We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

The Two-Track Life

A dear friend once observed that life perpetually runs on two tracks—a profound truth that has echoed through my thoughts for years. At any given moment, existence barrels along the high track, gathering momentum through adventures, meaningful connections, invigorating workouts, and robust health. Yet simultaneously it careens down the lower track, accumulating moments of loss, waves of overwhelm, and the inevitable physical challenges that accompany the mortal journey. This duality proves both exhausting and impossible to ignore.

Ezra Klein recently explored this very concept in a podcast interview with writer Kathryn Schulz, discussing her compelling memoir Lost and Found—a title that conjures childhood memories of classroom tables laden with forgotten mittens and lunch boxes while simultaneously offering a deeper metaphor for fate's capricious nature. Schulz articulates what many of us struggle to express, captured in a passage that resonates with particular clarity in these turbulent times:

"But even in the most peaceable of times, the extent to which we are confronting the world beyond our own immediate reality is a choice. There's always boundless suffering. There's always boundless beauty. It really is a matter of: Where do we look? And it's tough. You both have to do both at once—and can't do both at once. The question of what kind of balance you strike is infinitely interesting to me." 

Last night, I slipped away from book club early, seeking rest before 6am swim practice. Yet peace proved elusive as my mind churned with the political realities we'd dissected—shared frustrations, simmering anger, tentative hopes for moving forward. I attempted my familiar countdown from 100, desperate to abandon the evening's conversation and its underlying anxieties. Somewhere beyond 800, a restless sleep finally claimed me.

After this morning's workout and my requisite second cup of coffee, William called from Chiang Mai, his voice thick with culture shock. Fresh from a week in Japan's ordered precision, he now found himself navigating Thailand's vibrant chaos—an extreme example of balancing adventure's endless "ands" with finite reserves of energy. He and his travel companions wrestle with sleep deprivation, constant newness, foreign languages, and demanding physical activity. While their experience represents an amplified version, we all perform similar juggling acts within today's relentless pace.

Where do we look? The question haunts me as I consider Schulz's words. How do we honor suffering—both our own and others'—while simultaneously embracing joy in our fleeting existence? That narrow four-inch balance beam where Olympic gymnasts tumble offers another apt metaphor for this perpetual challenge. Yet in this moment, given our country's precarious state, that slender wooden beam seems more forgiving than the demands of our daily realities.

Perhaps the answer lies not in achieving perfect balance, but in accepting the wobble—recognizing that we cannot simultaneously hold all of life's contradictions without occasionally stumbling. The grace exists not in the steadiness, but in the getting back up, in choosing where to direct our gaze despite the dizzying motion of those dual tracks beneath our feet.

What We Share in the Dark

Our youngest son compelled us to attend the IMAX screening of Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning over the rainy Memorial Day weekend. Rob and I rarely venture to theaters, preferring our couch and easy chair with a handy remote for strategic snack breaks. But we've caught a few MI films theatrically, and the franchise's dramatic action and special effects justify the outing.

Final Reckoning could have benefited from a more ruthless editor, but delivered the promised high-stakes action. In one unbearably tense sequence, Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) tumbles around an unstable submarine 500 feet beneath the surface. I had to avert my eyes to keep my heart rate within reasonable bounds, and scanning our fellow theatergoers, I found every gaze locked on the screen—hands covering mouths, chewing suspended, bodies leaning forward as the music swelled.

The shared reactions reassured me because I often wonder if I'm alone in my responses. This collective experience somehow amplified my emotion, making it harder to dismiss the action as "just a movie." I looked around again near the film's end when Ving Rhames' character, Luther Stickell, speaks through a recording. His words prove inspiring and uplifting, and this time I watched hands rise to wipe away tears, heads nodding as the message echoed through the theater:

"Any hope for a better future comes from willing that future into being, a future reflecting the measure of good within ourselves. And all that is good inside us is measured by the good we do for others. We all share the same fate—the same future, the sum of our infinite choices. One such future is built on kindness, trust and mutual understanding, should we choose to accept it, driving without question towards a light we cannot see—not just for those we hold close but for those we'll never meet." —MI: Final Reckoning

More inspiring than most graduation addresses or recent political rhetoric, these words resonated beyond the theater's sound system. The writers seemed to speak directly to millions of moviegoers, asking us to consider what future we create daily, what world we want to inhabit. Observing the theater, many appeared equally moved, amplifying the effect. When the credits rolled, we applauded—something movie audiences once did routinely. My son stared wide-eyed, having never witnessed this ritual. Perhaps we needed that applause because we all crave shared experiences and inspiration.

The irony isn't lost on me that I found this connection in a darkened theater, surrounded by strangers, while working to maintain deeper friendships in my actual life. But sometimes the most unexpected moments remind us what we're missing—and what remains possible when we're willing to be moved together.

Connecting IRL

Men "wake up at 30 or 40 and say, 'I have no friends,'" notes Sam Graham-Felsen in his New York Times  piece of May 25. "They actually have a lifetime of friendships. But really, the issue is that they haven't put in the effort they've needed to. Guys forget that friendship is a relationship—it requires watering." Among suggested watering techniques: "TCS," which stands for text weekly, call monthly, see quarterly.

The sentiment echoes through Alison Espach's novel The Wedding People, (Henry Holt and Co. 2025) where characters lament their shrinking social circles: "I know. I pretty much don't know anyone anymore," one says. "Right? The only person I know now is basically my mom."

Every day, my inbox fills with LinkedIn and Facebook connection requests from virtual strangers—people I've never met or barely remember. I delete them reflexively, though the irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, shutting down digital overtures while craving real connection, someone to share the weight of menopause, children launching into adulthood, aging parents, and the relentless churn of alarming headlines.

My neighborhood friendships remain solid bedrock—women who walk and hike together, exchange hopeful texts, gather for book clubs and occasional weekend getaways, host potlucks where spouses mingle over wine and conversation. But busy-ness threatens to erode even these connections. We're pulled in every direction by emotional family demands, challening careers, and marriages that need tending.

When our kids were small, we gathered daily at the playground after pickup, dissecting the minutiae of our lives while children climbed and swung. Now we're lucky to manage quarterly gatherings where so much ground needs covering that evenings blur past in breathless summaries—trips, visits, life events floating through the air like paper airplanes, dipping and dodging before disappearing.

The pandemic certainly fractured something fundamental about friendship, drawing us inward like turtles into our shells, boxing us into separate houses where relationships flickered to life only through screens. I've never fully recovered my instinct to reach out first, perhaps too comfortable in the safety of husband, children, and work colleagues. But pangs of loss strike when I realize months have passed without seeing a dear friend—no shared celebration of our sons' college graduations, no updates on her ambitious landscaping project.

Making new, deeper connections feels like swimming upstream. At Masters swimming, friendly hellos and how-are-yous punctuate my arrival, but there's little opportunity for real conversation when your head spends most of its time underwater. My texts suggesting coffee dates disappear into digital silence, leaving relationships as shallow as the children's wading pool.

Graham-Felsen captures this modern friendship drought perfectly, even including comedian John Mulaney's sharp observation from Saturday Night Live: "If you think your dad has friends, you're wrong. Your mom has friends, and they have husbands. Those are not your dad's friends." While my husband actually maintains his friendships better than most, work and family obligations still vacuum up most of his available hours.

Graham-Felsen's insights apply far beyond men—to anyone navigating our modern world where social media, emails, and texts create the mirage of connection without delivering genuine intimacy. Perhaps it's time to do better, to become the friend I'd want to have. After all, these connections to friends and family represent our only true wealth.

Hope Blooming from the Mountains to the Prairies

I've just emerged from a whirlwind of college graduations—exhausted yet filled with hope that this fresh wave of educated, passionate young minds will help resurrect a forward-thinking, common-good mindset in our society. From the cavernous Events Center at CU Boulder to the elegant theater at University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, the commencement messages echoed with purpose: forge new paths, create meaningful change, develop ethical code, craft empathetic art. The unmistakable pride radiating from families, the unbridled joy of graduates, and yes, the stirring notes of Pomp and Circumstance all fueled our graduation weekends with a special energy.

Aden and I accompanied Nana to Chicago to see my niece (and goddaughter) Julia receive her degree from U of Illinois. We savored family celebrations at the rustic Firehouse of Chicago and at Biaggi's in Champaign (or perhaps it was Urbana—the twin cities blur together). Later, we gathered around worn wooden tables at Murphy's Pub, diving into drinking games where Nana, nursing her water with surprising competitive spirit, invented most of the rules to "Toast to the Governor." In a moment of unexpected sweetness, a young stranger passed Nana a vibrant bouquet of daisies through an open window—she attempted to gift them to Julia, but when my goddaughter graciously declined, Nana held court from her corner seat, flowers proudly displayed as we cycled through rounds of Irish poker and countless introductions to Julia's friends and their beaming families.

Brilliant sunshine blessed both graduation weekends, casting a golden glow on radiant faces and illuminating the contrasting landscapes—majestic mountains framing Boulder and gentle, tree-dotted plains stretching across Illinois. The ceremonial robes bestowed a democratic dignity on all graduates: deep navy blue with vibrant orange sashes at Illinois, while CU's black robes were adorned with distinguishing gold, purple, orange, and green sashes marking different fields of study. Across both campuses, impromptu celebrations with lemonade, water, and donuts materialized for parents and professors while recent graduates, still slightly bleary-eyed from previous celebrations, eagerly plotted their evening revelries.

Commencement speakers delicately balanced celebrating achievement with preparing these young adults for the complex, ever-shifting world awaiting them. It's no small feat to honor their accomplishments while simultaneously steeling them for inevitable setbacks and inspiring them to become architects of much-needed change. I find myself profoundly hoping these bright souls maintain their courage and determination—finding secure footholds within our society's somewhat fragile framework and propelling themselves forward and upward at every opportunity.