than 50 locations in three years, I still don't know where I eventually want to retire. But I know I want to be somewhere I can walk in nature, enjoy some solitude without feeling isolated, and engage with a community when I'm ready for company.

Above all, I'm searching for a place that makes me feel at home — even when I'm visiting for the first time.

• I was living with my boyfriend when we broke up, and he suggested that we stay roommates.
• After looking into my options, I realized that living together might be the best financial move.
• It was awkward at first, but acknowledging the situation and setting boundaries helped.

I met my ex in Spain, on a warm October night in 2024. He approached me as we were both walking home from a boxing class and confidently started a conversation.

About two weeks later, we went on our first date. A few months after that, we took our first weekend trip together. In April, he surprised me with a key to his home. By June, I'd moved in.

Our relationship was built on genuine care for one another. Throughout our relationship, we always sought to support each other's well-being and growth. Of course, we had bumps here and there, but they were never significant enough to change our respect for each other.

That's why, when we agreed to break up in August because we saw our lives going in different directions, I wasn't at all surprised that we found a way to continue living together.

We broke up, but I stayed at my ex's house

Under normal circumstances, I would've moved out as soon as possible. I've always believed that you can't start to heal from a breakup until you cut all ties and communication with your ex.

So, I bought the boxes, tape, and bubble wrap, started looking for apartments, and began packing.

But then two weeks later, I lost a freelance contract that contributed a significant portion to my income. This, coupled with the fact that I was already in the middle of a lengthy visa process to make Spain my long-term home, only added to the stress of going through a breakup.

Seeing the distress I was enduring, my ex sat me down and suggested that I continue to live with him until I was able to get back on my feet again.

My first thought was that people would think I was out of my mind for choosing to live with an ex. Then, I started weighing the pros and the cons.

If I stayed, housing would be one less thing I'd have to worry about … but every day, I would have to see someone I'd just broken up with. Worst of all, I'd have to treat my ex like a roommate, as if we didn't just spend the past two years in an affectionate relationship.

If I decided to move out, I wouldn't have to see my ex every day, and I could focus on healing my broken heart alone — but I'd be in a tough financial situation.

Unlike my ex — who's lenient and open to pulling some extra weight when I can't make rent or contribute 50/50 on utilities — I knew that a landlord wouldn't necessarily care about my personal situation once the first of the month rolled around.

I chose to keep living with him.

At first, there was an adjustment period

Those first few weeks were awkward. We'd already had separate bedrooms because of my ex's insomnia, but the changes to our routines and interactions felt foreign.

Instead of getting a text inviting me to come cuddle with him on Sunday mornings, my phone remained silent. Instead of getting ready and walking to the gym together in the afternoon, I started going in the morning.

Instead of sitting down to have dinner together, we ate at different times in different rooms. Whenever we saw each other, we would force a smile, say hi, and go our separate ways.

We didn't acknowledge the strangeness of our situation until one moment broke down the barrier. I was used to having crying sessions in my room, but this time, one snuck up on me while I sat in the living room. The stress of my breakup, finances, and living situation had just built up too much.

My ex was passing through the living room when he saw me crying and gently asked if he could give me a hug. I nodded.

This interaction prompted us to finally discuss the elephant in the room (well, house): Living with your ex is weird. Simply addressing the situation and talking about how we were both coping instantly made it feel a little bit lighter.

We found a new way to live together

What followed was a conversation about how we wanted living together to look like. We knew we were doing something unusual, which was daunting, but also meant we were free to make our own rules.

Our first decision was to stop acting like strangers. Barely acknowledging each other's existence just didn't work for us, so we welcomed a level of friendliness into our new relationship.

Then, we decided we'd continue offering each other a certain level of emotional support. My ex recently took a leave of absence from work to heal from burnout and contemplate his next career move.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to find full-time work and sustain the life I was building abroad. Being there for each other when one of us needed a listening ear felt important.

Lastly, we agreed not to cross any lines that would confuse the other person. We weren't in a romantic relationship anymore, so we decided that any affection beyond a friendly hug would be prohibited.

With this, our living situation went from something that felt unbearable to something that works for us. In the next few months, I plan to save enough from my freelance work to move out. Until then, I'm happy knowing I have a home, even if it's with my ex.

• I thought it was important to teach my three kids obedience.
• Now that they're older, I know it's important to teach them boundaries, too.
• When one of my children respectfully says no to something, I make it a point to validate them and their choice.

As soon as children learn to follow instructions, we start teaching them obedience. I know that's what I did with my kids.

I asked them to share their things, take turns, and compromise even when they're not always ready to do so willingly. I pushed them to cooperate not only because I felt it was the right thing to do, but because I wanted to keep the peace and be seen as a good parent.

Sadly, it seems society only sees agreeable, generous children as good ones, so parents raise them with a give-in mindset. I followed that path until I realized just how my actions were shaping my children's personalities.

Now I am strongly focused on improving myself while developing a parenting approach tailored to what works best for my children.

I wasn't seeing the whole picture

At some point, I realized that constantly pushing my children to say yes to everything, acting like good children are meant to, is affecting their personal boundaries.

When my children were not allowed to say no, I noticed they felt uncomfortable, frustrated, and even angry. My older son had no interest in his weekend archery class, yet I kept forcing him to attend. Every Saturday morning became a struggle, as I spent a lot of time convincing him to go. Within a few weeks, I realized that instead of building discipline or a skill, it was creating unnecessary stress for both of us. So I let him opt out.

Since then, I make it a point to ask my children before enrolling them in extracurricular activities, so they spend their time doing things they genuinely enjoy rather than ticking boxes for me.

They're learning to set boundaries with others, too

I also noticed that my children were happy to share snacks from their cabinet with visiting friends, but became upset when someone opened it without asking. I taught them that there is nothing wrong with saying no when someone crosses a boundary or takes something that belongs to them without their permission.

Setting physical boundaries was another challenge. When relatives and friends would lovingly ask my children for a hug or a kiss on the cheek, I could see them becoming uncomfortable. I could see that they felt obliged to agree, not wanting to be impolite. Without questioning anyone's good intentions, I now let my children decline physical affection when they are uncomfortable. I simply remind them that they can respond with a high-five, a wave, or a smile instead. It helps them respect others' kindness without feeling they have to give up their own boundaries.

People sometimes judge my approach

I have been told I am spoiling my kids by letting them have their say. But because my children know their voice matters, I have watched them handle peer pressure with remarkable maturity.

Recently, when my son's friends urged him to climb a high wall and jump off it to retrieve a lost ball, he confidently refused. They began teasing him, but he later told me he stayed calm and simply replied that he wasn't going to risk a fracture for a ball. Standing up to peer pressure is hard, but because he knew he could set a boundary, it made things easier.

This practice starts at home, even with me. I now allow my children to respectfully say no to low-stakes matters involving personal preferences. Like it's fine if they choose to stay behind with their grandmother rather than attending an outing they won't enjoy. As their parent, I want to teach them that respectful disagreement is acceptable.

I'm also validating their choices

Whenever one of my children respectfully says no to something, I make it a point to validate them, reinforcing that their boundaries matter.

Of course, setting boundaries isn't a free pass for entitlement. It doesn't mean being extra picky about eating or saying no to their assigned homework and household chores. They know that while they are developing these healthy boundaries, I still expect them to demonstrate basic manners.

I want them to be confident individuals who show genuine kindness, but no one should be allowed to exploit it. They should be able to resist unhealthy pressure and hold firm even when saying no feels uncomfortable. I hope that this helps them live a life built with courage, clarity, and true self-worth.

• 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.

• I enjoyed living in a small, one-bedroom apartment with my family of three for years.
• Once we moved to a house more than triple the size, I totally changed my minimalist mindset.
• Now that we live in a bigger space, I can't imagine going back to living small or minimally.

When my husband and I bought our apartment in Kyiv back in 2017, we were thrilled to finally have a family nest of our own.

It was a cozy, 500-square-foot place with one bedroom, and we meticulously planned to optimize every inch of it. Our kitchen table doubled as my workspace, and our living room couch became the guest bed whenever family stayed over.

Hosting required pure creative problem-solving and, with limited seating around our small table, I'd sometimes feed guests in shifts. It was chaotic at times, but I didn't mind.

After our son was born, bright plastic toys, endless boxes of diapers, and bulky baby gear started claiming every free corner of our apartment. With the three of us packed into a single bedroom, finding space was a daily puzzle, but we made it work.

Surprisingly, living so close together didn't feel limited back then — it felt intimate, cozy, and deeply fulfilling. Then COVID-19 hit.

Spending so much time indoors made me feel isolated, and for the first time, I began dreaming about more living space. But we barely had time to figure things out before life took a drastic turn: When the war in Ukraine escalated in 2022, we made the heavy, life-changing decision to relocate to Canada.

A few months after moving, we began renting a two-bedroom house, where we currently reside. At 1,700 square feet, it wasn't considered especially large by local standards, but to us, it felt vast.

It didn't take long to adjust to having more space — and to quickly fill it up

At first, our house seemed almost too large for just three people.

For the first time, we had two bedrooms and a basement, which instantly doubled our usable space at a ground level.

After years of apartment living, though, the sheer thought of having so much space to keep clean felt exhausting. However, it didn't take long to change my mind.

It turns out that when both you and your belongings finally have room to breathe — and you've got a trusty robot vacuum doing the heavy lifting — life shines in completely different colors.

It's also been wonderful to have more room to host, from a dedicated guest space (in the basement) to a table big enough to actually seat larger groups.

In time, we began to pick up local habits and traditions, too. Many of our neighbors in Canada decorate for different holidays, so we started joining in.

And of course, seasonal decor needs a place to be stored when it's not in use — and since we now had a full basement, I didn't feel super limited with what I could buy.

A lot of neighbors also had an extra stand-alone freezer in their homes. It seemed ridiculous for our family of three to also get one … until my first Costco run.

I caved when I realized I needed a place for all those bulk-sized boxes of frozen food. In our bigger home, large grocery hauls began feeling normal.

Gradually, I felt a shift in my identity: I was no longer the strict minimalist I used to be.

In Kyiv, whenever my husband wanted a new kitchen gadget or a giant toy truck for our son, I was firm about saying no. We simply didn't have room for "extra." I took pride in keeping our home completely clutter-free.

But between the extra space and North American convenience, I'd completely changed my minimalist rules. Now, saying "yes" to big additions — like the bulky food dehydrator I'd been eyeing for drying fruits and vegetables, or the roomy couch we'd dreamed of for years — felt easy.

I didn't need to worry about where something would be stored or if it'd take up too much space: We finally had the room to bring those dreams home.

Ultimately, my family and I have thrived with more room to breathe

Over time, I realized this shift was much deeper than just being able to shop more and store more stuff. In a bigger space, our family had room to breathe and grow.

In Kyiv, our whole routine and my minimalist mindset felt shaped by how tight everything felt, but here, the extra room opened up a whole new chapter.

I've become more outgoing, more relaxed, and genuinely excited to gather people together. Our home has turned into a place for hosting friends, cooking weekend dinners, and laughing over backyard barbecues.

Living small was a beautiful, intimate part of my life that I will always hold close to my heart. It taught me intentionality and gratitude.

However, creating space to thrive, host, and watch my family grow has completely transformed my definition of home — now, going back to 500 square feet no longer feels like an option.

• My friend and I have 7 kids between us, including 3 sets of twins. We took a Disney cruise alone.
• I loved the adults-only spaces, trivia games, spa treatments, and relaxing on Disney's private island.
• I'm already planning another Disney cruise with my kids, though I might prefer going without them.

"You've never been on a cruise?" my friend basically yelled at me while we were planning an adults-only trip away from our kids. She insisted that cruising with her grandparents as an adult was one of the best trips she's ever taken.

So, despite being a little terrified of being aboard essentially a floating skyscraper with thousands of people, I agreed to a Disney cruise for just the two of us.

Honestly, it was so much fun that I'm already planning another Disney cruise with my kids — though I'm not sure I want to give up the adults-only version.

It was such an easy getaway

My family is known for taking really elaborate vacations. One time we stayed on a remote island near Sicily, which is an active volcano. It took us three flights and a long ferry ride to get there, but it was totally worth it to see the lava at night.

This trip was different. We took a flight from Boston to Orlando, boarded the Disney Wish, and after that, we didn't have to think about anything. We have seven kids between the two of us (including three sets of twins), and the ease of the Disney cruise was exactly what we both needed.

There were activities nonstop, and you could join any of them at any point. I took a quick class to learn how to draw Ursula, we participated in so many trivia games with other adults, and stopped to take photos with characters — who are all over the boat all the time — to send home to our kids.

I really liked that almost everything was included

Part of its ease was that most everything was included, so there were few extra costs. For example, all meals at the themed restaurants were part of the package, and we could order as many dishes as we wanted. Non-alcoholic beverages are also included, and you get room service 24/7.

I especially liked the buffet-style meals at Marceline Market because I could mix in some healthy options (there were plenty) with some of my faves, like the fried hash browns for lunch or the Mickey-shaped churro waffles (which were highly recommended by the whole staff).

Of course, there are fancier options, like the Italian restaurant Palo, for which we couldn't get a reservation during our trip. That said, we spent plenty of time at the Keg & Compass pub because on the first night I discovered their vodka dirty martini, which was hands down the best one I've ever had (yes, including fancy New York restaurants). Cocktail prices varied from bar to bar, but this martini was $14, which seemed super reasonable to me.

Visiting Castaway Cay was key

Disney cruises in the Caribbean stop at Disney's private island, Castaway Cay. And for me, it was a key stop.

While I've been on a lot of boats growing up — my dad loves fishing — I still get seasick a lot. And while I was surprised by how little the cruise ship rocked, I could still feel it a little bit. So getting off the boat and having my feet on the sand was necessary for me.

I also love the ocean, and the Caribbean water is the perfect mix of temperature, color, and soft sand. My favorite moment was drinking a frozen piña colada with my friend while taking in some sunshine.

I appreciated that the island has an adults-only section called Serenity Bay, which was quieter and more relaxed than the family beach. There's a restaurant off the beach, too, so we were able to eat lunch between dips in the water.

The schedule was packed

While there were nonstop activities on the boat, I was often torn between wanting to do two or more overlapping things. For example, there was bingo one night happening at the same time as trivia. Given the option, I would've done both, because who doesn't love a bingo night? There was another day when you could make your own friendship bracelets, but I had already booked a facial, and that craft didn't repeat during our stay.

Because our main goal was to spend time together and relax, I felt I didn't do many of the interesting activities the boat offered. But I also get that that's the point; there's something for everyone at any given time of the day.

We didn't book things in advance

Being a newbie worked against me when booking extra activities. I wanted to surprise my friend with a couple's massage so we could destress, and I also wanted a facial.

By the time I went to book spa treatments (about a week before we boarded), there were very few time slots available. Next time, as soon as I book my trip, I'll be adding all the extras I want to maximize availability.

That said, we ended up getting our massage on embarkation day, which turned out to be the perfect way to smoothly transition from the chaos of mom life to vacation mode. And at $399 for both of us, it wasn't that much more expensive than the massages I get back in Maine. I booked my facial for 8 a.m., which felt a little early, but again was the only available time. If I were to do it again, I'd book the facial in the afternoon so as not to cut into pool time.

I overpacked and didn't have room for souvenirs

When I tell you I packed and unpacked my bag about 10 times before boarding, I'm not exaggerating. The Disney cruise hosted a pirate night and a Halloween party, and I wanted to be prepared for both. I also didn't know what to expect to want to wear on a cruise, so I overpacked by a ton.

This left me with very little room for souvenirs, which I still bought, but had to carry an extra tote bag back home. All the shops on the boat have different themes and therefore offer different stuff. I bought a Mickey-cruise-themed men's shirt that got so many compliments on the day I wore it. I also bought my kids pens and small keychain stuffies with their favorite characters.

We weren't the only adults without kids

My friend, who has more cruise experience than I do, insisted it wouldn't be weird for us to be on a Disney cruise without kids. And she was right. We weren't the only ones enjoying the adults-only areas, which included an ample pool deck with a jacuzzi, a small pool, a dedicated bar, and a coffee shop. There were also adults-only activities, like dance parties and trivia. And obviously, all the bars were for 21+.

While we only stayed at the adults-only pool deck, we could still hear the movies blasting for the family-friendly pool deck, which at times made it hard to relax. That said, when "Frozen" came on, both my friend and I were singing along (and probably annoying other adult guests).

We met a couple who were older than us who were on their 41st cruise. They found me adorable, being so excited about my first experience on board. They told me to get ready to become a cruise person, and they weren't wrong.

I had such a great time that I'm already planning when to take another Disney cruise, this time with my whole family. Disney Cruise Lines just announced a new ship called Believe, which will feature an "Encanto" stage show — which just happens to be my kids favorite Disney movie.

I cannot wait to see my kids' eyes go wide when they see how many things they can do, and for them to be ready to take a photo with their favorite Disney character, Daisy Duck.

• 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 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?