• My siblings and I are all adults with our own families, careers, and mortgages.
• Time with just us and our parents is rare, but special.
• It reminds me of where I came from, and of younger versions of myself.

When my mom was younger and my siblings and I moved out, she really struggled with empty-nest syndrome. Now that I'm a mom of three myself, I can totally appreciate how she must have felt.

As a parent, you pour so much of your love, time, and energy into your kids. And then one day, they leave. I imagine it must feel incredibly strange. I already dread the day my babies leave the nest, to the point where I sometimes cry to my husband about it.

The other day, I was having one of those moments, sobbing on the bed, when my husband found me. I told him how I felt, and he said, "For God's sake, honey, our youngest is four! You have at least another 14 years with her at home." Fair point.

Time with just my parents and siblings is rare

Now that my siblings and I all have families of our own, the time we have with my folks is often chaotic. Inevitably, one of the grandkids is throwing a tantrum, complaining about being hungry, or announcing they need the toilet, and conversations are often start-stop affairs.

But a few years ago, I had an epiphany. It was my sister's 50th birthday, and we were in Bali with all the extended family. To celebrate, we went out for dinner, just the original six of us — Mom, Dad, and the four of us siblings.

It was one of the most incredible nights. We told stories from childhood, talked about getting older, and shared what actually makes us happy and what we love about each other. There were tears and plenty of laughter.

Afterwards, I realized how much I'd missed my original people. The ones who've known me the longest. The people who remember what I was like as a naughty four-year-old who would scream the F-word in the supermarket if I didn't get lollies, or as a pimply teenager going through puberty. The people who knew me before I had a husband, children, a career, a mortgage, responsibilities, or any real idea of who I was or where life would take me.

As adults, we inevitably morph into different versions of our younger selves. We form new identities, build our own lives and our own ideas.

But there's something so incredibly beautiful about being able to return to those younger versions of yourself, if only for a few hours. For me, I've always been the baby of the family, and somehow, if I'm alone with my parents and siblings, I revert straight back into that role. Goo goo, ga ga. Even at 41, I'll always be the baby of the family.

Spending time together is special for all of us

Since that dinner all those years ago, I've made a concerted effort to organize catch-ups with the original clan only. Partners and children know they're not invited, which I'm sure has offended a few people along the way, but nowadays the spouses are used to it.

My sister lives in Africa, and we are all in Australia, so getting us all together can be tricky. But when we do, we have the best time. There's always a lot of reminiscing and laughing. Often, too, a few inappropriate jokes, and inevitably, the occasional argument or two.

I think for my folks, who are now in their 70s and 80s, these moments are golden. There's no doubt they adore the grandkids and partners. But there's something different about having their kids all to themselves for a couple of hours.

No tantrums. No one cartwheeling through the living room as we attempt a conversation. Just us.

At the end of the day, no matter how old we get, we'll always be their kids. You can grow up, move away, become a wife and mother, and build an entirely new life. But when we're all together again, somehow it feels exactly the same.

• The author and his mother graduated from college in May 2026.
• Despite earning their degrees, both struggled to find jobs in their fields.
• Their experiences challenged the promise that a college degree guarantees a better life.

I grew up believing that I had to work hard, go to college, get a piece of paper, and unlock a decent life. My mom believed in it even more than I did.

In May 2026, we crossed the finish line together. I was 23, graduating from New York University with a degree in Film and Television, ready to launch a career in journalism and filmmaking. My mom was in her late 40s when she earned her bachelor's degree in psychology after decades of putting her life on hold.

My mom raised me while taking care of family members

For as long as I can remember, my mom has been running on empty. Back in Alabama, she worked hospital shifts by day and cleaned corporate offices at night, riding public buses through the heat. She was also raising my brother and me, caring for my grandmother through cancer, and looking after my paralyzed uncle. Going to college felt impossible.

When my grandmother and uncle died shortly before I finished high school in 2022, our family was grieving. But my mom also had a moment to think about what she wanted for herself. She decided to start college and pursue her psychology degree. In 2024, after my brother graduated from high school and headed to college in upstate New York, my mom packed up and moved out of Alabama. She settled in Albany to be closer to both of us. I was living in New York City, attending NYU.

From 2022 to 2026, we both worked toward our degrees. While I stayed up finishing college assignments, my mom balanced her nursing shifts with classes and the costs of building a new life in Albany.

But graduating didn't make the next steps any easier.

Getting a job as a recent graduate wasn't easy

I thought an NYU degree would give me a real foot in the door. Instead, I entered a job market where entry-level roles demanded years of experience, while rent and groceries kept getting more expensive. I've had employers tell me during interviews that they loved my work and thought I'd be a great fit, only to never hear from them again. It happened more than once, and each time, it became harder not to wonder what I was doing wrong.

The numbers suggest I wasn't alone. In the second quarter of 2026, 42% of recent college graduates were underemployed, according to the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Finishing school didn't guarantee a career. For many graduates, it meant entering a crowded job market and hoping someone would give them a chance.

My mom faced her own version of that wall. She's currently working toward her master's degree, hoping to eventually become a licensed therapist. In the meantime, she's been trying to get her foot in the door through entry-level jobs such as behavioral health or psychiatric technician roles. Despite decades of frontline healthcare experience and a bachelor's degree in psychology, applications went unanswered, and automated rejection emails kept arriving. After years of working and caring for others, she was still struggling to get someone to give her a chance.

A few weeks after graduation, I sat with her in her living room as she refreshed her inbox. Another rejection came in. She closed her laptop and looked down at her framed diploma, exhausted.

If my mom was struggling to find work after everything she'd done, I couldn't help wondering what my own degree would do for me. A degree can still make a financial difference.

In 2025, full-time workers aged 25 and older with a bachelor's degree earned a median weekly wage of $1,578, compared with $966 for those with a high school diploma, according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics. But those figures describe people who are already working full time. They don't guarantee a recent graduate will land a job, earn those wages, or afford to live in the city where they're trying to build a career.

For my mom, college was supposed to rewrite her story. For me, it was supposed to be the launchpad. When we look at our graduation pictures, the pride is real; neither of us will ever downplay what it took to survive those years. But a diploma can't pay rent. A piece of paper can't buy health insurance, a stable job, or peace of mind.

My mom and I did what we were told would lead to a better life. We're still trying to figure out when that life is supposed to begin.

We did everything right. Somehow, it doesn't feel like enough anymore.

• I remember how overwhelming motherhood was, and I see my sons facing similar challenges.
• I sometimes disagree with their parenting decisions, but try to listen instead of offering advice.
• I'm learning that supporting my adult children means giving them room to make their own choices.

I remember vividly how hard the preschool years were.

My world was turned upside down while my husband's life remained virtually unchanged. I was swamped with diaper changes, feeding, bathing, and preparing for my fifth-grade class the next day.

He accepted a longer commute so we could live closer to my work and both of our families for support. His impediments consisted of challenging weather and swerving to avoid wildlife, but mostly he enjoyed driving to his tunes without kids whining or fighting in the back seat, something I would have traded my right arm for on many occasions.

He came home to a home-cooked meal and continued playing hockey with the guys a couple of nights a week. He was no deadbeat, though — he put in long, physically demanding days working outdoors in all weather. Then on weekends, he kept up with the seasonal demands of our 23-acre property.

In those early years, his help with household chores and children was minimal. It was our system, and not uncommon in our generation.

My sons are more involved parents

Thankfully, gender roles have changed since then, and a generation later, my sons have taken on more significant parental duties. It is not for me to judge whether they do their fair share, but they certainly do more meal-making, cleaning, and childcare than their dad did.

I also remember my delusion of believing I would be a better mom than my mom was. I thought I could be more emotionally present, able to provide and respond to my kids' every physical, mental, and emotional need.

I juggled raising three rambunctious boys alongside my often absent husband while aspiring to be a perfect mom and teacher. Something had to give, and I refused to let it be family, so when my burnout was diagnosed and labeled as depression, I took a sick leave from work. Creative workshops, me-time, time with family, and a diet-and-exercise reset helped me recover enough to return to work, choosing part-time to avoid the same pitfalls.

My mother's unconditional support was essential, and so was learning to ask for help

This is the point where I became more forgiving of my mother for not meeting all of my emotional needs growing up. I finally understood that I could not be all things to everyone, and despite my resistance, I still needed my mother's support to deal with all of it. I felt both too proud to ask for help and humbly grateful to accept it.

My mom never judged me. She calmly listened and offered support, something I have always deeply appreciated. I was too proud to confide my deepest insecurities, and she never pried. I hid my low self-esteem and low self-confidence by projecting false bravado to the world, but I'm sure she saw right through me. Her unconditional love and support generated and now drives my need to honor her by paying it forward to my own kids.

My kids are approaching this same point in their lives. Their perfect parenting honeymoon is over, and they often find themselves in survival mode. It is hard to watch as I remember those times well and how hard I fell. It must have been just as difficult for my mom to see.

As I listen to my sons and daughters-in-law share their challenges, I remember how the business of meal prep, naps, bathing, grooming, and potty training takes up so much mental space. Previously able to eat and sleep according to your own goings-on, you suddenly pivot to adapting to the kids' needs and current schedule. Although I hear them proudly declare they are handling it, they underestimate my ability to read their betraying eyes.

I'm trying my best to pay it forward without losing myself

I am careful about offering unsolicited advice. I want to be supportive without meddling, so heeding the fact that I have two ears and one mouth, I try to listen twice as much as I speak. Instead of voicing my opinion when I would do things differently, I hold my tongue as I am certain my mom did when she questioned my way of doing things.

So many times, I had to be brave, reading the fear in my sons' eyes as they experienced various growing pains, both physical and emotional. I learned to transition from hand-holding to standing by their side to finally letting them go to live their own journey. I must be brave again as I now watch them struggle with their own children's growing pains, knowing that their problems and wounds will increase in direct proportion to their age and physical growth. I will stand by as my mom did, watching my pain, powerless to protect me, knowing I had to learn on my own.

I am also mindful not to forsake my whole life for them. It is important to me to be an honest role model by being just as kind to myself as I am to them, as the analogy goes: put the oxygen mask on yourself before you can save others.

• I've been a doctor for more than a decade and have a family of four.
• I've traded traditional health insurance for direct primary care and a medical cost-sharing group.
• For the first time, I feel like I'm truly in control of our healthcare.

I've spent more than a decade navigating the labyrinth of American healthcare. I've worn the white coat, spent sleepless nights on call, signed the charts, and cared for thousands of patients.

A few years ago, I realized I couldn't keep participating in a system that felt like it was designed to fail the very people it was meant to serve.

Today, my family and I are uninsured in the traditional sense — and I'm confident that it's the best financial and medical decision I've ever made.

I hit my breaking point

For years, I worked in a traditional, insurance-based primary care practice. My days were a blur of 15-minute appointments, dictated not by medical necessity, but by billing codes and insurance reimbursements. I felt completely beholden to the behemoth of corporate medicine. Patients were waiting months to see me and were almost always shortchanged on the time I was able to spend with them.

I felt like the insurance companies were the invisible third party in every exam room, deciding which tests I could order and which medications my patients deserved. I wasn't just a doctor anymore; I was a data-entry clerk for multibillion-dollar payers. The result was a total, soul-crushing burnout that followed me home every night.

On the other side of it, some of my patients were forgoing necessary care because the costs presented to them were simply too high. Did it make sense to spend $300 to check a thyroid test to ensure the $10 per month medication I prescribed was working as it was supposed to? Many patients, rightfully so, decided to spend their money elsewhere.

I knew I had to get out — not just for my own sanity, but to actually provide the type of care I believed in.

Direct primary care offered something different

I eventually traded the treadmill for Direct Primary Care (DPC). In this model, my patients (or their employers or an insurance company) pay a flat monthly membership fee directly to me (around $100 per month). This type of care is affordable— my current patient panel includes attorneys, electricians, teachers, and retirees. There are no co-pays, no deductibles, and most importantly, no insurance companies breathing down my neck.

The difference was night and day. Without the administrative bloat of insurance billing, I finally became the doctor I trained to be:

• Time: I went from seeing 20 patients a day to seeing six or eight.
• Access: My patients can text me directly. We have hour-long conversations instead of 10-minute sprints.
• Cost: By cutting out the intermediary, I'm able to offer wholesale pricing on labs and imaging that are often 90% cheaper than hospital rates. That $300 thyroid test from my previous job? I now offer that for $8.

I took my own family off the grid

Once I saw how much better medicine functioned without traditional insurance interference, I took the ultimate leap. I took my wife and children, now 9 and 6, off our health insurance plan.

Instead, we joined a medical cost-sharing community. It isn't insurance; it's a community of members who share each other's large, unexpected medical expenses. When I combined a DPC membership for our routine care with a health share for the big stuff, I realized I had found a better way to protect my family — and was paying far, far less for it.

The math backs up my decision

To understand why we left, look at the cost of childbirth. When our first child was born under a supposedly high-end traditional insurance plan, we still walked away owing about $10,000 after paying our insurance premiums. We were paying twice: once for the premium and again for the actual care.

My wife spent hours of her precious maternity leave arguing with insurance companies about the services we received in the hospital. When our infant son was hospitalized a few months later, she was back on the phone again, having to advocate for his coverage during the time of a family crisis. We spent years paying off the cost of the birth and his illness.

With our second child, we looked at the numbers through the lens of a cost-share program. On a plan like ours, the Initial Unshareable Amount (IUA) — the part we pay before the community kicks in — was only $1,500.

Beyond that $1,500, the community shared the rest. We didn't have to spend my wife's recovery time fighting with a claims adjuster or waiting for pre-authorizations. We knew exactly what our responsibility was, and more importantly, we knew our family was covered by a community, not a corporation.

I feel like I took back control

As a physician, I've seen the insurance trap from both sides. We've been conditioned to believe that without a blue or green plastic card in our wallets, we are unsafe.

The reality is that for some, traditional insurance has become a barrier to care rather than a bridge. By opting out and pairing Direct Primary Care with a health share, I've reclaimed my time as a doctor and my peace of mind as a father. I'm no longer waiting for an insurance company to tell me how to care for my kids or my patients. As a doctor and as a father, for the first time in my career, I feel truly secure.

• Where I live, some parents enter a lottery to choose their child's school.
• I expected my son would end up where his older sister is, but he was waitlisted.
• He's now attending our local middle school and I'm seeing some unexpected benefits.

I love living in Washington, DC, but navigating the complex public and charter school admissions system is tough.

Students have the right to attend their neighborhood school, and many do. However, every year thousands of parents choose to apply to public schools in different neighborhoods or publicly funded charter or magnet schools throughout the city.

There are rarely enough spots to meet demand at the more desirable schools or specialty schools, ranging from arts and hospitality to college-prep programs and the sciences. To decide who gets to go where, DC instituted a lottery system.

Parents across the city often create spreadsheets to track programs and their child's odds of getting into a particular program, before entering a lottery, ranking schools in order of preference, and hoping for the best. Such an uncertain system makes planning difficult and sometimes leads to unpleasant surprises. That was the case with my son's foray into middle school.

I thought I had found the perfect middle school for my son

When my son entered his last year of elementary school, I thought I knew what his next steps would be. For years, I assumed that he would follow in his big sister's footsteps and attend an International Baccalaureate charter school starting in 6th grade.

The charter school isn't perfect; no school is. However, my daughter, now a junior, often says she enjoys school, which is a shocking statement for a kid of any age, let alone a teenager. An environment where at least some kids are happy to go every day would be reason enough for me to send my son there. However, I was also convinced the school's rigorous program and strong emphasis on world cultures would be a perfect fit for him. After all, he is a triple citizen and a world traveler at heart. I also appreciate the school's diversity and range of classes, from sneaker culture to advanced sciences.

Although a spot for my son was never guaranteed, I assumed his sibling preference would help secure one. I was in for a rude awakening.

I had to face reality

When my son was put on the waitlist after the first round of admissions, I didn't panic. Instead, I spent most of the summer in denial, convinced that if I just waited long enough, he would get in eventually.

The week before school started, I had to face reality. No spots were available for my son at the school I had grown to love and was convinced would be perfect for him.

Without a viable alternative, I enrolled him in our local middle school, which I thought was very large and very chaotic. I kept telling my son how excited I was for him to start middle school, but I couldn't hide my worry.

I was nervous about sending him to a large school

My son's elementary school had about 400 kids total, from pre-K4 to 5th grade. For a big city, it's a small school where most teachers know all the kids, and the community is tight-knit. I worried about how my son would transition to a large school with nearly 1400 students across just three grades, in a building that occupies nearly an entire city block. Despite my worry, he walked in with confidence on his first day.

Not everything about such a big change was easy. My son got lost a few times trying to find his classes. While many of the other incoming sixth graders knew each other from elementary school, my son didn't know a soul. He was upset when recess, his favorite part of the day, was cut short because other kids wouldn't stop talking. It's almost impossible to get a timely email response from the school administration, who seem swamped by the sheer number of students. Still, my son rolled with the punches and started to adjust.

I now see the benefits of a neighborhood school

Even though my son had to start his middle school social life from scratch, he quickly found his crew: other kids who love soccer. He first spotted potential friends by looking for kids wearing Real Madrid jerseys and kicking a soccer ball around at recess. Once he found his tribe, he could easily meet friends after school for walks to our local playground and pizza shop. Those are things he wouldn't have been able to do if he had gotten into the school I had been hoping for, which draws students from across the city. Within a few weeks, he rattled off at least a dozen new friends' names. I wondered whether he could have made friends as easily at the smaller charter school I wanted him to go to, with a smaller pool of potential friends.

I also appreciate the resources such a big school has, including a range of after-school activities. Although my son hasn't wanted to try most of them, I appreciate that options like an archery team and a Rubik's Cube club are available to him.

There are other benefits as well. Because our neighborhood is just over a mile from our home, my son can easily walk or take a short bus ride there and back, giving him even more independence. Not having to drive him saves me at least seven hours a week, and the school's proximity to our house gives my son more free time.

Now that we are well into the school year, I realize I should have given my son more credit for adaptability. I also should have been more open-minded about what kind of school would be "right" for my son. Although I am still sad that he doesn't get to attend the same school as his sister, I now know there is more than one answer to what makes a good school.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jeff Kinney, the 55-year-old author of the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series, who lives in Plainville, Massachusetts. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I wrote "Diary of a Wimpy Kid," I worked on it for eight or nine years without thinking I was writing a book for kids.

I thought I was writing a book for grown-ups that would feel like "The Wonder Years" or "A Christmas Story" — looking back on childhood through the lens of an adult.

The first thing that surprised me was that my publisher said I'd actually written a children's series; it caused a lot of cognitive dissonance.

But what also surprised me was that kids understood the irony in the books. They understand that Greg is an unreliable narrator; they seem to get the joke.

After writing the series, and after raising two kids of my own — ages 21 and 23 — I've learned a few things about kids. Here's my best advice about getting kids to read, screen time, and more — plus a few things I'd go back and change if I could.

1. To get kids to read, feed their interests

I recently heard author Jack Gantos say that after dinner, he and his family would get out their books and read. I think that's really cool and also very old-fashioned, in a way. I wish we'd done it when raising our kids.

With reading, I think the most important thing you can do is feed your kids' interests, whether they're interested in Pokémon cards or sharks or tornadoes. Get them books or magazines that speak to their interests, rather than trying to give them books that we read as kids or books that are too high-minded for their age level.

A lot of authors who write for kids start with some sort of a lesson, and there's a time and place for that. But kids read for the same reason that adults read: to be entertained. If we start from a position of trying to teach kids a lesson, they'll sniff that out and turn away from it.

It's really important to encourage kids down a path that gets them reaching for the next book. I want them to feel a feeling of success in having finished a book because that's an important act of completion. But mostly, I'd like them to keep reading, whatever form that might take.

2. Listen to them

In everyday parenting, sitting at dinner with our kids and hearing about their day without judgment is a really good foundation. Just about everything that kids today are going through, we've been through in some form. The most powerful thing that we can say to kids is "I understand," or "I've been there myself," and share stories, making sure that they feel seen and heard.

As parents, we should make ourselves vulnerable to our kids by telling them about the struggles that we went through.

If we do that without moralizing and without judgment, I think it draws us closer to our kids and turns us into a resource for them.

3. Envision your future relationship

I've always thought about my relationship with my kids by imagining, How do I want our relationship to look when my kids are adults? I've tried to anticipate that and treat my kids that way the whole time.

I think it's working out because my kids will call me and want to go see the Patriots or the Celtics with me. I think that's partially because I've always had this version of our relationship in mind.

4. Don't get too wrapped up in kids' sports

As parents, we live and die by our kids' successes in sports. I certainly got too caught up in it and couldn't really anticipate that there would be a life beyond sports for my kids.

If I were to go back in time, I probably would change my approach on that. We like to see our kids succeed, and of course, sports is a big stage where there's a lot wrapped up in their success, including social issues and self-esteem.

When our kids are thriving, we feel really good for them, and when they're failing, it's tough for them and us. I can understand why that happens with parents, but I can also see that it's good to take a step back.

5. Help them understand that social media manipulates

Social media bullying is something that we never had to face growing up, and it's really unfortunate and damaging.

Screen time has changed things — you see studies finding that kids are dating a lot less, and there's a loneliness epidemic.

As parents, we can help kids by educating them and helping them understand that social media companies are incentivized to make you spend more time on your screens. The more that my kids, who grew up immersed in the social media world, began to understand that, the more they wanted to move away from it.

They get out there in the world — touch grass, play sports, and pick up basketball. My son will put lockouts on his social media.

It's important for us to think for ourselves before we turn to AI

As AI becomes a part of schoolwork and daily life, my concern is that AI makes a lot of things very easy.

At times, I look for solutions through AI that I could conjure up myself, so I worry about how that rewires the brain when you feel like there's always an agent that can solve your problem for you. It could reduce your own capacity for problem-solving.

It's really important for kids to be able to think for themselves before turning to the tool.

To counteract that, getting out in the world and interacting with one another is really important. Put kids into social situations; for example, my son has been working as a bookseller this past year, where he's had to interact with lots of different types of people and solve problems.

A lot of kids or young people in this generation are more isolated. They spend a lot more time in their rooms on their phones, and so I think that getting them out there interacting with other human beings is going to give them a competitive advantage.