I spent summers volunteering and attending anti-war protests. I’m giving my kids manicures and lacrosse tournaments instead.

The sun blazed as I led a group of kids to the swimming hole at The Farm, an intentional community in Summertown, Tennessee.

The water shimmered peacefully, yet I felt a sense of detachment and quietly stepped away. It was part of a summer volunteer program that provided students from Nashville with a chance to experience nature.

At 17, I realized my resistance wasn’t about rejecting the experience. It was a sign that I was still finding my own path. Earlier, at 15, I had begged to wear hoop earrings at my Catholic school — wanting to fit in, to feel a little stylish, a little seen.

When I found myself volunteering in a place where trends and appearances carried no weight, it felt like I was being pulled in the opposite direction of what I craved.

My parents raised me to be frugal

While my friends enjoyed summer vacations at all-inclusive resorts, my childhood adventures took me to Nepal, China, and India, where I explored monasteries and temples. Over time, I began to envy the idea of simpler weekends, joining in to celebrate the Tennessee Titans or Vanderbilt football. Instead, I spent my weekends at an intentional community, where I learned a different kind of connection and purpose.

My weekends were shaped by its culture: volunteering with nonprofits and attending anti-war protests. The Farm still has active members today, including my parents, committed to values like nonviolence and an aversion to anger. My upbringing focused on being educated, thoughtful, and frugal, and I appreciate those qualities deeply. But the more I got to know myself, the more I realized I needed something different.

I moved to New York City and then the suburbs

At 21, I left for New York City. I moved into a walk-in closet in a Brooklyn apartment with three roommates. I held two internships, one at a talent agency and another at a local paper. I was scraping by, dragging grocery bags up three flights of stairs, but I was charting my own course. Over time, the hustle wore on me, and I found myself longing for stability, the kind I’d once resisted.

Eventually, I built a life with more balance, moving to the Maryland suburbs. Marriage brought calendars, routines, and family dinners. I leaned into them. I became a planner. I found comfort in color-coded schedules, meal prep, and order. I taught my daughters to join in — to be confident in a group of their peers, participate in team sports, and embrace trends they enjoyed. This felt rebellious in its own way.

I’m raising my daughters differently

Now, as a single mother raising two daughters, I still choose structure, but with intention. Our days are filled with lacrosse tournaments, varsity cheer, and church group. I used to think fitting in was selling out. Now I see how vital it is. Belonging builds confidence.

Whether they get manicures or take day trips to shopping districts in nearby Georgetown and SoHo, these rituals help my daughters feel socially grounded so they can shine in the ways I truly care about: creativity, academic originality, and the courage to speak their minds.

Of course, sometimes I’m still reminded of my hippie childhood. My daughters started a garden this summer, fresh dirt under their manicured nails as they basked in the sun. We return to The Farm sometimes, for holidays. I’ve learned to enjoy new experiences, too. Take food, for example. I didn’t have my first hamburger until eighth grade. Now, I’ve more than made up for it. Whether it’s ceviche, carpaccio, or a perfectly cooked steak, I’ve discovered a whole new world of flavors and learned that honoring your past doesn’t mean you can’t savor the present.

This spring, my daughters returned from a spring break cruise with a lacrosse stick and a Catholic Bible in hand. I smiled as they ran through the door, the comfort of home calling them back. Did I catch a glimpse of hoop earrings under one girl’s hair? Maybe.

And I didn’t wince at the full calendar ahead. I exhaled into it.

Peace, it turns out, doesn’t have to look like a mountaintop in Nepal or a meditation at The Farm. Sometimes, it’s found in the ordinary: a grocery list, a lacrosse uniform, a quiet night in a suburban rowhome that finally feels like mine.

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