• Our friendship developed during years when our lives looked very similar.
• When I took a divergent path, and she didn't understand, I thought I would lose her.
• The challenge of our differences brought us to a place of more honesty, deepening our connection.

When I told my best friend I was quitting my Wall Street legal career to spend a year camping and exploring the American West, she looked at me aghast and said, "You're joking, right?"

Her response wasn't surprising. I hadn't exactly been honest with her, or myself, about how much I longed for a very different life than the one I was living.

At the time, we were 34 years old, and during the prior 16 years of friendship, our lives had run parallel tracks, studying business in college, then pursuing demanding careers in East Coast cities. While we'd seen each other through heartbreaks and upheavals, this was more than that. This was a significant detour, and as she looked at me, her face flush with confusion, I wasn't sure the detour was something our friendship would survive.

For years, our lives aligned

Erin and I met freshman year in college as scholarship runners on a highly competitive Division I Track Team. While our four years there weren't exactly conducive to honesty or vulnerability, it bonded us in a deep way.

After graduation, we shifted our attention and drive toward corporate careers, supporting each other in these often-stressful pursuits. With our finances closely aligned, we traveled, dined, and indulged at the spa together. More than that, during those years, Erin became my anchor. She's the one I called in the middle of the night when the man I thought I was going to marry walked out, and the one who made me laugh harder than anyone else, especially amid life's disappointments.

Yet, by our early 30s, we'd only ever let ourselves be so vulnerable with each other. While I often shared my frustrations with the strain of my career, I never talked about alternatives, especially one as drastic as quitting to camp and live out of a used car.

I worried that taking a different path would end our friendship

When I decided to quit and plunge toward a very different life, Erin wasn't the only person who questioned this choice, but she was the most important. Plus, now living off my savings, I could no longer afford many activities at the center of our friendship.

When Erin came to help pack up my apartment, she continued to express skepticism about my plan to live for a while without a plan. Thinking about the infinity symbol when we said goodbye, I wasn't sure we'd ever meet back at the center.

To my surprise, she showed up for me in unexpected ways

During the early days of my trip, Erin began asking for updates on how it was going, and I began sharing details. The first night I camped alone, I sent her a photo of my tent overlooking the Colorado River and confessed how scared I was, because despite my plans to spend a year camping, I'd never actually camped by myself before that night. She responded with the same enthusiasm and encouragement that had buoyed me for years.

These conversations continued over the months that followed. When poor planning on a trail run landed me in a stranger's car for the night, she was the one I called to recount the tale and laugh over my mistakes. And on her birthday, I sent her a celebratory photograph from a 14,000-foot peak. It wasn't that she still had questions about what, exactly, I was doing with my life; it was that, at some point, she let go of her hesitations and began trying to understand my motivations.

This culminated with her request to join me for a backpacking trip — something she'd never done. We spent two nights in Arizona's Superstition Mountains, where my ease in the wilderness clashed with her tentativeness. And though we had fun, when she questioned whether I understood how to read a map as we searched for a water source, I was sure I'd never do something like that with her again.

Of course, I did, many times over, because through the friction, this truth surfaced: We'd always been very different people, and now, we were just living in those differences. The challenge of that, and her willingness to embrace it, brought us closer than ever.

Over the years, as I became more honest about who I was, she, too, became more honest about who she was. A decade later, our lives still look very different, and still, Erin is my anchor.

• I'm in my 60s and I'm enjoying life more than I did in my 20s.
• At this point in my life, I'm more confident in my fashion choices and friendships.
• Plus, I've finally stopped questioning whether I'm where I'm "supposed to be" in life.

At 62, my life looks almost nothing like the one my 20-year-old self pictured. It's better.

Sure, I'm divorced and don't have grandchildren, but I have adult children I adore and friendships with decades of history. Plus, I'm doing something I never imagined: building a career on social media.

Every day, I talk to over 200,000 followers on TikTok and 135,000 on Instagram about hope, finding your purpose, and remembering that life doesn't have an expiration date.

At an age when many people are winding down, I seem to just be getting started. And I wouldn't change a thing.

I dress for myself, not my age

I've always loved fashion, from jeans and flip-flops to high heels and designer gowns. But these days, I have more confidence in my choices and a lot less interest in anyone else's opinion of them.

When I look at clothes, I don't see an age requirement. I see something I either love or don't.

Whether it's a bold print, an unexpected silhouette, or a statement piece, my decision on what to wear comes down to how it looks and feels on me, not how old I am. Fashion has always been a form of self-expression for me, and getting older hasn't changed that.

I don't think women should have to trade their sense of style for something more "age-appropriate" every time they celebrate another birthday.

Plus, my goal isn't to look 30. It's to make 30-year-olds excited to turn 60. After all, why would I want to turn back the clock? I've spent six decades learning who I am. I wouldn't trade that wisdom just to have younger-looking skin.

My friendships don't require me to be anyone but myself

One of the most beautiful parts of getting older is having friendships that have stood the test of time. There's something special about sitting across from someone who knows the chapters of your life you'd rather forget and realizing you have absolutely nothing to prove.

My friends and I have stood by one another through divorces, financial struggles, challenges with our children, and some of life's most difficult moments.

But we've also shared incredible joy, deepened our connections, and celebrated the love, wisdom, and experiences that make growing older such a gift.

In my 20s, I was still figuring out who I was. Now, there's no pressure to perform, impress, or constantly please the people closest to me.

We don't take everything personally, either. If someone is busy or life gets complicated, we understand. We know that a friendship isn't measured by how often you see each other.

That kind of freedom doesn't happen overnight. It's built through years of showing up, forgiving, laughing, and sometimes simply giving each other grace.

I've stopped questioning whether I'm where I'm supposed to be

When I was younger, I spent so much time wondering whether I was on the right path. I had a very specific picture of what my life should look like, and when things didn't go according to plan, I questioned myself.

At 62, I can look back and see that even the experiences I never would have chosen were my greatest gifts of all. Every path is the right path.

Loss taught me gratitude. Starting over taught me courage. Being told I wasn't enough taught me to recognize my own worth. And through it all, I've developed a resilience that allows me to face whatever life brings with confidence and hope.

And perhaps that's the biggest difference between 22 and 62: I know that my life is happening for me, not to me.

I spent so much of my younger years thinking about what my life would become. Now I'm actually living it, and I still have so much I want to do.

I know aging is inevitable. But spending decades dreading it isn't.

• I spent my 20s believing that working hard and making money were the keys to independence.
• I realized I was working so much that I had no time or energy to enjoy the life I was building.
• Years later, being an ambitious woman looks different to me. I work less and have time for myself.

I thought making a lot of money and working hard would make me happy.

In my early 20s, I got great grades and finished my undergrad in three years. By my mid-20s, I had finished my graduate degree in law while frequently working 70-hour weeks.

I leaned into the idea of being a girlboss, often working weekends or through my lunch, and focusing on making lots of money. It was a habit I saw modeled by my parents. It worked for them, and I thought it would work for me, until it didn't.

I thought hard work was the point

At 26, I worked long days at my home desk after making "hard worker" and "responsible'"my identity for years. I thought this was what an independent woman was: someone who worked constantly and optimized all of her time.

Sure, I was saving lots of money and networking, but I was often too tired on my day off to do anything. I often chose to work on Saturdays and didn't even have time to spend my hard-earned money.

Two things made me realize this wasn't a sustainable lifestyle: I once told a friend I couldn't take a 15-minute lunch break to call her, and another time I struggled to lift my full duffle bag for an upcoming trip after not working out for months.

Something had to give.

I didn't want to just recover from burnout

I was clearly burned out. I could have taken some time off to recover and come back, but then the cycle would have continued.

It helped that I spent my early 20s in Cameroon and Costa Rica, two places where work-life balance looks a lot different than it does in the US, and people live with their parents much longer. Looking back on those years when I was truly happy helped me to question what I was focusing on in my life.

I came to a new conclusion. I didn't want to simply recover after burning out. I wanted to reject the premise that burnout was the price of being an ambitious woman.

I stopped hustling toward anything

In 2022, as the COVID restrictions were lifted more and a relationship I had been in ended, I decided to travel while working a few hours per week. As a then single, childfree woman, no longer heading towards a career, I wondered what I'd replace these traditional markers of success with. The answer turned out to be nothing.

I stopped trying to hustle toward something. No job, boss, passion, or person was going to truly reward me for committing to 70-hour weeks. Nothing was worth putting off a breakfast date with myself or an unplanned walk in the park, or that 15-minute phone call I told my friend I couldn't take.

I decided to opt out of the competitive nature of the working world and instead focus on optimizing myself.

5 years later, my life looks different

Five years later, I have a life my 26-year-old self would barely recognize. I work substantially less, have built a career around writing and research for companies with values I admire, and have spent the past several years living and traveling in different countries.

I don't own a car or a home, and I'm not chasing a traditional career ladder. Instead of constantly asking what I should accomplish next, I have far more time for cooking, relationships, travel, and simply being alive.

One thing I did keep from that previous era of my life was my deep conviction that I, and all women, need to be financially independent. I have stopped suggesting that my friends work through their lunch break; instead, we talk about ethical investing and the need to always have one's own bank account.

Independence turned out to mean something else for me

The surprising part is that opting out didn't ruin my career, and I didn't feel the need to replace work with anything else. I don't think chasing a job title, a salary, or a full calendar would have made me feel secure.

I think I would have constantly felt the need to prove myself, which sounds exhausting to me now. Instead, I have the independence I sought when I was younger. It just took the form of letting go of the idea that I have to constantly prove my worth to myself.

A photo exhibition brings alive the power of the dissenting multitude during the Civil Disobedience Movement against colonial rule in 1930s Bombay.

A shattered grin, a wornout crown, a discolored incisor. How do our broken pieces define us? For The American Scholar, Joshua Bodwell offers a brief autobiography in dental work, examining the ways in which a broken tooth and a handful of interventions shaped his self-perception over decades. He also chews over (sorry) a select literary history of teeth, from Chaucer to Raymond Carver, and seems to ask virtually everyone in his life about their own smiles. His essay is an engaging study of imperfection, of a type many folks live with but might easily hide.

I left my chipped tooth untouched for a long time. It continued to discolor. I suppose I accepted it. Maybe it did make me look, as my friend suggested, tough. At the very least, it gave me an air of wildness. Or maybe it was because I was without dental insurance and acceptance was the easiest path. For long periods, I forgot about my tooth entirely. Until, of course, I met someone new who would ask, assuming it was recent, “What happened to your tooth!?” With that I went tight-lipped.

Then a surprising thing began to happen. As I got older, became a father, moved into a more demanding career, I found that I thought about my tooth less and less. At least, I think I did. I mean, I must have: There are photos of me with friends from this period, laughing without reserve, my half fake tooth on full display. A strange thing was happening to my unchipped front tooth, too: It began to seem more perfect than it actually was simply because it shared the stage with a chipped partner.

Count the verbs in Alexander Chee’s essay, note the absence of emotional language, and then thank Annie Dillard for her part. Chee, an essayist and fiction writer, revisits his undergraduate writing workshop with Dillard, the distinguished, Pulitzer Prize-winning nonfiction writer who died last week at 81. Chee’s account of their semester together is an affectionate portrait that doubles as a brisk craft talk; in it, he puts Dillard’s lessons through their paces, a fitting tribute to the teacher who borrowed cigarette drags from her students, chewed through caramel candies during class, and nurtured his own artistic evolution with her rules and exercises.

Narrative writing sets down details in an order that evokes the writer’s experience for the reader, she announced. This seemed obvious but also radical—no one had ever said it so plainly to us. She spoke often of “the job.” If you’re doing your job, the reader feels what you felt. You don’t have to tell the reader how to feel. No one likes to be told how to feel about something. And if you doubt that, just go ahead. Try and tell someone how to feel.

. . .

One afternoon, at her direction, we brought in our pages, scissors and tape, and told to bring several drafts of an essay, one that we struggled with over many versions.

Now cut out only the best sentences, she said. And tape them on a blank page. And then when you have that, write in around them, she said. Fill in what’s missing and make it reach for the best of what you’ve written thus far.