“We used to build civilizations. Now we build shopping malls.” ― Bill Bryson

I have lived near this mall for close to fifteen years, and in that time, I have seen more changes than I can count. I watched New York & Company close its doors. I watched Kate Spade open. Last Call by Neiman Marcus is gone. Saks is on its way out. Off Broadway Shoes got bought out by Rack Room. New names keep appearing on old storefronts, and familiar logos disappear without much notice.

And yet I keep coming back. Every single time.

I grew up moving around more than most. My middle school years were spent in the Midwest, high school took me to the Northeast, and by college I had settled into the mid-Atlantic. Different regions, different towns; however, one thing stayed exactly the same no matter where I landed: themall was the center of everything.

It was not just a place to shop. It was the place, full stop.

My best friend would pick me up, and we would head straight to the movies.She pulled into the driveway, I got in the car, and off we went. My sister and I did the same, and we wandered the mall before and after the show the way you do when you have nowhere you need to be and all the time in the world.

The energy of those crowds is something I still think about. The noise, the movement, the feeling of being part of something bigger than just an errand.

And the stores. If you were a young woman shopping in the late 80s and early 90s, you know exactly what I mean when I say The Limited, Lerner, and Express were everything. Finding something at The Limited felt like a real find. Lerner was where you went when you wanted to look put together on a budget. Express was for when you wanted to feel a little more grown-up than you actually were.

When you needed something special, however, that is when you went to Casual Corner or Petite Sophisticate. I bought my high school graduation dress at Petite Sophisticate. Those stores felt different the moment you walked in, a step up from everyday. The kind of pieces you saved for and felt genuinely good wearing. They understood that a woman wanted to look refined without trying too hard.

For everyday shopping, there were Hecht’s and Montgomery Ward. Those were the stores you went to for everything else, the practical trips, the household runs, the back-to-school hauls. Hecht’s closed for good in 2006 when it was absorbed into Macy’s. Montgomery Ward shut its doors in 2001 after more than a century in business. Losing both of them felt like losing something solid, something you had always assumed would simply be there.

Life moved forward, and so did I. By the late 1990s, I had settled in New England with a young son who was just discovering the world. That is when the mall became something else entirely. When he was two or three, I would take him to ride the giant carousel in the food court, that big bright spinning thing that he could have ridden a hundred times without ever getting tired ofit.

We would stop at the pet store after, not to buy anything, just to look. He loved the dogs, the cats, the birds, pressing his little face close to the glass to see them. Those were simple afternoons, and I have never forgotten them.The kind of hours you do not think to hold onto until they are already gone.

The food court in those years meant Sbarro and Cosimo’s pizza, a soda, and a chocolate chip cookie from Mrs. Fields or the White Chip Cookie Company. It was not fancy, but it was exactly right.

We moved to Europe not long before my daughter was born. A few years there, a whole different world of shopping. The stores I knew were mostly gone, replaced by names I had to learn from scratch. It did not matter much, however. You still wandered, you still window shopped, you still ended up somewhere, grabbing a bite with the kids. It had its own rhythm, and wefigured it out.

She was just a baby when we packed up again and headed to Asia. The malls there were a whole other thing. Massive, spotless food courts that went on forever with options from everywhere you could imagine. My son thought it was the greatest place on earth, and he was not wrong. Different from anything we had known, yes, however, that was fine. We were used to different by then. Saturday afternoons at the mall looked a little different, however, they still felt the same.

We eventually made our way back stateside, and those were the years of Gymboree, The Children’s Place, and Hanna Andersson. I would go on my own, take my time, pick out things for my daughter the way you do when the girls’ section stops you cold with how lovely it all is. Gymboree closed all its stores in 2019. Hanna Andersson shuttered its locations that same year and moved entirely online. The Children’s Place is still around; however, it has closed hundreds of stores since the pandemic. Another generation of beloved stores, gone.

Throughout all of those years, my parents were never far from a mall, either.When they came to visit, it was always on the agenda. My mom could spend an hour in Lord & Taylor alone, studying every rack, knowing exactly what was in style before any of us caught on. My dad was not much of a shopper. But he loved the walk, moving through the mall like he had somewhere important to be, logging his steps between anchor stores, perfectly content.

My parents were heartbroken when the malls near them eventually closed down and only big box stores were left. It was not about the shopping. It was about losing a place that felt like somewhere. That distinction mattered to them, and I understood it completely.

Life moved us again, and for the past fifteen years, I have called the South home. Our mall here is the one I know best now, the one I have watched change season after season. The pandemic sent me online, and I tried to make it work. I ordered more than I care to think about, and almost none of it was right. The colors were off, the sizing made no sense, and I spent more time on returns than anything else.

There is no substitute for putting something on and seeing it in real light. No website has ever been able to give me that.

When our mall came back after the renovation, I was genuinely relieved. I had worried about it the way you worry about something you care aboutmore than you realized. The new floors, the better lighting, the expandeddining. I felt something settle when I walked back in. They had made it worth coming back to.

And I do come back. Sometimes I go alone, at my own pace, no agenda, no rush. Sometimes my daughter comes with me, and we shop together, stop for coffee, sit down for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory or the food court, and talk the way you talk when you are not staring at a screen. Those afternoons with her are some of my favorite hours. The mall gave us that too.

Our mall has a walking club that meets in the early morning before the stores open. Couples, retirees, people getting their steps in, parents with strollers. There is something wonderful about it. The mall gave those people somewhere to be, and that is not a small thing.

The retail world has changed, and it is not changing back. Younger generations grew up online, and they shop online, and that is simply how it is. Every generation finds its own way. I hope the mall does not disappear entirely, however. The ones that are making it work are doing so by becoming more than stores. Better restaurants, entertainment, and reasons to show up that have nothing to do with buying anything. They are becoming destinations again, and that feels right, because the mall was always about more than what you put in your shopping bag.

It was about showing up. Being somewhere. Belonging to something familiar.

I still feel that every time I walk through those doors.

Do you still shop at your local mall, or have you moved on to online shopping? Did a mall play a big part in your childhood?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” — New England proverb, popularized during WWII rationing

I have a pet peeve that I honestly cannot shake. When a barista at a coffee shop makes a drink and something goes wrong, they throw the whole thing away. Wrong milk, wrong syrup, it does not matter. Into the trash it goes, even when the customer is standing right there and would have happily taken it. It drives me crazy every single time.

Waste has never sat well with me. I cannot pinpoint exactly where it came from — it has just always been part of who I am. Some people are wired to accumulate. I have always been wired to pass things on.

Clothes I no longer wear go to Goodwill. My old eyeglasses are donated to Lions Club, where they get cleaned up and sent to people who need them. Those little hotel toiletries that pile up in a drawer? I collect them and bring them to women’s shelters and veterans’ organizations, where they are always put to good use.

My housekeepers have also benefited from miscellaneous items around the house that I know I will never use again. If it still works and someone can use it, it leaves with a purpose.

Halloween costumes are another one. My son and daughters would wear them once for the party or trick or treating, and that would be it. Rather than letting them sit in a box, they went straight to my younger niece and nephew who were always thrilled to get them. My daughters’ party outfits followed the same path. Why let something perfectly good collect dust when someone younger in the family would love it?

One of my most treasured memories came from our three years living in Japan. As my kids grew out of their clothes, I would donate them to a nearby orphanage. One afternoon we were walking past and I stopped in my tracks. Some of the children were outside wearing the very clothes we had dropped off. It is hard to put into words exactly how that felt — warm and grateful does not quite cover it. It was one of those moments that reminds you why these small habits matter.

I have been a minimalist my whole life, long before it became a trend.Shopping has never brought me much joy. I am more of a browser than a buyer. I have always derived more joy from giving than from receiving — and I think that shapes everything about the way I live.

I learned early on that happiness does not come from acquiring things. It comes from experiences, from people, and from knowing that what you no longer need is making someone else’s day a little better. I only buy what I need, and I never hold onto more than serves a purpose.

This minimalist philosophy extends to gifts, too. When people ask what we want for birthdays or holidays, the answer is almost always nothing, or something consumable. Flowers, chocolates, wine, a gift card. Things that bring a moment of joy and leave no clutter behind.

And when it comes to giving, I do the same. Those are my go-to gifts for others as well, because to me they are the most thoughtful kind. They are generous without adding to the pile, and when they are gone, the memory of them is enough.

It really does not take much. It is just a pause before you toss something, a quick thought about whether someone else could use it. Most of the time, they can. And that one small step makes all the difference.

Do you have your own ways of making sure things don’t go to waste? Clothes, food, everyday items — whatever your habit is, share it in the comments. I am always looking for new ideas.

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

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“Traveling is not always a question of money, but of courage.”— Paulo Coelho

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One thing my husband and I enjoy doing whenever we travel is visiting local grocery stores and pharmacies. It probably sounds odd, but after seeing enough museums, churches, and historic sites over the years, I often find myself just as interested in how ordinary people live.

We recently returned from Portugal, and as usual we found ourselves wandering through supermarkets, pharmacies, bakeries, and coffee shops. The pharmacies reminded me of France, where medication is sold primarily through pharmacies rather than grocery stores as it often is in the United States. Small observations like that tell you a lot about a country.

Portugal also felt familiar for more personal reasons. I spent five years of my childhood living in Brazil and spoke Portuguese fluently at the time. As we walked through Lisbon, I occasionally caught glimpses of South America in the building facades, balconies, colorful tiles, and even in the language drifting through the streets. Every now and then a memory would surface from decades ago.

At street level, Lisbon felt alive. Sidewalk cafés were packed with people talking over coffee and wine. Restaurant hosts stood outside holding menus and trying to entice tourists inside. Shopkeepers lingered in doorways watching the crowds pass by. Between the tourists, tuk-tuks, outdoor dining, street musicians, and endless activity, there were moments when I honestly did not know where to look.

Yet there was another side to the experience.

As much as I enjoy travel, I sometimes find myself noticing how similar many places have become.Starbucks was there. McDonald’s was there. Burger King was there. People sat at café tables wearing earbuds and staring at laptops. Everyone seemed to be carrying the same phones and wearing similar clothes.

Years ago, travel often felt more exotic. Today the world feels smaller.

Even Starbucks felt familiar, though I will admit Portugal’s Starbucks offered far more sandwich choices than the ones back home. The baguette sandwiches reminded me of our years living in Paris. In some ways I felt as though I was seeing pieces of Brazil, France, Portugal, and the United States all at once.

As I have gotten older and traveled more, I find myself paying less attention to major attractions and more attention to everyday life. I watch how people spend their afternoons. I notice what is in grocery stores. I look at apartment buildings and neighborhood parks. Those details often tell me more about a place than its famous landmarks.

Sometimes I wonder if globalization has made travel less distinctive than it once was. The world can seem surprisingly familiar.

Then something happens to change my mind.

It might be standing on a hilltop in Lisbon looking out over the terracotta rooftops. It might be walking through a centuries-old castle in Sintra. It might be hearing Portuguese spoken around me and remembering a language I once knew well. Those moments remind me that places still have their own personalities.

There is also something satisfying about seeing a landmark or historic site on television and being able to say, “I’ve been there.” Whenever a destination I have visited appears in a movie, television program, or documentary, I immediately pay closer attention. The world suddenly feels smaller and more connected. Places that once seemed distant become part of my own story.

Perhaps that is why I continue to travel.

The world may be becoming more alike in some ways, but it is not becoming identical. The similarities make travel easier. The differences make it worthwhile.

And sometimes those differences are found not in the famous landmarks, but in a bakery, a neighborhood pharmacy, a crowded sidewalk café, or a memory that unexpectedly returns while walking down a street thousands of miles from home.

Have you found that the world feels more familiar when you travel today than it did years ago? What small details about a destination stay with you long after you return home?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

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“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”
― Will Durant, The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the World’s

I was scrolling Instagram late one night when a reel brought me to a full stop.

A young mother had spread her bedroom floor with outfits for her three daughters — tops, bottoms, shoes, small accessories arranged in careful rows. One by one the girls came in and made their choices, mixing pieces together, adding their own flourishes. Every decision was met with enormous, theatrical applause, as though something genuinely momentous had just unfolded.

It was sweet. It also stayed with me, because those girls were far too young to be worrying about how they styled an outfit.

Nobody taught me to style an outfit as a child. The subject simply did not arise.

We had no money for that kind of thing, but even setting material constraints aside, there were just other preoccupations. Library books with cracked spines and that faintly musty smell you could never quite place.Swimming lessons where the chlorine stayed in your hair all afternoon regardless of how many times you rinsed it.

Saturday mornings watching cartoons with my siblings, the day entirely unscheduled and nobody pressing us to account for it. Ordinary, unhurried time that no one thought to photograph or turn into a moment.

I loved those hours without knowing it. You never do, at the time.

My mother had opinions about appearances — strong ones, delivered with confidence. But it was one facet of life, not the organizing principle of it.

I did not fully appreciate how healthy that proportion was until I had a daughter of my own.

Honesty compels me to admit there were afternoons I would have welcomed more of that kind of attention growing up: the fussing, the being made to feel polished and set apart. The appeal is not lost on me.

But there is a real difference between a treat and a way of living, and that difference carries weight.

There used to be places called Glamour Shots — studios where ordinary people could have their hair and makeup done, borrow elaborate outfits, pose for photographs under flattering lights.

You went once, perhaps twice. It was an occasion, something that lodged in the memory.

Now a version of that ceremony is available every day, from one’s own bedroom, and a great many people take advantage of it. Whether we have fully come to terms with what that changes is another matter.

There was a reel where a mother had taken her eleven-year-old for eyebrow waxing and a manicure. The girl seemed content enough.

But I kept returning to the question of whether she would have cared as much without a camera present — whether her enjoyment was genuinely her own, or whether it was inextricably tangled up in being watched enjoying it.

That is probably an uncharitable question. I cannot answer it even about myself with any confidence.

Then there was a mother taking her three-year-old for a manicure. A child of three. The little girl appeared pleased, and perhaps she was, but there is a brightness children produce when they sense they are performing well for someone, and it is not quite the same thing as being genuinely delighted.

The distinction is difficult to articulate. It is nonetheless real.

The account that gave me the longest pause belonged to an influencer with two sets of twins, now expecting another. Beautiful woman, warm-looking content on the surface — bath times, hot chocolate, evenings that telegraphed coziness and abundance.

You might have taken it for an unguarded glimpse into an ordinary family.

But the children. They already know how to pose. They know what to say and precisely when to say it. When a brand needs showcasing, they tap the packaging on cue.

These are small children, and they have already absorbed their role in the production. Nobody, as far as one can tell, asked them whether they wanted one.

I do not say that to be unkind. I understand that content creation has become a livelihood for whole families, and I understand the pull of it.

But those children will be grown one day, and I do wonder what conclusions they will eventually draw about their early years — whether they will feel something was taken from them, or whether they will find my concern entirely misplaced.

I did my own smaller version of this. Mother-daughter manicures, spa birthday parties when my daughter was young. She relished the fuss, and I relished making her feel special.

But her real formation was happening elsewhere. She read compulsively, wrote constantly, entered every literary competition she could find. By secondary school she was editing her own literary journal.

Those years of absorption in something that had nothing to do with her reflection in a mirror — that is what actually built her.

She is twenty-three now and more than fine. But I think often about the girls growing up today who are stepping into all of this considerably earlier.

Beauty appointments at eleven. Carefully arranged photographs. Comment sections telling them they are gorgeous before they have formed any considered view of themselves.

None of it is necessarily harmful, and I am aware I risk sounding like every older generation that has ever worried about the one coming behind.

Even so.

They have decades ahead in which to cultivate being stylish, polished, camera-ready. Childhood is — or it ought to be — the portion of life where evaluation is suspended. Where you are permitted to be interested in things, incompetent at things, bored, inventive, private. Where you can work out who you are without an audience in attendance while you do it.

My sincere hope is that enough of that kind of time remains available to them.

They will have ample years to be presentable. They have only a brief window in which to simply be young.

Did you grow up with much fuss made over appearances, and do you believe it served you? If you are raising girls now, how do you navigate it? And what do you make of children who have learned to perform for a camera before they have learned much else?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“It takes many good deeds to build a good reputation, and only one bad one to lose it.” ― Benjamin Franklin

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I penned several pieces about referrals recently. These days, they seem almost unavoidable if you want a job. Forbes points out that referrals help candidates move through crowded hiring processes, and the data backs this up: a study by Zippia found that referred candidates are four times more likely to be hired than those who apply through traditional channels.

Even so, giving a referral is rarely a simple yes-or-no decision.

Sowmya (not her real name), one of my daughter’s friends who works at the Federal Reserve Bank, is careful about giving referrals. She wants to help others, but she carries her father’s experience with her.

Many years ago, Sowmya’s father referred someone who performed so well in the same role that, soon after, he lost his own job. I remember her telling my daughter about this and reflecting on how deeply that moment stayed with her. She learned that even a well-meaning choice can have consequences.

Like many in Gen Z, Sowmya knows job security isn’t guaranteed. Reputation is something you build slowly. For her, giving a referral is more than a favor; it’s an act of trust. One wrong move can ripple outward in ways you don’t expect. Small actions can matter a great deal.

My daughter was surprised by Sowmya’s caution. At first, it seemed unkind.

My daughter has a background in finance, where referrals are common and sometimes even come with bonuses. One of my son’s friends recently received thirty thousand dollars simply for recommending someone at Citadel and writing a short note. That’s just how it works in some circles.

My son, who has a background in computer science, takes a different view. He steps in whenever he can and doesn’t worry much about what might go wrong. He focuses on helping the other person move forward, and I feel proud of him for always looking for ways to help, in one form or another.Watching him act this way makes me admire him, even as I understand Sowmya’s caution.

My brother, a lawyer, approaches referrals differently still. For him, it’s about judgment. Not every request deserves a yes — especially if you haven’t worked closely with the person or can’t truly vouch for their work.Sometimes helping means pointing someone to a person who can speak with more confidence on their behalf. Saying no in the right way isn’t unkind; it’s responsible.

Referrals have mattered to me, too. I didn’t get every opportunity through connections, but a few internships came because someone recommended me.

Back then, there were no online portals, tracking systems, or bonuses. People would simply say, “I know a place that might take you,” or, “Let me introduce you.”

I remember walking into that first office, nervous and grateful, knowing someone had vouched for me. Those small acts opened doors I might never have discovered on my own. They showed me that someone believed in me, and I’ve tried to carry that forward ever since.

My husband and I do the same now. Over time, we’ve met people through work, community events, and our children’s circles. Slowly, you realize that everyone you know knows someone else.

We don’t call it “networking.” It’s about trust. When someone asks for help, we try to connect them with the right person. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. We try anyway, because we remember what it was like to be young, uncertain, and deeply grateful for someone who helped us.

Growing up without LinkedIn profiles or algorithm-driven suggestions, trust had to be earned. We showed up, shared experiences, and supported one another.

Helping now is about honoring that.

I understand why people hesitate. Referrals may seem small, but they carry weight. They can help someone get back on their feet — or, in rare cases, have unintended consequences. That responsibility deserves attention.

Now, when someone asks for help, I pause. I think about more than whether I can say yes. I think about who I want to be in that moment.

Do I hold back, or do I step forward — especially when the cost is small, but the benefit could be meaningful? Giving a referral isn’t just about opportunity. It’s about trust, courage, and remembering the kindnesses that once lifted you forward.

When someone asks you for a referral, what do you consider before deciding whether to say yes?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“Technology is best when it brings people together.” — Matt Mullenweg

In 2017, I tried to make a doctor’s appointment for my daughter, and it quickly became one of the most frustrating errands I have ever had. There was no one to talk to. No receptionist, no nurse, no familiar voice. Just an automated phone system and a website. I kept calling, hanging up, trying again, and always ended up in the same loop of recorded prompts. I sighed more times than I can count. By the time I finally got through, I still could not book the appointment until I filled out a new-patient form online.

What should have taken five minutes stretched into something much longer.I remember wondering out loud, to no one in particular, how this office even manages to get patients if making an appointment is this complicated.

That day, I realized something that has stayed with me. The personal side of medicine is disappearing. There was a time when calling your doctor meant speaking to someone who knew you. A receptionist might recognize your voice. A nurse might answer a question or offer reassurance. Now it is all menus, forms, and screens. That warmth, those small human touches, are gone.

It is everywhere now. At most offices, patients are handed an iPad at check-in and expected to complete their information. I can manage it. I do manage it. However, watching older adults try it, you can see how much harder it is. A few months ago, I went with my mother to her doctor while visiting her in town. Normally my brother or sister would accompany her. They live nearby, however, I was staying with her and wanted to help her out. She was anxious about the iPad, and I understood why. I kept telling her, “It is okay, we will figure it out,” though I could see the worry on her face. So much of the process relies on technology that it can feel completely foreign if you did not grow up with it.

Then I think about younger generations. My daughter has been submitting homework online through Canva since fifth grade. For Millennials and Gen Z, apps, QR codes, portals are effortless. They barely think about it. For us in Generation X, it takes patience. And sometimes frustration. I remember when QR codes first appeared on restaurant menus. I tapped the wrong thing more than once, muttered to myself, went back a screen. Eventually, I adapted. However, I still remember that initial friction and the sense that something personal had been replaced.

Recently, I went to Walgreens for a vaccine. My husband usually schedules our appointments online, however, I went alone and did a walk-in. Instead of checking in at the counter, I had to scan a QR code and fill out all the forms on my phone. I managed fine. However, I could not stop thinking how confusing this must be for people who are not comfortable with technology.

There are, of course, benefits. Patient portals make it easy to see test results, message the doctor, and track appointments. Everything in one place. Convenient. However, for many patients, especially seniors, a phone call, a few kind words at the front desk, would be far easier. Far more reassuring.

That 2017 appointment was my first real glimpse of what has become the norm. Technology has changed how we access care, however, something essential has been lost. Medicine has always been about people, listening, explaining, offering comfort. Those moments, small as they seem, heal in ways no screen ever will.

Closing Thoughts

Making an appointment has stopped being a conversation. We have traded friendly voices for screens, codes, and forms. It may be faster, but it is colder. Medicine is not just about efficiency. It is about trust, understanding, connection. If we are not careful, the quiet kindness that once defined care will vanish, leaving convenience in its place.

Have you ever struggled to make a simple doctor’s appointment, and how do you feel about technology replacing human contact in healthcare?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease.” — Voltaire

My cousin Anna (not her real name) is someone I have always admired. She is 50, teaches at a British international school in Hong Kong, and has built a career she is genuinely proud of. She is sharp, grounded, and not someone who panics easily. She trusted the doctors to do their jobs. That trust cost her over a year of her life.

It happened on an ordinary morning. Anna was out hiking with a group in the hills near her home when she slipped and tumbled down a steep path.The pain hit immediately and she knew straight away that something was badly wrong. She couldn’t stand and she couldn’t walk. While the others went for help, she crawled on her hands and knees for nearly two hours until she reached a spot where an ambulance could get to her.

At the government hospital that night, they took an X-ray, told her it was a soft tissue injury, and sent her home with a referral for two sessions of physical therapy. There were no instructions about what to watch out for. No advice about when to come back if things got worse. Nothing written down to take with her. She was discharged and that was that.

Something wasn’t right

Anna went to both physio sessions and followed the instructions she had been given. But instead of improving, the pain got worse and her leg started to swell. Nobody had told her what to look out for or when to be concerned, so she went on gut feeling alone. And her gut was telling her something wasn’t right.

Eight days later, still barely able to walk, she went back to the hospital and asked for a CT scan. That was when they found it. A hairline fracture had progressed into a full bone separation, with the bones already starting to heal in the wrong position. What should have been a cast and a few weeksoff her feet now needed surgery.

The frustrating part is that an X-ray often cannot pick up a hairline fracture, but a CT scan can. A simple note at discharge, telling her to come back if the swelling got worse or the pain increased, could have caught this in time. It was a small, careless error, however, it changed everything.

When Anna raised the misdiagnosis before her second surgery, she was met with polite deflection. The doctors backed each other up and nobody acknowledged that something had gone wrong. She wasn’t angry so much as worn down by it. She had the timeline and she had the evidence, and it didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

She needed help

Surgery meant a large metal bracket and six screws to hold the bone in place.She got through it and tried to move forward.

Then, a few months later while visiting family in India, she saw an orthopedic surgeon who looked at her scans and was noticeably taken aback. The bracket was larger than he would have expected for someone her build.He told her to have it removed within 15 months. Leave it longer and it can fuse to the bone, making removal extremely difficult or sometimes impossible. He had already refused to operate on a patient who had left it too long.

The surgeon also told her something nobody in Hong Kong had mentioned.A bracket that size can overprotect the leg. Over time the muscles around it weaken because they are no longer doing the work they should be. The hardware was slowing her recovery and nobody had said a word.

Anna could get around by then, but she could hear the metal clicking inside her leg when she moved. She told me about it quite casually, but I found it hard to hear. This is a woman who commutes across Hong Kong, who stands in front of a classroom every day, who gets on with things. For months she was teaching from home because managing crutches on ferries and buses was just too much. She needed help doing things she had always done on her own.

“If it had been my arm or hand, it would’ve been hard — but at least I could still walk.” — Anna

The second surgery to remove the hardware happened in India once the bone had healed. The surgeon gave her the bracket and screws to keep, which felt surreal. The operation went well. The year and a half before it is harder to put behind her.

Not wanting someone else to go through the same thing

It would be easy to leave it there. One unlucky woman, one overworked hospital, one missed diagnosis. But that lets the real problem off the hook.

What happened to Anna is what happens when a system treats sending someone home as the end of the job. When the first answer becomes the final answer without anyone checking. When patients are left to figure things out on their own and are expected to push hard enough to be heard.

My sister lived with her family as an American expat in Thailand and always found the private hospitals there to be thorough and communicative. Doctors who explained things clearly, proper follow-up, someone who actually checked in. Anna’s experience was the opposite from start to finish. And when she talks to other expats in Hong Kong, she finds her story is not unusual. People nod. They have their own versions.

Anna is planning to take legal action against the hospital. She doesn’t want someone else to go through the same thing. It takes a lot to do that. Time, energy, confidence, and enough familiarity with the language to navigate a legal process that wasn’t designed with you in mind. Most people in her situation don’t have all of those things.

Closing Thoughts and Takeaway

The honest truth is that none of this should be on the patient. Discharge instructions should be thorough as a matter of course. Imaging should be proper when there is any doubt. Doctors should apologise when they get something wrong. That is what a functional system looks like, and it is worth being angry that this one fell so far short.

However, in the meantime, Anna’s experience is a reminder to pay attention to your body and take it seriously when something feels off. Go back if the pain is getting worse, not better. Ask your doctor before you leave what you should be watching for and what would bring you back in. Ask for a second scan or a second opinion if you feel like something has been missed. Anna had to do that herself, and she shouldn’t have had to, but it made all the difference. You are not being a nuisance. You are asking for basic care.

Anna is doing well now. She is back in the classroom and back to her life. Somewhere at home she has a small bag of metal hardware that came out of her leg. It is a strange thing to keep, but I understand it. It is proof of what she went through and proof that she came out the other side. She handled all of this with more patience than most people would have managed, and the system she trusted still let her down.

She deserved better. Most patients do.

Have you or someone close to you been through a medical misdiagnosis? What did it take to be heard, and what would you do differently now? Share your experience in the comments.

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity.” — Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

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My daughter called me not long ago and, somewhere in the conversation, mentioned something her grandmother had said to her on the phone.

My mom, who is in her 80s, had told her: the world has never been like this in my lifetime. Wars, terrorist attacks, shootings, prices that never stop climbing, something new and terrible every single day.

My mom is not a dramatic person. From her, those words carry weight.

My daughter, her granddaughter, in her 20s, told me what she said back: I have never known it any other way.

I sat with that after we hung up. Two women I love, one at each end of a lifetime, arriving at the same place from completely opposite directions. One watched the world change over eighty years. The other was born into what was left.

And then there is me, in the middle, carrying something neither of them does.

I have experienced life before the world became what it is now. I have lived in a world that was calm and peaceful.

My mother-in-law came to visit us from London in the late 1990s, and I can still picture her that afternoon, settled in her bedroom, looking out the window of our condo. We were at a higher elevation, and below us was a park, rolling hills, and open grass.

My son was a toddler. My daughter was not yet born. Children were down there playing on those hills, no phones, no screens, just kids on a grassy afternoon with nowhere to be.

And off to one side, a young couple tucked close to each other on the grass, leaning into one another the way people do when the world feels safe enough to simply be still in. Something about that detail has stayed with me.Such an innocent, simpler time. I yearn for it even now, and I felt teary-eyed just penning this.

My mother-in-law looked out at all of it completely at ease. I remember thinking the world felt generous just then.

I had read an article around that time, in a magazine, that described the late 1990s as one of the most peaceful periods in modern history. I remember thinking: yes, that sounds right. It felt true from where I was standing.

Then September 11th happened, and that version of the world was gone.

Everything was divided into before and after that morning. The sense of safety we had been living inside, the kind so ordinary you never thought to name it, simply vanished.

What followed was a long unraveling. Conflict, fear, social media and the cruelty it normalized, a news cycle that never slowed down and never let you look away. Until the world my mother-in-law had gazed at so peacefully from that window felt not just distant but almost impossible to believe had ever been real.

My daughter was handed a world already on fire and told this was simply how things were. She adapted because that is what her generation has had to do.

However, I want more than adaptation for her. She deserved a life where the evening news was the most unremarkable part of the day. They all did.

Her grandmother knows, in her bones, that things were not always like this.And that knowledge, painful as it is, matters. It is proof.

The more peaceful world was not something we invented in our memories.It existed. I saw it in the face of a woman looking out over a green hillside on an ordinary afternoon with no reason in the world to feel anything but at ease.

Dickens wrote that famous opening about revolutionary France, but it could just as easily describe right now. More information than any generation before us and less certainty about what is true. More ways to reach each other and a loneliness that has become its own kind of crisis.

There are mornings when you read the headlines and cannot quite accept that this is simply a Wednesday.

If you are somewhere in the middle, as I am, old enough to remember and young enough to still be living through it, you are allowed to grieve what was lost. You do not owe anyone a performance of acceptance just because the noise has grown too loud to argue with.

And if you are a parent holding both the memory of what the world once felt like and the heartbreak of what your children received instead, that grief is worth honoring. It is not nostalgia. It is love with nowhere to put itself.

My mom remembers a world that was real. My daughter deserved that world.

I watched it from a window in the late 1990s, a woman at rest, children playing on the grass far below, the afternoon unfolding without fear. That was not a dream.

And explaining it to a generation who never got to live inside it is one of the true heartbreaks of our time.

Do you have a memory like this, a moment from before everything shifted? Are you the one who remembers, the one who never knew, or someone in the middle trying to hold both?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson Goodreads

A few weeks ago I was catching up with my friend Raina, who had just come back from visiting her daughter in another state. Raina makes the trip a few times a year to spend time with her girl and to help out with the baby, a little boy who had just turned one. Raina is a wonderful storyteller, and she came back with a story that I felt would resonate with my readers.

Raina’s daughter Harriet and son-in-law Nick are both physicians in the thick of residency. To celebrate their son’s first birthday, they threw a proper party: one hundred and fifty guests, a restaurant booked for the occasion, a full open bar, and every guest free to order anything they wanted from the menu. No buffet, no set dishes, no pre-planned selections. Just pure, open-handed generosity.

Raina said she loved them for it. “They wanted everyone to feel taken care of,” she told me. “It was completely from the heart.”

When everyone knows the tab is covered

Guests knew Harriet and Nick were covering everything. And most people were wonderful about it. But here is the thing about a large gathering with a fully open menu and an open bar: even among well-meaning guests, some will order more than they would if they were paying themselves. Not out of greed, exactly, but because the usual quiet restraint that comes with seeing a price list simply isn’t there. Entrées were ordered generously. The bar stayed busy. A few people, Raina noted with a sigh, helped themselves to the open bar in a way that went well beyond celebrating a baby’s birthday.

It reminded me of something my own sister mentioned years ago, after my parents’ anniversary dinner. The bar had been open that evening too, and a handful of guests treated it as an opportunity they weren’t going to pass up. Most guests were gracious. But a few were not, and those few left an impression that lingered long after the evening ended.

Then there was the egg situation. Because no one had pre-selected the menu, guests who avoided eggs had no way of knowing which dishes contained them until after the food arrived. Several of them discovered the problem only once the plate was in front of them and had to send the dish back and order something else entirely. So those guests ended up with two dishes billed to the tab instead of one, through no fault of anyone — just the kind of thing that happens when there is no menu planned in advance to catch it.

By the end of the night, the bill was considerably more than Harriet and Nick had anticipated. They were gracious about it, Raina said. But the experience was a real education.

What a well-planned gathering looks like

Raina’s story brought to mind a celebration we hosted not long ago for both of our children. That same year, our son earned his PhD and our daughter completed her bachelor’s degree — no small thing considering they are about four and a half years apart in age.

We held the combined graduation party at a restaurant and planned everything in advance. The menu was set, the drinks were chosen, and we had special cocktails created in honor of each of them. The food was served on trays by the staff. The bar was open but curated, so there were no surprises waiting for us at the end of the night.

Nobody felt short-changed. Everyone ate well and the evening moved beautifully. And because the decisions had all been made ahead of time, we actually got to be present for every moment of it. That is the reward for doing the work in advance. The night belongs to you and the people you love, not to the logistics.

What Experienced Hosts Know

• Pre-selecting a menu is an act of hospitality. It means guests are taken care of from the moment they sit down, and allergens can be identified and communicated before anyone orders.

• A curated bar — a selection of wines, beer, and perhaps a signature cocktail — feels just as generous as a fully open one, with far fewer surprises at the end of the night.

• The larger the guest list, the more important the structure. A small dinner among close friends forgives a lot. A party of 150 does not.

• When treating friends to a meal at a smaller gathering, some hosts wait until the check arrives to reveal they are paying. That way guests order what they genuinely want, without anyone feeling awkward about the price.

• Always confirm allergen information with your venue in advance, especially for common ones like eggs, nuts, and dairy.

A word about guests

I want to say clearly: this is not a story about bad people. The guests at Harriet and Nick’s party were there because they cared about this little family. The ones who over-ordered or lingered too long at the bar were probably not thinking about it the way it reads on a final bill. When the structure of an evening is open-ended, people fill that space, and not always with the same restraint the hosts were hoping for.

Good hosting anticipates that. Not because you distrust your guests, but because you know people, and you love them enough to plan around reality rather than the best-case version of it. Harriet and Nick threw a party out of love. They just got their first big lesson in the logistics of that love. Most of us have been there.

Have you ever hosted a large celebration where the evening took on a life of its own? What is the one thing you wish you had planned differently, and what hosting lesson has stayed with you ever since?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The paradox of choice: more options don’t set us free — they paralyze us.” -— Barry Schwartz, The Paradox Of Choice

The one television our family owned was in the living room and that is where you watched it. My younger siblings and I piled onto beanbag chairs on the floor, nobody coordinated it, it just happened that way every night. In those days, there were three channels. ABC, CBS, NBC. Whatever was on was what you watched and to be honest, no one gave it much thought.

Fox came along at some point and that actually felt like news. A fourth channel. I realize how that sounds now but at the time it felt like something had opened up a little. Still, you sat down, found something, and that was your night. Easy peasy.

Growing up Gen X meant you lived by the TV schedule whether you meant to or not. The Facts of Life. Growing Pains. The Jeffersons. Family Ties. The Cosby Show. And then there was Dallas and Dynasty, which were a whole different level of event. You didn’t just watch those primetime soap operas. You waited for them all week and so did everyone you knew.

I still think about when the character of Bobby Ewing came back on Dallas. He had been written off the show and the entire country spent the better part of a year talking about it. At school my classmates and I talked about it, debating what it meant, whether it was really him, what was going to happen next. When he finally showed up in that shower scene in 1986, around forty million people watched the same episode on the same night. Everyone was in on it together.

That is something that just doesn’t happen anymore and I think we’ve lost something real because of it. Now there are so many shows that you can love something completely and find nobody around you who has seen it. You bring it up and get a blank look. The conversation that used to follow television everywhere — at school, at work, at the grocery store — has nowhere to go now because nobody is watching the same thing. The audience that used to gather around a few channels has spread so thin across so many platforms that there’s nothing left to hold onto together.

Some nights finding something to watch feels like its own exhausting project. Netflix, Hulu, Amazon, Apple TV+, DirecTV. Some nights I do find something. A good documentary pulls me in, or a limited series that actually earns its ending, or a home renovation show I can just breathe through without thinking too hard. The Epstein documentary. The Impeachment documentary. Those are the nights that feel worth it, when I come away having actually learned something or felt something real.

I still watch Bachelor and Dancing with the Stars and I think part of why they still satisfy me is that they air on a specific night and people actually talk about them the next day. They work the way television used to work. There aren’t many shows left that do. Movies, though. Movies have lost me. There was a time when a film stayed with you, when you walked away carrying some piece of it. Now most of what’s out there looks like an enormous amount of money was spent and not much else went into it.

Some nights I don’t end up watching anything at all. I open one app, scroll for a while, nothing feels right, I switch to another one and start the whole thing over. Eventually I give up and pick up my phone. WhatsApp, Instagram reels, the same restlessness in a smaller box.

I read something once about how too many options don’t help you choose better, they just make you stop choosing. Some nights that’s exactly what happens.

My husband can settle into an old series and just go, episode after episode, perfectly content. I am not built that way. I don’t like quitting things I’ve started but I also can’t bring myself to commit to six seasons of something on a weeknight when I just want to sit down and watch something. So I don’t start anything. And then the next night I don’t start anything either.

I used to know what was on every single night of the week without thinking about it. Thursday meant something. You planned around it. There was real pleasure in that, something coming that was already decided, something to look forward to without any effort required. Now I can’t even remember which app a show is on. Everything is somewhere different, behind a different password, and half the time I spend so long trying to find the thing I wanted to watch that I’ve talked myself out of it by the time I locate it.

There are televisions in every room now and everyone watches alone. The beanbag chairs in the living room, the whole family in the same place at the same time — that world is just gone. Nobody can agree on the same show, so nobody tries. It feels like more than just a change in how we watch television. It feels like something quieter that we’ve lost and haven’t quite named.

The old Netflix DVD envelope had something figured out that we’ve since abandoned. You picked a few things, waited for it to arrive, and by the time it showed up you’d stopped second guessing yourself. You just watched it. Redbox was the same. You drove up, saw what was there, picked from that and nothing else. The limit was the whole point.

There are no limits now and it turns out that’s not entirely a good thing. We’re supposed to see all of this as better. More of everything. Some nights it just feels like more of nothing.

Three channels, and somehow that was enough. Every show ever made and I still can’t figure out what to watch.

Is it just me, or has having everything to watch somehow made it harder to watch anything at all?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“Don’t confuse having a career with having a life. They are not the same.” —Hillary Rodham Clinton

I read an article recently that asked whether people would choose a high salary that required full-time office presence or accept less money in exchange for working from home. I expected the answer to be obvious. It was not. The responses were almost evenly split.

I understand why working from home is appealing. The lack of a commute alone changes the shape of a day. There is more flexibility. You do not have to dress for the office. You can cook, work out, and attend to parts of life that usually get pushed aside. Once you have had that kind of control over your time, it is difficult to give it up.

For people in my generation, this question feels unfamiliar. We went to the office. That was simply what work was. You took the job that paid more. You showed up. You did not expect work to adapt to you. You adapted to it.

Remote work did not exist for me. I worked in quality control and research labs, which meant being there in person five days a week from 8 am to 5 pm. Winters were especially difficult, as I lived on the East Coast at the time. I remember waking up early to shovel the car, scrape ice from the windshield, and drive in the frigid winter weather. By the end of the week, I was exhausted.

Life required planning. I cooked and froze meals on weekends that could be defrosted and consumed during the week. I cleaned and did laundry on weekends. Everything that was not work had to be handled in the margins.Later, I was fortunate to step away from work while raising my children, while my husband worked as an executive. Be that as it may, in those early years, work demanded most of my energy.

My son is Gen Z. He has a PhD in computer science and finished graduate school at the end of 2024. He now works at a Fortune 100 company. I am proud of how hard he worked and proud that he is earning well in a role that clearly draws on what he studied.

That is why I was so surprised when he told me he would take a $100,000 pay cut if it meant he could work remotely. I assumed he enjoyed making the big bucks. I did not challenge him in the moment, but the comment stayed with me. After all that effort, the idea that money mattered less than flexibility caught me off guard.

I realized, thinking about it later, that I was not actually surprised he would give up the money. What stayed with me was something else entirely. For all its rigidity, the daily rhythm of going into an office gave my life structure when I was his age. There was a beginning and an end to the day, a clear boundary between work and everything else, even if that boundary was imperfect. Showing up at the same place each morning imposed a kind of order that I did not question at the time.

I worry that without some version of that structure, work can quietly sprawl, not just into evenings and weekends, but into the mind itself. My concern is less about ambition than about whether the absence of a shared, external framework makes it harder to feel grounded over time.

My son was calm about it. He knows his education prepared him well for the job he has now. He is confident in his abilities and confident that he could find another role if he needed to. That confidence reassures me, but it also makes me uneasy.

What I notice most is how often he is looking for something else. He is almost always applying for jobs or scanning for better positions, even now.

One evening, he mentioned that he had been contacted by a recruiter from Meta — a small-world moment, as she happens to be the daughter of a friend from back when we were American expats in Japan. Her daughter had studied at Johns Hopkins and was now working in the States. She reached out to him the same way recruiters reach out to countless others, without knowing who he was or having any personal connection at all. But I digress.

The work itself does not seem to trouble him. What wears him down is the structure around it — the five days in the office, the long commute, the long days that leave little energy for anything else. By the time he is home, he is exhausted.

One evening made this especially clear. We were having dinner with his partner and her family. It was the end of the evening and everyone was relaxing in the family room after the meal. Without much thought, he picked up his phone and started scrolling through LinkedIn. His partner noticed immediately and called him out, gently but directly. I jokingly remarked that he is always looking for a better job.

He has said that he would not mind working in person if he could at least be in the same city as his partner. That matters to me. It tells me this is not about avoiding responsibility. It is about wanting his life to feel aligned.

When he was in graduate school, his then-girlfriend, now his wife, was working full-time while completing her MBA. During that time, he was home more. He cooked. He handled the grocery shopping. Their days felt shared in a way that is harder to maintain now.

With a daily commute, cooking has mostly disappeared, replaced by takeout and convenience. Work has expanded into space that once belonged to ordinary routines.

For now, his wife’s job requires her to remain in another city. Remote work would allow him to live where she is instead of organizing his life around office locations and schedules. Work-life balance matters to him in practical ways, including time with his wife, time to work out, and time to take care of his health.

That is what worries me most. I do not worry much about his financial security. I worry about whether his life is sustainable. I want him to eat healthily, stay active, and keep up with his health without feeling like those things are luxuries.

I do believe there is value in being in the office. The social aspect matters. Informal conversations matter. Some work is simply better done in person.

At the same time, I suspect some of what my generation accepted was unnecessarily rigid. Even then, I noticed alternatives. My mother’s boss worked four days a week and took Wednesdays off. I remember thinking how reasonable that schedule sounded.

When I imagine my son twenty years from now, what would make me feel relieved is not a title or a salary. I hope he is married, has a couple of children, owns a home, has close friends, travels, and lives comfortably. I hope his life feels settled rather than constantly in motion.

Takeaway

IfI were starting my career today, I would still care about money. But I would be more careful about what I allowed work to take from me. I believe hybrid work offers the best balance. Time in the office matters. So does time at home. Speaking as a mother, I want my son to have both.

Here is the article if you are interested in reading it:

Business Insider

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“Unlike traditional food, which is remembered jointly within families or communities, mass-produced food and drink is remembered across continents.” — Bee Wilson, First Bite: How We Learn to Eat

My earliest memories of Pepperidge Farm go back to the late 1990s. We had a thrift shop nearby, just a short drive from our home in New England. It wasn’t a planned destination exactly, more just something we started doing and then kept doing. Several times a year we’d make the trip to stock up.

The store wasn’t huge. I want to be clear about that because it sounds more impressive in my head than it probably was in reality. But the selection was surprisingly good for the size of it. The cookie choices alone were enough to make the trip worthwhile. There was also a small freezer section that we loved digging through. You never quite knew what would be in there.

The chocolate fudge layer cake was a household favorite, and the apple turnovers never lasted long once we got home. Neither did the pot pies, for that matter, or the garlic toast.

My aunt in Ohio used to make samosas and apple turnovers from scratch with the puff pastry, and I still think about those from the one time my family visited her when I was a teenager.

Some of the products were a little past their dates. That’s just the nature of a thrift shop and we knew that going in. But we never had any real quality issues. Everything tasted fine, often better than fine. Fresh, even.

They gave away free samples too, cookies mostly. My young son made a beeline for them every single visit.

We’d leave with a bag of goodies. Breads, rolls, cookies, and whatever frozen things caught our eye that day. Back then we weren’t giving much thought to what we were eating. What can I say? We were young and we enjoyed life.

My sister gifted us a box of the classic cookie collection once. A real assortment, all tucked into that familiar packaging. It was such a thoughtful thing to do. I’d love to tell you we savored them slowly. We did not.

What most people don’t know is that Pepperidge Farm started not far from where we lived. Margaret Rudkin founded the company in 1937 in Fairfield, Connecticut, baking bread in her farmhouse kitchen for her son who had asthma. She believed in whole ingredients at a time when processed food was taking over American kitchens.

The company grew from that farmhouse into something much bigger, but it never fully shed that New England identity. For those of us who grew up in the region, Pepperidge Farm always felt local in a way that other national brands simply did not.

Life moved us along to France, and just like that the thrift shop visits were behind us. The food there was extraordinary in its own right. Markets full of things we had never seen, cheese counters that went on forever, bread that made everything else seem like a poor imitation. We adapted quickly and happily. But every now and then I’d find myself thinking about those apple turnovers. You can’t really explain that kind of craving. It just shows up. There’s something telling about that.

We were surrounded by some of the finest food in the world and I was missing a frozen pastry from a New England outlet store. Americans carry their food brands with them the way other people carry photographs. It isn’t really about the food. It’s about where you were when you ate it.

When we eventually came back to the States we landed in the South, far from those New England roots. A different climate, a different pace, a different grocery store. But Pepperidge Farm wasn’t far behind.

Those outlet stores are mostly gone now. Pepperidge Farm closed the last of them years ago. The whole idea of a brand having a physical place in your neighborhood, somewhere you actually went and browsed and ran into your neighbors, that’s largely disappeared.

You just add things to a cart online or grab them off a shelf. It works fine but something is lost in that transaction.

There was something about walking into that little store that made Pepperidge Farm feel like it belonged to us somehow. Like we had a relationship with it that went beyond the supermarket aisle. Those stores were part of how communities experienced brands, and when they closed they took something quietly irreplaceable with them.

We still buy it today, just like we always have. We’re a bit more mindful about what we eat than we used to be, that much has changed. But the Milanos always make it into the cart without any debate. They always will.

My husband still buys the puff pastry. He uses it to make spinach puffs, chicken potpie, the occasional baklava. It shows up in our kitchen more than you’d think.

Honestly, just thinking about all of this yummy food while writing has my mouth watering.

I never thought much about brand loyalty until I wrote this. Apparently I have it.

Is there a food brand from your past that has followed you through life without you ever really choosing it?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The most basic of all human needs is the need to understand and be understood. The best way to understand people is to listen to them.” ― Ralph G. Nichols

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My daughter shops at Trader Joe’s with me when she’s in town. A few weeks ago, she mentioned something she’d been noticing at checkout. Every single time, the cashier makes a comment about what she’s buying. They love that one. They just bought it last week. It’s their absolute favorite.

She said it with that particular tone she has, half amused, half suspicious. She studied finance in college with some marketing courses along the way, and she clocked it immediately as strategy. A way to make customers feel good and keep them coming back.

My daughter is shrewd that way. She is savvy about people in a way that goes beyond what she learned in any classroom. I’ve told her more than once she should have been a therapist, but she’s not interested.

I told her I’d been noticing the same thing for years.

Every time I go to Trader Joe’s, without fail, someone behind the register lights up about something in my cart. It’s their go-to snack. They had it just last Tuesday. The enthusiasm never wavers. It’s as consistent as the handwritten signs on the shelves or the rotating seasonal stuff up front.

It makes it feel both a little formulaic and, weirdly, still kind of nice.

We have a great dynamic, my daughter and I. She’s my best friend. When we shop together and it happens, we don’t even need to say anything. We just look at each other and laugh. We’ve had that look for years.

Once we returned a bottle of expensive wine to Trader Joe’s. We’d bought it for a dinner party, a social obligation kind of evening, but my husband mentioned he’d already picked something up for the hosts. So back it went.

The cashier was a good-looking young man with a mustache who remarked that he had no idea wine could get that pricey. My daughter and I looked at each other. We laughed. That was that.

When I mentioned the cashier’s comment habit to my mom, she said she’d noticed it too, but her reaction was completely different. She enjoys it. She pointed out that the same thing happens in clothing stores, where the associate always seems to own the exact blouse you’re trying on, usually in three colors.

My mom isn’t naive about it. She sees the pattern. She just doesn’t particularly care, because she likes the exchange itself. That’s enough for her.

The Trader Joe’s version tends to come with details, which is what makes it stick a little more than it should. Once, near the holidays, I was buying some hand soaps and the cashier told me she owned a bunch of them. She described the scents she liked, clementine, a couple others, and how they made her bathroom smell good.

I laughed and agreed with her. It was a thirty-second conversation about soap that somehow felt almost pleasant. The specificity makes it feel less like a script, even when it probably is one.

I still get something out of these moments, even knowing what they are. I don’t usually change what I buy because of it. Once, though, I asked a cashier for a recommendation on Halloween candy, and she pointed me toward something she liked. I put it in my cart.

Later I realized it had peanuts and returned it. I didn’t want to hand out anything that might harm a kid with an allergy. Her comment moved me briefly, even if it didn’t ultimately change anything.

It makes me think about my own brief time in retail. I worked as a sales associate at Hit or Miss the summer after high school, back in the late eighties. It was a good job. I enjoyed it, got a discount on clothes, and liked my coworkers.

Nobody trained us to comment on what customers were buying though. We folded things, rang things up, made change. If you said something nice it was because you thought of it in that moment. Hit or Miss closed down years ago, and I never worked in retail again.

I went on to internships and eventually a career in science. A laboratory career, which is where I landed.

Though honestly, I’ve always thought I might have been good at marketing. Good at sales. There’s something about understanding why people respond to things, what makes a moment feel genuine even when it’s been designed, that has always made sense to me.

I was steered toward science when I was young. That was just how it was back then. You didn’t have the freedom to follow every instinct. You did what made sense, what people expected, and you built a life around that.

So when my daughter stands at the checkout and reads the whole interaction like a case study, I’m not just proud of her. I recognize something in it. She got to study what I only ever observed from the outside. She has the language for things I just felt.

Retail shifted somewhere along the way. Warmth became intentional. A compliment stopped being incidental and got folded into the brand experience. Now every purchase is somebody’s favorite, and the words have gotten a little worn from use.

Nonetheless, the ritual still works. Honestly, I’ll take a cashier with a genuine smile and easy small talk over a silent, perfunctory checkout any day. The errand feels lighter. The whole experience is just more enjoyable when the person across from you seems happy to be there.

Takeaway

For anyone building a business or a brand, there’s a real lesson in the Trader Joe’s model. Friendliness is not a personality trait they got lucky with. It’s a design choice.

They decided that every customer interaction would feel warm and specific, and they built that into the experience from the ground up.

You don’t need a big budget to do the same thing. You need intention.

A small business owner, a freelancer, a creator with an audience, anyone who deals with people can decide that every touchpoint will leave the other person feeling good.

That’s not manipulation. That’s just good design.

Closing Thoughts

My daughter hears the strategy. My mom hears the conversation. I hear both, and I keep going back anyway. I put my things on the belt and wait to hear which one, this time around, the cashier can’t stop thinking about.

A compliment that’s been said a hundred times can still land when it reaches you. Maybe especially then.

How do you hear it, as strategy, as conversation, or somewhere in between?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter what fork you use.” — Emily Post

I was working on a piece for Medium on a Sunday afternoon when my daughter called. I set everything aside. When she calls on a Sunday there is usually a story involved and she has never once disappointed me on that front.

She got right to it. She thought my readers would find this one interesting. I have been turning it over ever since.

My daughter and son are both in their twenties and share an apartment in the city. They are close in the way you hope siblings will eventually become once the years smooth out the rough edges. Ambitious, both of them. They work hard and they enjoy their lives without apology.

Food is a big part of that. They are the kind of people who actually research where they are going to eat, who get genuinely excited about a new opening, who have made Sunday brunch into something of a standing date.

They are different as people though, which honestly might be why they get along so well.

My son is the quiet one. Observant, thoughtful, someone who listens more than he talks and means everything he says when he does.

My daughter is something else entirely. Bold, confident, sure of herself in a way that took me years longer to find. She is actually more of an introvert than people expect when they first meet her, but do not let that fool you. She does not back down from things that feel wrong. That matters for this story.

When she told me they were trying a new Filipino restaurant I felt that little pull of memory that Filipino food always brings with it for me. My mother spent years working alongside a couple of Filipina women in a laboratory and came home from that job with recipes, stories, and a genuine love for the cuisine. Pancit, lumpia, the sweet bread, all of it became part of how we ate. I learned to make pancit myself.

We do not have many Filipino restaurants down here in the South so the opportunities to indulge are rare. A couple of years ago the family made it to Kasama in Chicago, the only Michelin starred Filipino restaurant in the country at the time, and I still think about that meal. So whenever someone mentions Filipino food it takes me somewhere warm before the story even starts.

The restaurant was buzzing when they arrived, packed the way a good counter service spot gets on a Sunday morning when word has gotten out and everyone shows up at once. My son took stock of the line and made a practical decision. He asked my daughter to go find them a table while he stayed to order. She spotted the last open one, walked over and sat down.

What happened next is what surprised me. A young woman who had just finished placing her order at the counter walked straight over to my daughter and made it clear she was not pleased. The way she saw it, she had been in line before my son and that last table should have been hers by right. Her partner sat in an armchair near the entrance, quiet, offering no comment.

What she did not appear to consider was that my daughter had not simply wandered in off the street and claimed a seat. Her brother had sent her there. They were together. That was the whole arrangement.

My daughter held her ground. She told me on the phone she was not about to be bullied into giving up her seat and when she said it I thought yes, that is exactly her. I was not surprised by that part at all.

What did surprise me was how she handled the rest of it. She stayed calm and told the woman she was sure another table would open up shortly. And before the sentence had barely landed a woman at a nearby table looked over and said we are just about to leave, you are welcome to ours.

The universe, as it sometimes does, made its position known. The woman accepted, thanked her, and sat down. The whole thing was over. My son missed all of it. He was still at the counter, working his way through the line, no idea what had just unfolded around the table he had sent his sister to hold.

He brought the food over, settled in, and that is when he noticed the couple at the table beside them. They were talking about my daughter. About the table. About what had happened. In Spanish, because by that point they had no particular reason to watch what they said.

My son is fluent in Spanish. He understood every word.

He sat with it quietly while they were still there. Did not react, did not let on, just listened. The moment they got up and left he turned to his sister and told her everything. And then he told her something else. That he had watched how she handled herself and he was genuinely surprised and impressed. The composure she kept, the way she offered the woman reassurance instead of an argument, the fact that she never let it become more than it needed to be.

My son does not hand out that kind of observation lightly. Coming from him it means something.

My daughter was still annoyed when she heard what had been said and honestly I understood that completely. When she told me the Spanish part I went quiet for a second. I kept thinking why carry it that far. The whole thing had already resolved itself. Another table opened up almost immediately, just like she said it would. And yet there they sat, still working through it in a language that felt private because they assumed no one nearby could follow it.

My son followed every word and chose silence anyway. I have been sitting with that choice ever since.

I will be honest, I told my daughter straight out that I would have just given up the table. That is who I am. I do not like conflict and I especially do not like conflict over something that time and patience would have sorted out on its own. She did not exactly see it that way and I respect that. We are wired differently and that is fine.

She was not wrong to hold her ground and I was not wrong to say I would have let it go. We were just two different people in the same situation making different calls.

What stays with me is the bigger question underneath all of it. The one about who that table actually belonged to and what we owe each other in those small unscripted moments when nobody is really watching and we think we are invisible.

The food, my daughter told me, was absolutely worth the trip.

So I will leave it with you the way she left it with me. Her brother sent her to that table while he held their place in line. She sat down first.

Who had the right to it? And what do you make of the fact that the venting happened in Spanish, in a room full of people who were assumed not to understand?

I want to hear your stories. I have a feeling everyone has been in some version of this situation and nobody is going to agree on the answer, and that is exactly why I am asking.

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

We lose ourselves in what we read, only to return to ourselves, transformed and part of a more expansive world.” ― Judith Butler, in a commencement speech

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My daughter once told me about one of her former coworkers, whom we’ll call Alex.

Alex had an incredible passion for reading, something he inherited from his father. His father was a literary professor at a prestigious university here in the U.S., so books and stories were always a big part of his upbringing.

During the time my daughter interned at the same company as Alex, they were both working in California. After work, Alex would head to the beach around 7 p.m. He would stay there, reading until 2 a.m. He’d often arrive at work around 11 a.m. the next day, but no one seemed to mind.

The kid’s productivity and dedication spoke for themselves.

One of Alex’s favorite authors was Gabriel Garcia Marquez. For those who aren’t familiar, Marquez’s writing is known for its beautiful use of magical realism. Alex loved exploring Marquez’s entire collection.

What sparked this deep love of reading for Alex? It all started with a TED Talk. The speaker had discussed the importance of reading books from different countries, explaining how doing so could broaden our understanding of the world. This idea resonated deeply with Alex, and he began his own literary journey.

But Alex wasn’t just reading for enjoyment like most of us do. This bright young man was on a mission.

He was determined to grow as a person by connecting with the symbols and themes in stories from all over the world. Through these stories, he began to see how much we all have in common. No matter where the story was from, themes like love, loss, and hope seemed to show up over and over again.

It made him question his own values and perspectives.

Even when Alex didn’t agree with everything he read, he appreciated the new viewpoints. What he learned was that, despite the differences in our backgrounds and cultures, we all share the same human experience. And that’s what kept him reading.

Alex’s journey into diverse literary worlds got me thinking about the books that have left a lasting mark on my own life. Like Alex, I’ve found that reading has the power to broaden perspectives and deepen our understanding of struggles and successes beyond our own experiences.

Some of the books that have shaped my views on identity, resilience, and the need for social change include The Color Purple, The Diary of a Young Girl, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia, and The Namesake.

Each of these books has given me a new lens through which to view the world. I believe that through reading, we can uncover deeper truths about ourselves and the world around us.

Closing Thoughts and Takeaways

I found it truly eye-opening to hear Alex’s story. It made me realize how enriching it can be to explore different cultures through books.

You get to travel without leaving home, seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. It’s amazing how reading widely can change our perspectives, inspire us, and help us grow.

Alex’s journey shows the power of literature to connect us, no matter where we’re from.

What books from different cultures have inspired you or changed your perspective?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle.” ― Steve Jobs

Life has a way of bringing things full circle. Recently, a change in my insurance coverage landed me back in the dental chair of a man I hadn’t seen in years.

We first met when my daughter was a teenager. At the time, she was convinced she wanted to be an orthodontist, so she arranged to shadow him and see what the day-to-day work was like. It didn’t take long for her to realize the career wasn’t what she imagined.

She noticed that the hygienists did most of the hands-on work while the dentist appeared only briefly at the end for a checkup. She wanted a career that felt engaging and meaningful every day. After shadowing another office with the same dynamic, she closed the door on orthodontics and never looked back.

Looking back now, I feel a wave of relief that she had the courage to follow her curiosity rather than conform to a path defined by prestige or perceived stability. She went on to study finance and English in college, blending analytical and creative interests, and later worked as an investment analyst after graduation.

Visiting that dental office again, years later, offered a sobering perspective. Once bustling with staff and patients, it was now quiet. The dentist and his wife, both Ivy League graduates, were struggling to maintain their practice in a changing economy. His wife, who used to work alongside him in the practice, now works for another office and occasionally steps in as his receptionist. Even elite degrees are no longer a permanent safeguard.

We talked about our children. My son, who inherited my husband’s aptitude for math, pursued engineering and computer science to the extreme: dual bachelor’s degrees in Engineering and Math, followed by a PhD in Computer Science, and now a position at a Fortune 100 company. On paper, he represents the idealized modern success story.

Yet even in STEM, intensity and burnout loom. A friend’s nephew, similarly qualified, left the tech world after only a couple of years, seeking a different pace through an MBA. My own son plans to work for a few years and then pivot to entrepreneurship. Careers, even in fields seen as “secure,” rarely follow a straight, predictable path.

It was hard to see the dentist and his wife encouraging their high school daughter to pursue engineering, a choice driven more by security and prestige than personal interest. Even successful professionals sometimes guide their children toward paths they wouldn’t fully endorse themselves.

High-pressure fields demand a particular temperament. Without alignment between skill, interest, and work style, burnout is likely. Watching my daughter choose differently years ago reinforced the importance of conscious decision-making. Understanding one’s own motivations and limits is just as critical as meeting societal expectations.

We all want our children to be financially secure. However, stability is not the same as fulfillment. Success should be measured by fit — the alignment between a person’s strengths, passions, and the work they pursue — not solely by salary or prestige.

Encouraging exploration, fostering curiosity, and valuing personal insight over assumptions equips young people to make choices they can sustain over a lifetime. Awareness of oneself, of the changing world, and of the realities behind “safe” careers is the most valuable guidance we can offer.

Closing Thoughts

At the end of the day, there is no single path to a meaningful life or a “successful” career. What matters most is helping our children understand themselves — their strengths, their curiosities, and what brings them satisfaction.

It’s tempting to lean on prestige or perceived security, but those alone rarely sustain a lifetime of engagement or happiness. Watching my own children navigate their paths has taught me that courage, self-awareness, and the willingness to explore are far more important than any degree, title, or salary.

As parents, our role isn’t to map out every step for them. It’s to offer guidance, share perspective, and give them the space to make choices that truly fit who they are. That, I think, is the kind of stability and success worth striving for.

My daughter realized dentistry wasn’t for her by watching the clock and the workflow. Are we giving our kids enough chances to actually see the jobs we are pushing them toward, or are we just handing them a brochure for a “safe” future?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.” ― Charles Darwin

A few years ago, I asked a friend’s husband, an ophthalmologist, whether his daughter planned to become a doctor like him. I expected a proud yes.

Instead, he surprised me. He told me he was encouraging her not to go into medicine.

He explained that the field had changed dramatically. Corporate groups were buying out private practices. Physicians were losing independence. The hours were grueling, and administrative work never ended. The career that once symbolized stability now came with a level of stress he wasn’t sure he wanted for his daughter.

She chose nursing instead and is now working toward becoming a nurse anesthetist. She still works closely with patients, but with more predictability and less pressure tied to running a business. Another nurse anesthetist I know genuinely loves her job. She enjoys the early mornings, the steady rhythm of the operating room, and the satisfaction of knowing exactly what her role requires each day.

Stories like these are becoming common.

One friend’s daughter works in investment banking by day but DJs by night. Her weekend gigs are growing, and her audience continues to expand. There’s a real chance she could turn music into a full-time career.

Another young woman, a friend of my son, earned a business degree but quickly realized she didn’t enjoy the work. She picked up a camera and taught herself photography. Today, she photographs celebrity weddings, and her work has been featured in Vogue. Not the outcome most college advisors envision.

These stories highlight how much more flexible careers have become.Technology, including AI, is transforming fields like medicine, translation, and creative industries. Skills that once seemed permanent are now evolving, and opportunities can appear in places no one expected.

As a member of Generation X, I was raised to believe stability came first. Careers like medicine, law, and engineering were considered safe, respectable, and financially dependable. Creative paths were often hobbies, not professions. We also grew up in a world that felt predictable. Reinventing yourself multiple times over a career was unusual and risky.

Today, reinvention is normal. People build multiple identities, develop side businesses, switch industries, and return to school later in life. The conversation has shifted from choosing one lifelong career to building a combination of skills, passions, and stability.

In many ways, I followed the practical path myself.

I began in the natural sciences and spent years in a laboratory. But languages had always come naturally, and for a time I dreamed of becoming a translator for the United Nations. Meaningful and exciting, yes — but uncertain compared to the career I had already chosen.

Life moved forward. I raised my children, stepped away from full-time work for a period, and eventually returned through writing. Writing wasn’t part of my original plan, but it became a place where creativity and experience finally came together. Technology and AI have since changed the translation field in ways I couldn’t have imagined, making adaptability even more essential.

Letting go of certain goals can feel complicated. There can be disappointment, but also clarity. Adjusting direction doesn’t erase passion; it reshapes it into something that fits real life more comfortably.

When I talk to young people, I encourage them to pursue what excites them while building a foundation that supports long-term stability. My daughter is a good example. She loves creative writing and majored in English, but she also added finance as a second major. Writing alone can be difficult to rely on financially unless she pursues academia or reaches a high level in publishing. Finance gives her flexibility while allowing her creativity to grow.

There is reassurance in having both freedom and stability.

I admire people who take risks. Progress often comes from individuals willing to try something uncertain. At the same time, thoughtful risks often include preparation. Passion and practicality work best together.

Closing Thoughts

Most people do not end up exactly where they imagined. Plans change, interests evolve, and responsibilities shift. Some opportunities appear unexpectedly, while others fade. Every experience, ambition, and detour becomes part of the life we build. Nothing is wasted.

A meaningful life is rarely built from a single plan. It develops step by step, shaped by choices, challenges, and moments we never could have predicted.

When we look back, the path we took often fits better than anything we could have planned.

Have you ever changed direction because the path you once loved no longer felt realistic? How have you learned to balance passion with practicality?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ― Marcel Proust

My husband and I recently visited our son in Seattle, Washington.We took an evening flight into the city. I snapped a few photos from the plane window.

It had been thirty years since I last visited Seattle. I was a newlywed then, seeing the city for the first time with my husband. I remember how excited we were. Everything felt new.

Now we were back. This time with our daughter. We were flying in to visit our son, who lives and works here.

Funny how life comes full circle.

The sun was setting as we landed. The light outside was soft and golden. The clouds glowed pink. The mountains stretched in the distance. The city slowly appeared beneath us.

Seattle looked both familiar and new. I thought about that first trip. So much has changed. The years have gone by quickly.

It felt good to be back.

Have you ever returned to a place after decades and seen it with new eyes?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“You cannot step into the same river twice.” — Heraclitus

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I was back in Seattle this past June. It had been thirty years since my first trip. It’s hard to believe how much time has passed. In those days, my husband and I were newlyweds. He had a rare work trip, and I tagged along, happy to be somewhere new. Travel used to feel special. People dressed up for flights. Now it feels more like catching a bus — with TSA.

I recently saw a post on Instagram that said we used to travel to explore, but now we travel to check boxes. That idea felt accurate. The wonder we once experienced is harder to find.

On that first trip, we visited my husband’s cousin. She was a kind-hearted pathologist, with two young kids and a devoted husband. They lived in a huge home in Bellevue. Her husband passed away over a decade ago. Now, she is older and living alone. She lives in an apartment in Capitol Hill. The kids have grown up and moved away. Time changes everything — people, places, memories.

I stood beneath the Space Needle like I did thirty years ago. Back then, it felt huge and futuristic, like something from a sci-fi movie. This time, it felt smaller. Not less impressive, just different. Perhaps it’s not the Space Needle that has changed, but me.

Our son now lives and works in Seattle. He is building his life in the same city that once felt new and exciting to us. It feels like a full circle moment.

That feeling of something being different is not unique to Seattle. I noticed it in San Antonio a few years ago. I used to love the River Walk when my sister lived there. It always seemed full of charm. However, on my return, it felt quieter and smaller. I tried to reconnect with the feeling I had before but couldn’t.

We have lived in North America, Europe, and Asia, and we have traveled extensively. Now that our kids are grown, my husband and I travel even more. Sometimes we revisit places, sometimes we try new ones. However, things are starting to blur. The world feels more uniform — same stores, same music, same coffee shops. Even the people feel familiar, no matter where you go.

This may simply be part of getting older. We start measuring experiences against the person we were when younger. We remember how something felt more than how it actually was. As we age, it becomes harder to catch that same spark. Not because we have become jaded, but because we have seen so much. The magic remains. It just doesn’t announce itself loudly anymore.

Final Thoughts

I still believe in travel. I still believe it can move us. I have stopped expecting it to knock me off my feet every time. The magic has not disappeared. It has grown quieter. You have to lean in to find it.

Have you ever gone back to a place you once loved, only to realize it just doesn’t vibe the same anymore? Does it make you wonder — did the place change or did you?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.

“If you don’t love what you do, you won’t do it with much conviction or passion.”— Mia Hamm

My aunt recently asked what to do if someone excels at everything. She was referring to her bright granddaughter. At sixteen, this girl is thriving in nearly every area she tries — English, science, guitar, and singing.

Her question made me think about how I approached my own children. I always encouraged them to try different activities to see what sparked their interest. My daughter explored ballet, tap, jazz, gymnastics, swimming, soccer, piano, guitar, and art. In the end, she stuck with ballet for eight years, and she still paints portraits for family and friends. My son had a similar experience. He tried karate, basketball, tennis, swimming, piano, and guitar before settling on karate and piano. He has a double black belt in Shaolin Kempo karate and Shotokan karate. He also took piano lessons for ten years. Today, he still plays tennis for fun and occasionally sits down at the piano.

I have always believed that children should be free to find what they love. Forcing them into activities they do not enjoy rarely works. My neighbor, for example, spent a fortune on tennis lessons for her son, insisting that he continue for years. As soon as he had the choice, he gave up tennis and never picked up a racket again.

The same idea applies to career paths. A friend of mine went to law school only to make her parents happy. She never practiced law and instead followed her passion to become a veterinarian. Choosing a path to satisfy others often leads to frustration, while following your true interests brings fulfillment.

Takeaway

Young people should be encouraged to explore. When they discover what resonates with them, passion and fulfillment follow. Life is about finding what you love, not living up to someone else’s expectations.

How do you balance encouraging your children or loved ones to explore various interests while also supporting their passions? Have you seen examples where pursuing a genuine interest led to unexpected fulfillment or change?

A version of this story originally appeared on Medium.