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

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

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

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

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

We took the scenic route to college

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

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

We made so many memories together

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

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

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

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

The road trip made me less sad to see her go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real adulthood happened

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

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

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

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

The tone of our WhatsApp group changed immediately

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

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

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

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

Then, the group chat blew up with more surprises

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

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

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

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

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

• Jen Podany raised her three children in a busy Los Angeles neighborhood where traffic limited their independence.
• After moving to a small Arizona town, her kids can ride bikes and play with neighborhood friends.
• She says their new lifestyle reminds her of the freedom children had growing up in the 1980s.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jen Podany, founder of Bluestone Sunshields. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Near the end of 2024, my family of five had once again escaped Los Angeles for the quiet we found 10 hours south in Snowflake, Arizona.

We'd been doing it for years, renting an Airbnb in Snowflake, a town of 6,000 in the middle of nowhere, switching off amid the miles of empty land.

It had started as a stopover on our way to visit my husband's family in New Mexico. We fell in love with the town, and from then on, we'd visit whenever we needed to get away from the busyness of LA.

In Snowflake, we felt like we could catch our breath. Our souls calmed each time we arrived and ached to stay each time we left.

We put an offer on a house

Back in LA, specifically Burbank, the five of us — my husband and our three children, whom we homeschooled — lived in a duplex made up of two connected apartments. We lived in one of them, which had two bedrooms and one bathroom. From the other apartment, my husband and I ran our two separate businesses.

The duplex was in a neighborhood near a busy street, and we had to be cautious about letting the kids go outside to play because of the cars. I was always holding someone's little hand when we were out, just in case. You could hear planes flying back and forth into Burbank Airport. As our kids and businesses grew, we felt increasingly confined.

Then we saw a house on the market in Snowflake, and I felt in my bones that we should put in an offer.

It was a four-bedroom house surrounded by land, chickens, cows, and a crazy turkey. We could buy it and have our own place to stay when visiting, rather than always renting an Airbnb.

We bought the house for about $500,000, and on our first visit to stay in it in January 2025, none of us wanted to go back to Burbank.

We knew then that we'd make Snowflake our home. And so we did.

We moved from Los Angeles to a town of 6,000 people

In so many ways, our life looks exactly like life in LA. Our routines have remained the same. Every morning, just like in LA, we start our day at a coffee shop. Except in Snowflake, there's only one place to go instead of 20 choices. We work, we homeschool, we eat our meals, and we go to sleep — just like we did in LA.

But by transplanting our lives to a quiet town, we all feel calmer and more peaceful.

Personally, my nervous system has regulated. In LA, I felt like the world was constantly coming at me, like I was being bombarded and reacting to everything around me. Here, I feel like I'm in the driver's seat, with a clear head.

Not only has it been good for my well-being, but it's also been good for my business. The move has given me the mental space to think bigger. It's led to greater creativity, paving the way for business growth.

My kids have an 80s childhood

My kids love Snowflake, too. I didn't have to convince them about the move.

They have the freedom to be out of the house without worrying about cars and crime. Just a bike ride away are other kids with whom they are often found playing.

I think kids grow up quickly in cities, and living here, I feel like my kids get to just be kids. It's like going back to being a kid in the '80s, and I love that for them.

The house is bigger, so we aren't living on top of each other, but they've also got endless outdoor space to explore.

Even though I lived in LA for 20 years, we never experienced friendship and community as we have in just over a year in Snowflake.

We can't leave the house without seeing someone who wants to stop and talk. Everyone here is on "mountain time" — slowing down. No one is rushing around, head down, looking at their phones, too hurried to have a conversation.

Everyone is present and friendly.

My husband and I still occasionally have to go to LA for work, and each time we come back home to Snowflake, I take a deep breath and know we made the right decision to relocate our family.

• My fiancé and I have been together for four years and have never had a joint bank account.
• We're transparent about our incomes, savings, and spending, and we've never had a fight about money.
• We plan to pay for our wedding together, but we won't combine our finances after we get married.

My parents have a shared bank account and kept all their large purchases in both their names, so I thought sharing an account would be my financial destiny, too, if I ever got married. I didn't question it until recently. Now, my partner and I are getting married in just a few months, and we don't plan to combine our finances.

After four years together, we've never had any accounts or cards in both of our names. The closest we ever got to that was me using his credit card on a payment app when we were in Vietnam because mine didn't work. We both contribute to rent and household expenses. We pay back the other person our half of large purchases like flights and hotels, but we don't keep a tab of who owes who what (a nice change from my previous romantic relationships).

We've always been open about money

We were upfront about our income, debt (or lack thereof), and our mutual desire to live below our means from day one. After about three years of dating, we told each other how much we have in savings. We continue to be transparent about money and agree on the vast majority of each other's purchases — it helps that we're both very frugal.

We've built up trust over the years, and we'll continue to offer up personal financial information when we want to, knowing we have privacy. Neither of us has the login information for the other's bank, but we know we can always ask how much the other is earning or spending.

I thought the next step was a shared bank account with two credit cards — I assumed that's what love and commitment meant in an economic way. We kept asking ourselves how having both our names on one account would improve our lives, and we kept coming up blank. I also didn't want to waste time filling out paperwork or calling my bank for something I wasn't even interested in.

Our system works for us

We've lived together for almost four years and never had a fight about money. I have some financial anxiety, and I think having a shared account might actually make that worse. Since my fiancée makes more and pays for more, I regularly check in to see if he's still OK with that.

We approached our wedding, our first big purchase together, the same way we plan travel — with Excel, conversations, and making sure we stay under budget to cover unexpected costs. My fiancée bought our rings, and I bought our flights (we're getting married in Denmark). We both agreed to contribute the same amount of money to the wedding. Every payment we make for the big day goes into a spreadsheet, and at the end of all our purchases, if one of us has spent significantly more, the other will make the next large purchase.

Keeping our financial stressors low is also made easier by the fact that we won't plan to have kids or pets, or make any large purchases like a house or a car. Taking care of our parents is the only thing that might one day impact how we view our financial setup.

Another thing we agreed on from the start was that we wanted a pre-nup. Not sharing a bank account and having a pre-nup might not sound romantic (or like we can't share) to some, but if anyone were to look at our purchases, they'd immediately see we do spend our money on each other—just with separate accounts intact.

We haven't fought about money, and I'd like to keep it that way

I know I'm going into a marriage with dignity and respect. My future husband won't get a notification if I spend over $100, he won't be able to review a bank statement at the end of the month to see how many ice creams I've treated myself to, and we won't know how much the other person spent on a Christmas present. We'll never have to ask the other person if we can spend money or fear that our separate emergency funds will be depleted by the other.

My parents shared a bank account, and they often fought over money — one thing I promised myself I'd never do with my future spouse. Keeping our finances separate has worked so far, and I believe it'll continue to after we're married. We're both open to changing our minds one day, but until we have a good reason, we're very happy having separate accounts, together.

• When my husband and I got married, we had to decide where to live.
• My son and I ended up moving into his 2-bedroom home.
• There are a few pros, but we didn't consider how much we'd miss having a guest room.

When my husband and I got married, we each had our own homes. I had a one-story, 3-bedroom home, while my husband had a 2-story, two-bedroom townhome. At first, we compared the pros and cons of each house. For instance, my house had a large yard, which can be a perk size-wise, but lawn maintenance was a chore.

While my husband was willing to move, we ultimately chose his house, mainly because it was so close to his job. I knew from experience what a blessing an easy commute is, and I didn't want him to have to give it up, so we decided to consolidate. My son and I moved from our 3-bedroom home to my husband's 2-bedroom townhouse.

I was giddy when we got married, and thinking more about moving in together and planning our wedding than the long-term realities of living in a smaller home.

The lack of an extra bedroom was an issue we didn't foresee

My son and I still occasionally miss our old home, but I don't regret selling my home and moving in with my husband. The worst part of downsizing has been no longer having a guest room.

I mainly used the third room in my house as an office, but the bedrooms at my husband's house were large enough that there would be room for an office in ours. And my son would still have his own bedroom, so we didn't realize how much we'd miss the extra bedroom until it was too late.

It's nearly impossible for us to have anyone spend the night or a weekend with us

I'd mostly thought of the extra room as my office, and didn't consider that we also used it as a guest room. Now, without it, it's difficult to have anyone over for the night. We have a few options, but none of them are appealing to anyone, including our potential guests.

When I had my own home, it was so easy to have friends visit for the weekend, because I could offer them a room. Having space for guests is a privilege I didn't realize I'd miss. I can still offer the chance to stay, but when someone takes us up on it, my husband and I feel kind of awful the whole time.

We've had guests overnight and offered them the couch pullout or the air mattress. But despite our best efforts, everyone feels a little awkward because our guests have no privacy without an actual room of their own.

Sometimes, we've thought of offering our bedrooms — or at least one of them — while my son would get displaced to the living room on an air mattress. He honestly loves doing that anyway, because he thinks it's like a sleepover, but the problem comes in the morning.

Our downstairs space is pretty much just the living room and kitchen, so when someone comes downstairs in the morning, whoever's sleeping on the giant air mattress — whether our guests or my son — will inevitably be woken up.

In our next home, having an extra bedroom will be a requirement

My husband and I both miss having guests, as he could also have more guests over before my son and I moved in. We don't like that we don't feel we can offer loved ones a place to stay, or that when we do, the best we can offer them is an air mattress or my 12-year-old's bedroom.

In addition to wanting to have more company over, my husband and I have aging parents. We don't want to find ourselves in a situation where one of them needs living assistance, and we don't have the space.

There are a few things we want in a forever home, like a more spacious kitchen, of course, and a giant garden in the back, but having a guest room again is at the top of our list.

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

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

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

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

I didn't choose to fight cancer

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

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

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

I'm over the pinkwashing of breast cancer

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

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

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

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

Finishing treatment doesn't mean everything's over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our home feels different now

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

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

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

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

The trouble with together-time all the time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're creating a new rhythm

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

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

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

We're embracing new opportunities to grow together

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

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

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

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

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

• Kiley Pulley became Walmart's youngest US store manager at 21, starting as a cashier at 16.
• Her former store manager helped her through her succession plan and interviews.
• Pulley emphasizes learning daily and adapting for career growth.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Kiley Pulley, a 23-year-old Walmart store manager in Buckeye, Arizona. It has been edited for length and clarity.

In 2019, when I was 16 years old, I started working at Walmart as a part-time cashier. I wanted my own money, and figured, why not just get a job?

My sister and my mom were already working there, and it was also right down the street from my high school. It was easy for me to get out of school and walk to work.

Over the next few years, I moved through different roles, from cashier to stocker to online fulfillment. Then, when I turned 18, I became an academy trainer, and six months later, a digital team lead.

When I became a team lead in mid 2021, it hit me that I wanted to stay at Walmart full time and make it my actual career. At 19, I became an operations manager, and right before I turned 22, I became the youngest store manager at Walmart in the US.

People ask me, "How did you do it?" My answer is to show up and learn something new every day. Here are six things I've learned along the way.

I realized I could help people by hiring them

Originally, I wanted to start either my own nonprofit or my own business and help out the homeless population; then I realized that I could do all that through Walmart.

I could make a difference through the people that I hire and the impact that I have on my associates at the store.

When I became a team lead, I was making good money, and I also really liked it. I started actively working toward becoming a store manager. I got on succession plans and was on monthly calls with our market manager. When I became an operations manager, I led multiple projects in our market to get myself ready to become a store manager.

I'd also ask to cover for store managers when they'd take off work; that way I could gain additional experience that was needed to be promoted. I remember thinking, I'm going to be a store manager at 21. I'll be the youngest in the company.

I had to learn that my words carried more weight

As an associate, I was friends with everybody. I could joke around with everyone. When I became salaried, everything changed.

One of the biggest learning points for me has been the way I talk and how to engage with people from different cultures. Changing my tone and limiting the joking and playful attitude felt necessary as a leader in the building.

At the time, setting new boundaries for myself made me feel more confident in my new role and even now in my current role.

I was a little nervous when I first went into a salaried position. People said I might have issues managing those older than me, but I've never had problems with my team not respecting or listening to me.

I also made my social media profiles private. I think connecting on social media can make it harder to separate between being someone's manager and being their friend.

I had to learn how to delegate

Getting out of the "if I want it done the right way, I'll do it myself" mindset was a big learning. I realized not everyone's going to know everything that I know, and if I really want to delegate and get tasks done, I'm going to have to teach and train.

A big part of being an academy trainer and team lead is training your associates. Once you get to operations manager, you kind of have to step back and expect your team leads and academy trainers to do that same thing.

I had to learn that if I delegated, things could get done faster or more efficiently.

I had to learn to be a servant leader

When it comes to my associates, if they need something, whether that's ordering the supplies or putting in tickets for them, I want to do that. I want to advocate for them.

I know it makes them more productive, but they'll probably be happier coming to work, too.

Also, everyone likes the appreciation of, "Hey, thank you for doing this today," or "Thank you for going above and beyond on this."

I had to learn to have work-life balance

When I first became salaried, I was always on the clock. I stopped going to the gym, and I sacrificed some time with my fiancé and family. I'd stay at work and say, "They need me."

It was my fault; the team didn't need me that badly. Now, I'm doing better. When I get home, I'm not spending the whole day looking at metrics or constantly texting my team. I've gone back to the gym.

I learned to take a step back and trust my leaders to do what they need to do. I trust that they know what they're doing.

I think there's always going to be some event you could miss out on. That can be hard to juggle sometimes, but I'm lucky enough to have a fiancé who's also career-focused and driven, so we kind of use each other as motivation.

I realized I could build a career without giving up on school

I went to college for business and ended up dropping out when I got my salaried position. I told myself that I'd get back into college when I got my first store.

My old store manager was the one who promoted me through all of the hourly supervisor roles. She even prepped me for my first salaried role. She sat in the office reading interview questions with me. Every time I'd say the word, 'um,' she'd say, "Nope, restart."

She was constantly there for me, and even still having her as someone to go to has been great. My market manager has also known me since before I started promoting. Every time I think I'm too young to be in this room, he's always in my corner.

I'm now enrolled in Live Better U, a program where Walmart pays for certain bachelor's degrees. I'm getting some of my foundational courses, and then I plan to get my college degree.

Keep pushing to learn more

For teenagers starting out, I encourage them to do a good job and learn as much as they can.

Companies are constantly changing, especially with technology. It's important to adapt and not be comfortable with what you already know.

When I look at my future at Walmart, I told myself I'd get to market manager at 27 or 28 — that's my short-term goal. Then, long-term, my goal would be regional EVP.

One thing I always remind myself is that I worked hard to get to this life, so I can't be upset now that I have it. Maybe we don't have time to do all the fun things right now, but if we work hard through our 20s, thinking about where we might end up when we're 30 or 40 keeps me motivated.