• The pandemic created uncertainty about the upcoming school year, so we chose an outdoor school.
• The school offered unique opportunities and a learning environment where my kids thrived.
• They missed out on a library and gym, and struggled to adjust to public school, but they loved it.

In 2019, my 5-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter were excited to start their first year of public school. But like millions of students in March of 2020, they never got to finish the school year.

The COVID pandemic closed the classrooms, forcing my husband and me to rethink how we wanted to handle our children’s education. An outdoor learning school at The Learning Tree, a local day care, became our solution.

The unique education exceeded our expectations in every way.

Why we chose an outdoor learning school

The pandemic made us nervous to send our kids back to school after summer break. We were told that if someone in their class contracted COVID, the entire class would shut down for two weeks. This wasn’t feasible for us as parents with full-time jobs, plus it would disrupt the learning experience for our kids.

That summer, the day care our kids attended prior to starting school announced a new opportunity: a K/1 program focused on interactive, accelerated education. It promised small class sizes (roughly 12 students per class), project-based and student-led learning, and academics balanced with outdoor activities and healthy habits.

Despite the $125 weekly tuition fee per child, we were sold on smaller classes, less exposure to others, and the included after-school care.

We enrolled our kids for the 2020-2021 school year: our daughter in kindergarten and our son in first grade. When the school added second grade the following year and then third grade the year after, we stayed.

We missed out on traditional opportunities, but gained so much more

We didn’t plan on sending our kids to a private program for most of their elementary school years. But after comparing what public school offered that The Learning Tree didn’t, and vice versa, the outdoor learning school was a no-brainer.

At The Learning Tree, there was no library, computer lab, or even a cafeteria. They didn’t have art, music, or gym classes. The playground was small, and there was no option for gifted testing.

However, they did have an in-ground swimming pool, and swimming was built into the curriculum during warm months. A mile-long nature trail and morning fitness exercises replaced the gym. Students helped to build gardens and grow food, which made its way into their lunches. Most notably, screen time was minimal — almost nonexistent.

There was also more parental involvement. We went kayaking on the river as part of a history lesson, and we always had special celebrations for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Instead of reading math word problems, they acted them out in real time with things like farmers’ markets and food prep. Projects, not worksheets, were a focal point for each grade. And since students played a role in their own education and pacing, there was no need for a separate “gifted” curriculum.

Transitioning back to the ‘real world’ was a tough lesson

The original K/1 program added a new grade each year, up to fifth grade. However, we pulled our children out when they started fourth grade to give them time to transition back into public education before middle school. Where we live, fifth grade is at the middle school, and we felt like jumping from outdoor learning to a public middle school would be too stressful.

Both of our kids already had lots of friends in public school, so it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to them. Still, it was challenging.

They went from spending most of the day outside to getting only 20 minutes of recess. Classes were much larger, so they didn’t have the opportunity to learn at their own pace. They had more rules and a more rigid structure to follow. There was more sitting and busywork than they were used to.

They missed the kindness and genuine interest of their teachers at their old school. They also lacked the opportunities to guide their own education and pursue their own interests in the classroom.

While we loved our time at the outdoor learning school, all good things must end. Our kids gained a solid foundation of work ethic, self-discovery, and leadership that continues to help them in and out of the classroom, and we’d do it again in a heartbeat — pandemic or no pandemic.

• My mother’s husband died, so she’s spending the holidays with me for the first time in years.
• I have to be there for her emotionally and financially this Christmas, but I’m already at my limit.
• I’m trying not to buckle under all this pressure.

I have not spent Christmas with my mother in more than a decade. We have spent our Christmases apart simply because of geography. We’ve been living on opposite sides of the country: a five-hour flight or a 26-hour car ride through unpredictable weather.

So, she’s kept to herself for the holidays, and I’ve become the keeper of Christmas for my immediate family. Even as my sons grew up and moved away, taking on their own roles to make our holidays special, I’m still the list-maker, the “don’t forget” reminder, and the decider in all things.

My four sons, all between 25 and 31 years old, have helped lighten my load over the years, especially as their partners have come onto the scene. Christmas was just starting to take on a new, easier shape.

But this year, my mother lost her husband of nearly 40 years, so she’s coming to visit, and I’m realizing how far I will need to stretch my budget.

I have to be my mother’s Santa this year

At first, I didn’t really think about how my mother’s arrival might change my own role for the holidays. I just thought about my mom, exhausted and heartbroken and unmoored by the loss of the husband she has lived with for more than half her life.

But as she gets ready to fly to me for Christmas, I’m realizing she’s going to need me to be her Santa.

My mom needs a Santa. She has suffered this year in a way I cannot even imagine. She needs soothing; she needs to be reintroduced to a big family Christmas. She needs a stocking filled with fun, thoughtful trinkets. She needs me to make this year extra magical, and honestly, I’m worried I’m not up to the task.

I’m struggling to keep up with everything this Christmas

I’m finding this Christmas overwhelming because everyone in the family needs me for different reasons. My kids need me to bring them together, to cook for them and bake for them, and organize a big rental space for the group of us.

I’m also paying attention to everyone’s finances, thinking about who is doing well and who is not. I’m thinking about who might need a bit more and how I can give a bit more without playing favorites. How can I afford a bit more?

This is, perhaps, the crux of Christmas this year. The weight of giving to my children and my mother when they all need more. Whether it’s holiday gifts, time, or food, everyone needs me to be their person this year.

Even though everyone in the house will be a grown-up, I’m left feeling, for all intents and purposes, like the only grown-up for the holidays.

I’m struggling financially

I’m worried that I simply cannot afford to be Santa for everyone — not this year. Like many others, I have lost job after job in 2025. I am swimming just below the surface of losing everything, and I can’t seem to come up for air.

I know that no one in my family expects a lot for Christmas, but even a little something to make the day special for each person who so deeply deserves it will be a struggle. There are 10 people in our family, and $100 each means $1,000. We all know that $100 each is next to no budget at all.

And so this year, I’m getting creative. I’m buying secondhand gifts. I’m trying to become a crafty person to create something meaningful for all of my loved ones. I’m wishing I had helpful elves to take on some of my Santa tasks. I’m actively choosing to leave the stress of trying to find work at the door until after the holiday. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.

I’m focusing on giving my mother support

My mother’s first Christmas as a widow can’t be consumed by my own stress. She needs comfort. She needs family. She needs joy. Luckily, all of that is free.

She needs me to be the grown-up in the house. She needs me to be Santa. They all do, and I refuse to buckle under the weight of it.

Instead, I’m going to choose to feel grateful that I have all of this love in my life.

• Much of the AI-discussion, both hopes and fears, centers on efficiency and cost-cutting.
• At buyout firm Tide Rock, there’s a “mandate” to not use AI resources to cut costs, says its CEO.
• Ryan Peddycord walked Business Insider through how the firm uses AI to grow businesses.

Most fears and hopes surrounding AI center on its ability to save on labor costs. Whether it’s Jamie Dimon predicting a three-and-a-half-day workweek, the chorus of CEOs saying that AI will help its workers get more done, or the research predicting potentially catastrophic white-collar job cuts, the focus is on efficiency.

But at one investing firm, cost-cutting is practically a forbidden word.

“The mandate across the company is don’t talk about using our resources in AI or tech to cut costs or create efficiencies,” Tide Rock CEO Ryan Peddycord told Business Insider.

The firm has had AI engineers for two years, but they’re aimed at growing business, not cutting, said Peddycord.

The San Diego and New York-based firm, which invests in smaller businesses than your typical private-equity giants, does not use debt to finance its acquisitions. It manages $1 billion, including its current investments and dry powder. It has done over 50 acquisitions, with growth, not just financial engineering, as its goal.

“Our foundation is, and our principle is, that we are focused on being growth engines for these businesses, and that’s where we want to focus our resources,” Peddycord said.

Peddycord spoke to Business Insider about how the firm’s use of AI fits into its business model and gave some real-world examples of where it has made an impact.

Tide Rock’s model

The company buys founder-run businesses when founders have “a catalyst to change,” like their own looming retirement or an illness in their family, which means they’re much more protective of the asset they’re selling than your typical financial investor.

They then focus on growing those companies, which means Tide Rock hires chief marketing officers and chief revenue officers “who know how to run businesses” instead of your typical private equity partners, Peddycord said.

The firm’s companies have seen organic revenue growth of 24% a year since Tide Rock was launched 13 years ago, said Peddycord. (He also said the firm has only lost money on one deal over that time period.)

They’re looking for a way to monetize what they built over time, but really just as important to them is for their brand and their legacy and their employees to be able to kind of continue on without them,” Peddycord said.

For founders like this, the story of growth is an essential reason they’d choose to sell to Tide Rock. As such, any discussion of using AI to cut employees or costs is anathema to their sales pitch, whereas AI for growth is a selling point.

AI is becoming an integral part of the firm’s strategy, but they’ve been doing this for years before the advent of LLMs some operational best practices in a library of over 100 videos and 500 pages of documentation.

“A CEO of a portfolio company has access to certain information, a controller has access to a different set of information, a VP of sales has access to information,” Peddycord said.

AI tools have become another operational best practice that the firm shares across the companies it manages, which it tracks in a library of 100 videos and 500 pages of documentation.

The firm also has other centralized resources in-house, “as a bridge” to get the businesses to a place where they can operate on their own, including a centralized talent acquisition team and centralized chief marketing and revenue officers.

This has led to a world where the firm has, for example, been able to integrate a customer relationship management system in “30 to 45 days” instead of “12 to 18 months,” said Peddycord.

How does AI fit in

The company is happy to use third-party applications that can cut costs, but it’s a waste of their own resources, said Peddycord.

“I have a belief that everybody’s so focused on cost-cutting that third parties are going to pick off all the low-hanging fruit there,” Peddycord said. “So us trying to invest our dollars to go create things that other people are creating and probably investing more dollars to do isn’t the right place to spend our money.”

The first tool they invested in was finding companies to purchase. The data on platforms like Pitchbook and Crunchbase is “very, very incomplete” at the sub-$10 million EBITDA level the firm invests in, said Peddycord, so the firm first invested “heavily” in ways to find these companies and start pitching them.

Soon, the firm realized that this ability to find a lot of “non-public information” about companies and then reach out to them would also be “super relevant” for their portfolio companies when they’re looking for new customers, Peddycord said.

Peddycord provided the example of identifying potential customers for its manufacturing portfolio companies that sell to the government, aerospace, or defense industries.

“When Blue Origin wins a large contract, there is some public information that we are able to gather to identify what it is that they won the contract for, and we can even reverse engineer what sub-component parts and services are going to be necessary to then go create that,” Peddycord said.

From there, the firm’s portfolio companies could “get in the door earlier” to offer their sub-component manufacturing help, Peddycord said.

“In those high-growth areas like aerospace and defense, they are working as hard to find new qualified suppliers as we are to find new customers,” Peddycord said.

• Jane Post, 81, lives in a small mobile home that she calls “The Teapot.”
• She lives on her younger daughter’s land and enjoys freedom and independence with family close by.
• Though her home is small, she has everything she needs, and shares it with her animals.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation between writer Jennifer Jane and her mom, Jane Post. It has been edited for length and clarity.

After moving out of the home I loved and lived in for 31 years, it took me a few years to settle on a housing situation that suited me. I was used to living alone and liked it, but my home became too much work and responsibility once I reached my mid-70s, and I needed something different.

I lived with a friend for a few months, then moved across the country from Florida to New York in 2020 to live with my older daughter for a couple of years. However, neither of those arrangements was the right fit for me.

I call my small mobile home ‘The Teapot’

I left New York and moved back to Florida without a plan. My younger daughter offered me a mobile home on her property to stay in while I figured it out. I moved in and didn’t move out. It felt just right. It is small and easy for me to take care of. It’s the perfect size to fit the things I hold dear. I call it “The Teapot.”

I have always loved teapots. I once read a story about a retired Colonel who bought a very tiny cottage in England that had belonged to a little old lady who used it as a tearoom for walkers that wandered by. It was so small that it had just one tiny table and two chairs. The Colonel said it was like living in a teapot. I recalled this story when I stepped into the mobile home, and I knew I had at last found my home sweet home…The Teapot.

I like nearly everything about living in my Teapot. Old people often have balance issues… if I lose my balance, I always have a nearby wall, table, or counter to bounce off of. The only thing I don’t like is that there aren’t enough electrical outlets.

I share my home with my animals, and everything I love is close by

I share my little home with a cast of characters: Penny, the tubby brown mystery mutt mix; Choccy, the chihuahua who has difficulty walking due to old age; Little Thing, a three-legged tiny chihuahua mix; Pinkie, the cat; Agatha Raisin, the bantam chicken; Sarose, her evilness, a seabrite chicken; Jaeger, the barn cat; and then there’s me, the human who does their bidding. My animals bring a huge amount of joy into my small space.

My day begins around 5 am when I start taking care of my animals. I take the ones with special needs outside one by one. I feed and water them. I make my tea. I take Penny for a walk, then put the chickens outside in their pen. I make more tea. I feed and water the wild birds.

I spend the afternoon doing whatever I want. It’s heavenly to sit and watch the birds at the feeders, just six feet away, and sip tea. Everything I want is close by and easy to reach. There is a stack of books sitting on a table to be read.

There are shallow boxes of fossilized shells on top of the two chickens’ indoor overnight pen. I love looking through the shells, thinking about how to make them into lovely works of art. I can’t do that if they are in a box out of sight. I have made many beautiful things in my small world. I think the smallness helps me to focus and be even more creative.

I love that my two great-grandsons, ages 4 and 8, who live nearby, enjoy visiting my little enchanted world. They pop in and out to spend time with me and my collection of little creatures. They feel the magic and love the Teapot as I do.

My home makes me feel happy, even in difficult times

I was very ill recently, and all I could manage was to feed all my animals and get them in and out, then I had to go back to bed, too sick to read or watch a movie. As I lay there, I really felt as if the Teapot was giving me comfort like a warm hug. I could look around and see, with one glance, all the things I hold dear that bring me happy memories.

When you get old, the list of things you’ll never get to do, have, or own might seem never-ending, and past memories are your lifeline. Every memory I’ve fit into my little home brings me happiness and comfort.

Living in a small space is not for everyone, but for me, the Teapot is heaven on Earth. I’m in my 80s now. My younger daughter is nearby if I need anything or want company, but I am able to live independently in a way that works for me. I can have everything that’s important to me at this time of my life — family, freedom from the responsibilities and demands of home ownership, my animals, privacy, peace, and most everything I love at my fingertips.

• My dad died unexpectedly of a heart attack.
• We didn’t know what arrangements to make after his passing because we hadn’t talked about it.
• I didn’t want the same experience for my son, so I’m planning while I’m healthy.

Sitting across from the funeral director, I held my husband’s hand. I needed to feel something real while my body moved between sadness and shock. I glanced at my mom to steady her and at my husband for support. There was one person noticeably missing from our group: my dad.

The day before, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be spending my afternoon at a funeral home. I had talked to my dad that night and made plans for our weekly dinner. When I hung up the phone, I had no clue that was the last time I’d speak to him. There was no inner hunch that doom was on the horizon, and nothing that said he wasn’t feeling well. So, the next morning, when the ER doctor told my mom, husband, and me that they tried to revive him and failed — I didn’t know how to process the information. Dying of a heart attack made no sense. I thought we had plenty of time.

Throughout my life, we had relied on him to answer the hard questions, and we desperately needed him now. It had only been three hours since his unexpected passing, and here we were planning his funeral. I had no idea what he wanted.

He was healthy and active

I recall sitting at my parents’ dinner table with my then-9-year-old son. He drank his milk while my dad gestured to the desk behind him. The white stack of papers (the size of a small novel) stood out against the stack of magazines. “Do you want to read my will?” my dad asked with a wink.

I paused.

Not really what I’d call an uplifting dinnertime read. At 71 years young, he was active and in good shape — a recent retiree ready to travel and spend time with his grandkids. I didn’t want to think about his potential decline — my dad was invincible.

He never caught the colds and stomach flus I brought home from school. He rarely missed work, and I figured I wouldn’t have to deal with this anytime soon. My grandparents lived well into their 80s — my great-grandmother until 100. I did the quick math — that was at least another 10 years or more.

I politely declined the read, telling him there’d be plenty of time to cover that another day. “That’s all right,” he began with a smirk,” I fell asleep when I tried to proofread it.” And that was that. There was no talk of caskets or whether he preferred The Beatles or the Rolling Stones to be played at his funeral.

No reason to discuss his death when he was so full of life. That night, we finished our hamburgers, and his will stayed on the desk, gathering dust, for the next year. And then time ran out.

Not knowing what my father wanted made it hard to grieve

This memory ran through my mind as I tried to answer the questions the funeral director asked. It was hard to concentrate with this huge lump in my stomach. Mostly, I wanted to cry and run away. Even hiding under the covers right now sounded like a good option.

I concentrated on the warmth of my husband’s hand and answered some basic questions, such as where my dad was born and his age. I failed when asked for his Social Security number. My mom tried to take over, but she was so distressed that her answers were slow and hard to access. I wanted to talk to my dad. I wish I had. This would be so much easier.

Looking at my husband, I immediately thought about my son sitting in a similar seat for us. My shoulders tensed. My tears started again, but this time because I imagined an older version of my kid stumbling through unknown answers with no space to feel his feelings. I did not want this overwhelming ordeal for him. If I could make it easier or eliminate this step completely, I would.

My husband and I made plans so my son doesn’t have to

Later that night, when my husband and I had a quiet moment alone, I told him I wanted to write out our death details for our son. He looked surprised and whispered, “We have plenty of time.” I’m sure that was meant to reassure me, but it was exactly what I said to my dad not that long ago. My mom heart would do anything to protect our son’s space to grieve. I wanted cozy childhood memories to comfort him when one of us couldn’t — not images of his mom or dad in a casket.

A few weeks later, as I processed my dad’s passing, my husband and I talked about our own. We created a checklist of what we wanted, including which funeral home and cemetery to contact. My husband and I added doodles and love notes to the list and made sure our will was in order, too. Instead of freaking my 9-year-old with more morbid information, we told trusted family members where to find all the papers. Fingers crossed, it will sit in my desk drawer gathering dust for many more years to come.

• I experienced sticker shock when I visited a nursery to buy a holiday tree this year.
• A 10-foot tree would have cost me $370 if I’d gone ahead and bought it.
• I remembered being happy as a child in the 1970s with a 4-foot Charlie Brown-style Christmas tree.

It’s traditional for our family to go Christmas tree shopping together, even though my kids are now 15 and 17 and practically leading their own lives.

This year was no exception. We found a brief window between my daughter’s clock-in time for her part-time job at a gift store and my son’s dentist appointment.

In previous years, we had invariably bought a tree from a Vermonter who set up camp in the parking lot of our local church.

When we lived in New York City before our children arrived, my husband and I would buy one from a friendly sidewalk vendor with a truck full of fir trees.

We decided to visit a nursery to purchase our Christmas tree

There was something magical about picking it out, throwing it over your shoulder, and bringing it up to your apartment, despite the pine needles that dropped in the elevator.

Still, as an immigrant from the UK, where people literally drag them home or transport them in the back of their vehicle, I still get a kick from seeing cars on the road with a tree strapped to the roof.

The guy from Vermont had failed to make the journey to our suburb for some reason this year. We chose to visit a nursery based on a friend’s recommendation.

It was packed, but there were scores of trees remaining tethered to poles.

Since it’s my daughter’s last Christmas before she heads off to college, we decided to make it extra special by getting a taller tree than usual.

The price of the tree was off the charts

She got first dibs on choosing, and after browsing the 9-foot and 10-foot sections, settled on the third one she saw.

I strolled off to look at some garlands, only to see my husband frantically waving his arms at me. “Get back in the car,” he mouthed, not wanting anyone to hear.

It turned out the tree that our daughter selected cost $370 — the equivalent of $37 a foot. I gasped in shock. I knew we lived in one of the most expensive counties in New York — if not the US — but the price was off the charts.

There was no way I was going to pay close to $400 for something that would grace our living room for less than a month. Even the kids acknowledged that it wasn’t worth the cash.

My childhood Christmas tree was recycled each year from the garden

The experience prompted me to reflect on my childhood in northeast England during the 1970s. A distant memory stirred in my mind.

I recalled how, several Decembers in a row, my dad dug up a 4-foot fir— for some reason nicknamed George — which was growing in our front garden.

George was so small and sparse, he could have belonged to Charlie Brown. But he’d replant him in a pot, and my sister, Alison, and I would decorate him with lights, tinsel, and ornaments.

Then, at the beginning of January, Dad would put him back in the ground until the end of that year. I suppose we were a green family, long before it became a thing.

I mentioned our search for a more affordable tree to my sister

George was unearthed one year too many and then died. It was a sad day. We had always been thrilled to watch George enter and exit the house every Christmas.

After the sticker shock over the $370 tree, I considered telling my kids that we would plant another George. But we ended up buying another 10-footer for just over $200 from a roadside stand.

I mentioned our search for a more affordable tree to Ali. We reminisced about George. Two days later, she sent me a black-and-white photo from 1976 over WhatsApp.

She’d found a picture of 8-year-old me standing in our yard next to George. My mom had kept it at the bottom of a drawer all these years.