As locals gossip beneath the low-beamed ceiling of a coffee shop, I ask Audrey Ann Masur to speak up.

"I'm always trying to speak more quietly, so I'm not getting that stereotype," the 37-year-old from Indiana whispers across our table with a nervous smile, her decaf coffee steaming in the autumn chill.

We're in the Cotswolds, an 800-square-mile pocket of English countryside dotted with towns and villages. Masur and her young family moved here from South Carolina five years ago, when her husband was reposted by the US military.

Her accent has prompted older locals to corner her at the grocery store and press her on her political views, Masur says. So, she figures it's best to keep her voice down.

I hope Masur, who documents life in the Cotswolds on Instagram for her 13,700 followers, can help me understand why this area has become a hot spot for transatlantic elites in recent years. I want to know how locals are reacting as old British money and new international money meet and — as the American "invasion" headlines in the British press suggest — clash.

Masur is neither a billionaire nor a millionaire — "I drive a Honda Jazz," she says — but she has met some of the wealthy American newcomers at influencer events and watched businesses change in the relatively short time she has been here.

"There are a lot more places that want to please people of a certain socioeconomic status," Masur says.

Recent high-profile visitors to the area, which straddles six counties, include Taylor Swift, Eve Jobs, who married here in July, and JD Vance, whose security checkpoints put the sleepy village of Dean on lockdown in August. Others, like Masur, are calling it home. Ellen DeGeneres has lived here since 2024, and Beyoncé and Jay-Z are rumored to be looking for property.

This is part of a lucrative boom in Americans heading to the UK. In 2024, there were a record 5.6 million visits from the US, up half a million on the previous year. Those visitors spent a record £7.3 billion, or about $9.5 billion, in 2024 — £1.1 billion more than in 2023, according to data from VisitBritain.

They're also spending more: In 2024, adjusted for inflation, Americans spent £68 more per trip to the UK than they did in 2023.

Figures provided to Business Insider by the UK government show that the number of US nationals applying for British citizenship also hit a record high in the second quarter of 2025, following the inauguration of President Donald Trump. Between April and June, 2,194 Americans applied — up 50% on the same period last year.

From the sheer number of what sound like American accents I hear during my trip in late October — although I meet some Canadian ladies hurt by my assumption — it feels as though most have headed straight to the Cotswolds.

Two real estate professionals told me they are seeing the spoils of this trend: more American tech founders, media moguls, and billionaires looking for historic properties in the region.

"Once there's a critical mass of like-minded people in the area, it draws more and more people of that profile," says Harry Gladwin, a Cotswolder and partner at The Buying Solution, which advises wealthy foreigners on finding homes here.

Armand Arton, the founder of Arton Capital, which helps ultra-high-net-worth clients secure second homes and citizenships, says US politics has motivated a lot of his clients to seek homes in this part of rural England. But owning heritage properties — castles and country estates that many British aristocrats can no longer afford to maintain — is also about status.

"New money wants old-money trophy assets," Arton says.

The Battle of Little Tew

Nowhere is the tension between locals and new money, much of it American, clearer than in Little Tew. Many of the village's 500 residents have spent years protesting against plans by the billionaire Soho House executive Ron Burkle to build a sprawling estate on a 90-acre plot of land on its outskirts.

In a letter of objection, one villager described the scale of the project, which would involve building a country house, a highway, a lake, and a swimming pool, as "grotesque."

The matter was settled at a parish meeting in October, when 27 residents voted unanimously against the plans — that is, unless Burkle lodges an appeal or submits a revised application.

"We were concerned that this house would probably, if built, be underused," says Anthony Cripps, 59, a recruitment consultant who lives in the village and chaired the meeting.

Burkle hasn't addressed the plans in the press, and his office did not respond to a request for comment from Business Insider.

The David and Goliath battle unfolding in Little Tew echoes others in the Cotswolds, albeit on a smaller scale.

A 2024 report by Cotswold District Council found that second homes in the area are putting pressure on an already tight housing supply. Council data provided to Business Insider shows that the number of second homes has gradually risen each year since April 2021, when it first collected data. By April 2025, there were 1,597 second homes in the district — up 3.5% on the previous year and about 6.5% over four years.

A 100% Council Tax Premium introduced in April essentially doubled the bill paid by owners of furnished second homes, with the revenue going toward affordable housing and local services in the Cotswolds. It's one measure aimed at slowing the kind of rural gentrification that risks pricing out longtime, less affluent residents.

"It's seen as the playground of the rich and famous, but if you strip away that veneer, you do have quite a lot of rural isolation going on and poverty," says Paul Hodgkinson, a councillor whose constituency includes the tourist hot spot Bourton-on-the-Water.

The tension here isn't only between Americans and locals, but more broadly about what happens when wealth of any origin starts pouring into a region.

"I don't want to single out Americans," Hodgkinson says.

"It's not just about people from abroad buying second homes and holiday homes," he adds. "It's anyone."

UK government data shows that in 2024, the Cotswolds was among the least affordable places to live in England and Wales, with the average house costing 13.8 times the typical yearly salary of a full-time employee in the area, at £440,000 on £31,795.

Hodgkinson worries that in addition to worsening the housing crunch, more second-homers could have a cultural impact by hollowing out village life — locals congregating at the pub and organizing village fetes risk being replaced by wealthy visitors dropping by for short, luxury breaks.

'Americans are happy to spend more'

While some are uneasy about the changing Cotswolds, others see it as an opportunity.

In a snug four-table room up a narrow, creaking staircase at Stow-on-the-Wold's New England Coffee House, Alison Tighe, the town's mayor, tells me Americans are "bringing investment."

She gestures toward a kind of trickle-down logic. "When you have more investment in this area, you've not just got jobs for local people, you've also got improved services," Tighe says.

To Gladwin, the real estate agent and Cotswolds local, the influx of money has injected some dynamism into the area, which he says was once a "sleepy backwater" for retirees.

"Whether you want a vegan flat white, reformer classes, cryotherapy, or just a long walk with the dogs, you can do everything here," he says.

That much is clear at Daylesford Organic — effectively the Erewhon of the Cotswolds — where I see a woman inspecting £39 collagen and açai supplements as her cavapoo sniffs at a shelf lined with £28 jars of artisan hazelnut spread. Women in activewear holding green juices head into the connecting Bamford spa, where sound healing classes are on offer, and £235 toning massages await.

It's a far cry from the Cotswolds of old, with its muddy wellies and unpretentious tea rooms.

While the money transforming the Cotswolds isn't exclusively American, the US influence on the area's culture is on clear display during my trip.

Ten miles from Stow-on-the-Wold in Burford, Jack Forbes, the general manager of the Bull, a luxury hotel and group of restaurants with a distinctly Soho House feel, tells me businesses are "growing up."

He says Americans, who now make up as much as half of his clientele, are raising the bar in the Cotswolds and bringing with it US tipping culture.

"There's no doubt Americans are happy to spend more," he says.

Lauren O'Brian, the co-owner of The Sweet Shop in Burford, says that in recent years, more Americans have been stocking up on traditional candy — sherbet lemons, rhubarb and custard sweets, and Turkish delight. She thinks they're attracted by the quaint country life depicted in period dramas like "Downton Abbey."

A few doors down, Cindy Kosmala, the owner of Hugo Lovage Patisserie, tells me that American clients, including celebrities, are keeping her business alive.

I hear a similar story at D'Ambrosi Fine Foods back in Stow-on-the-Wold, where a rustic table piled with high-end British deli items sits beneath a taxidermied pheasant. Outside, the window display features packets of Reese's Pieces, Cracker Jack, and "All-American Pancake Mix" beneath a rolled-up American flag.

The 'Hamptons of England'

I ask the owner, Jesse D'Ambrosi, a Massachusetts native who opened the luxury deli six years ago, what she thinks of the Cotswolds being dubbed the "Hamptons of England." "I have said that," she says with a smile, "because it is."

The store's eclectic stock reflects how the Cotswolds' old-money sensibilities are increasingly being curated by and for newcomers with American twangs and expensive tastes.

Outside the coffee shop where we met, Masur and I prepare to say goodbye, and she gestures to Stow's high street.

"At all of these places, all of a sudden, they're serving more iced coffee, which I love — but this has to have something to do with more Americans coming through."

Whether these changes are everyone's cup of tea is a different matter.

• Michael Burry just started a group chat open to all of his paid subscribers on Substack.
• The chat quickly filled with jokes, memes, videos, and questions for Burry.
• The investor of "The Big Short" fame has pivoted from running a hedge fund to writing online.

Michael Burry just invited all of his paid subscribers to a group chat, and it's just as chaotic as you'd expect.

The investor of "The Big Short" fame pivoted this month from running a hedge fund to publishing a Substack named "Cassandra Unchained." It has amassed more than 97,000 subscribers since it launched on Sunday.

"This is a conversation space exclusively for paid subscribers—kind of like a group chat or live hangout," reads Burry's introductory post. "I plan to post updates that come my way, and you can jump into the discussion."

The first reply on the chat reads: "I think Dr. Burry just broke Substack."

Another early response jokes about Burry's disclosure this week that he owns bearish put options on Nvidia and Palantir stock: "I think Dr Burry is going to make more money from Substack than his NVDA and pltr puts 🤣"

A third poked fun at a potential spike in traffic to Substack. "Someone pray for substacks backend engineers."

"It's gonna be legendburry!!" one subscriber wrote, while another noted: "This chat is gonna be nuts."

"Bro don't allow anyone to start threads. This a spam fest," one concerned poster added.

Other subscribers rushed to post memes, videos, and even photos of Black Friday crowds. The questions to Burry ranged from who the next chair of the Federal Reserve might be, to how an 80-year-old should invest to prepare for a crash, to how the dollar stacks up against other currencies.

Burry resurfaced on X in late October after more than two years of silence, and has wasted no time issuing numerous warnings of an AI bubble and taking aim at key players such as Nvidia and Palantir.

The investor, who has 1.6 million X followers, is best known for predicting and profiting from the collapse of the US housing bubble that triggered a global financial crisis, and for issuing dire pronouncements of crashes and recessions.

He became famous in financial circles after his bet against the subprime mortgage market was featured in author Michael Lewis' book "The Big Short," and actor Christian Bale played him in the movie adaptation.

• The restaurant industry is under pressure as consumers cut back.
• Rising prices and tighter budgets are affecting where people eat.
• Casual dining spots like Chili's are booming, while pricey salad chains like Sweetgreen flounder.

Have you recently given up your salad-bowl lunch habit? You're not alone.

Many American consumers are feeling the pinch, and it's affecting how they shop, and where and how often they dine out.

Consumer sentiment is down, job cuts are on the rise, and dining out has become pricier as operators contend with higher labor, ingredient, and rent costs.

People are looking for value — but not necessarily the cheapest option — through loyalty perks, portion sizes, and perceived quality.

Here's a look at some of the chains that are — and are not — benefiting from this:

What's in: Casual dining, packed lunches

Millennials tried their best to kill off casual dining chains, but the next generation is helping bring them back.

Chili's has been leading the way here and outperforming rivals like Applebee's. The Tex-Mex chain, which also serves American classics like burgers and fries and is owned by Brinker International, reported a 21% surge in sales for the most recent quarter.

Analysts say it was quick to capitalize on rising fast-food prices, offering deals such as its $10.99 Big Smasher burger.

It also simplified its menu and overhauled its marketing to speak to younger diners. Gen Zers seem to be lapping up its content and are making viral videos about its menu items.

At the same time, tighter budgets and hybrid working have also been reshaping midday dining.

Pricier lunch spots, such as Chipotle, said they are losing out as people choose to eat at home more.

"For occasions like lunch, people are substituting things like eating at home, bringing in food from home, or finding cheaper local alternatives," GlobalData Retail analyst Neil Saunders told Business Insider.

Lower-cost grocery chains may be benefiting from this. Walmart's imminently departing CEO Doug McMillon said the chain is continuing to gain market share in grocery and grow its higher-income shopper base.

What's out: $15 salads

The "slop bowl" chains are having a tough time right now.

Execs from Chipotle, Cava, and Sweetgreen all said in recent earnings calls that they're seeing fewer visits from millennial and Gen Zers.

"The whole salad scene has dissipated," Phil Kafarakis, CEO of IFMA, The Food Away From Home Association, told Business Insider.

They've "tripped up over themselves because their economics and pricing don't fit the consumer that they were really so close to," he added.

Sweetgreen's CFO said in the company's most recent earnings call that spending from the 25 to 35 age group, 30% of the chain's consumer base, was down 15% in the recent quarter as this cohort came under pressure.

The challenge now is figuring out how they address their pricing, knowing that their core demographic can't afford it, Kafarakis said.

Investors appear to be wary as well. Sweetgreen's stock price is down over 80% this year.

What's mixed: fast food

"Trading down" has become the buzzword of the retail sector right now, as shoppers switch up their routines to find cheaper alternatives.

McDonald's CEO Chris Kempczinski suggested in the company's most recent earnings call that the fast-food sector is seeing an impact from this, as traffic from higher-income diners grows.

It's a double-edged sword, however, as the industry is also seeing a decline in traffic from lower-income diners, he said.

"We continue to see a bifurcated consumer base," Kempczinski said.

We "remain cautious about the health of the consumer in the US — and believe the pressures will continue well into 2026," he added.

• Director Jon M. Chu used silhouette-only auditions to cast Dorothy in "Wicked: For Good."
• Dorothy's face is never shown in the film in order to keep the attention on Elphaba and Glinda.
• Bethany Weaver, a dancer, was ultimately cast as Dorothy.

Dorothy's pigtails and ruby slippers are iconic in "The Wizard of Oz." But when it came to casting someone to play the character in "Wicked: For Good," director Jon M. Chu wanted the rest of her to be as unrecognizable as possible.

Dorothy's face is never shown in the movie — she's only shot from far away, from the legs down, or in silhouette. So Chu decided that for the auditions, he didn't want to see the performers' faces.

"We would put a sheet up, looking at the performer's silhouette," Chu told Business Insider. "Through that, I was looking at how she could walk, but also, could I guide her in that way? The person had to have youthful energy."

"We ultimately chose a dancer, Bethany Weaver," Chu added.

Despite the plan to never show Dorothy's face, Chu admitted that he questioned his choice throughout filming.

"We shot some things where you could see her face," Chu said. "But every time, it was a distraction."

Chu said whenever he was unsure about not showing Dorothy, he would remind himself that the story is ultimately about Elphaba and Glinda.

"So every time it drew us to, 'What does Dorothy think?' we reminded ourselves of that," he said.

Though her face is never seen on screen, Weaver is grateful for landing the role.

"It's been an honour to carry the legacy of the brilliant women before me who have stepped into these shoes and embarked on the yellow brick road," she wrote in an Instagram post. "I hope I have made them proud."

"Wicked: For Good" is now playing in theaters.

• Michael Burry has warned AI giants are overstating how long their Nvidia chips will stay relevant.
• Bridgewater's Greg Jensen said the chips may be used to invent better chips that make them obsolete.
• While Burry has warned about circular deals in AI, Jensen said Nvidia is building an ecosystem.

Michael Burry of "The Big Short" fame has said some of the world's largest AI companies are exaggerating how long their Nvidia chips will last to pad their short-term profits. Now, one hedge fund boss has warned that those chips could make themselves obsolete.

Greg Jensen, the co-chief investor of Ray Dalio's Bridgewater Associates, told the "In Good Company" podcast this week that the "depreciation schedule is probably going to be quite fast, and you hope it has to be in a sense."

Jensen explained there's a "resource grab" in AI as companies compete for scarce land, energy, microchips, and scientists, and tech bosses are hoping AI itself can help.

"One of the things they have to do is figure out how to make the chips more efficient, make the energy more efficient, and they're trying to use AI to do those things," he said.

Jensen predicted that some of the scientific advances that will "depreciate the current assets will come from those assets themselves," as "AI will generate better ways to do this."

Puts, deals, and ecosystems

Burry shot to fame after his massive bet against the US housing bubble was immortalized in the book "The Big Short," and a movie adaptation starring actor Christian Bale as Burry.

He resurfaced on X in late October after more than two years of silence. Since then, he has sounded the alarm on an AI bubble, closed his hedge fund to outside cash, launched a Substack to share his research, and disclosed he owns bearish put options on Nvidia and another AI darling, Palantir.

Burry has taken aim at the AI giants for dragging out depreciation from around three years to six years or longer, pointing out that Nvidia is releasing new chips faster and faster, so the current generation will likely lose value more quickly.

"The hyperscalers have been systematically increasing the useful lives of chips and servers, for depreciation purposes, as they invest hundreds of billions of dollars in graphics chips with accelerating planned obsolescence," he wrote on Substack this week.

The investor has also called out the sprawling web of "give-and-take deals" between AI companies.

Jensen said those aren't a product of "normal bubble dynamics" — companies juicing their financials to justify their lofty valuations — as "Nvidia can get as much revenue as it wants" given the immense demand for its chips.

Instead, Jensen said, Nvidia is scrambling to create its own ecosystem of buyers who won't develop their own chips, in an attempt to stop Alphabet from owning the entire AI "stack."

"They're like Standard Oil in the Gilded Age, trying to create monopolistic control on things," Jensen said about Nvidia. He added that "everybody's got to lock up who do I partner with, where am I going to get my chips and power — and if I don't do it, I'm going to die."

Jensen also said the AI investment boom isn't a typical capital cycle, as bosses such as Elon Musk and Sam Altman believe they're in a race to develop a supreme intelligence, and are willing to spend whatever it takes to win.

• The NORAD Cheyenne Mountain Complex dates back to the height of the Cold War.
• Initially meant for defense against long-range Soviet bombers, it now provides backup and training.
• The self-sufficient facility is sealed by 23-ton doors and built to withstand nuclear attacks.

Deep inside a Colorado mountain lurks a remnant of the Cold War era.

Buried 2,000 feet beneath Cheyenne Mountain is a secret military complex, where 15 buildings can seal themselves off from the rest of the world within seconds in the event of a nuclear blast.

The complex is said to be designed to withstand a 30-megaton nuclear blast, per the Guardian, which is about 2,000 times as strong as the 15-kiloton bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.

Construction on the complex, which is located about 10 miles from downtown Colorado Springs, began in 1961.

Today, the secretive underground complex remains functional as a backup command center for the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), a US-Canada binational organization that provides aerospace warning and control over North America, and the US Northern Command (USNORTHCOM).

Take a look inside.

The Cheyenne Mountain Complex is buried nearly half a mile deep into a solid granite mountain.

Born out of the perceived need for a hardened command and control center in the US amid the height of the Cold War, the Cheyenne Mountain Complex was built deep into the Cheyenne Mountain, where solid granite naturally protects operations from outside threats.

The complex cost $142.4 million to build in the 1960s, or over $1.5 billion in today's money.

The complex cost $142.4 million in 1961, or approximately $1.6 billion in today's dollars, according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics. Construction began in 1961.

Over the five years it took to build, the 9,565-foot-high mountain was blasted, and more than 693,000 tons of granite were excavated to make way for the operations center.

The facility became fully operational in 1966 as NORAD's Combat Operations Center.

During the Cold War, the complex continuously tracked potential Soviet missiles, bombers, or spacecraft.

Throughout the following decades, the Cheyenne Mountain Complex housed operations for NORAD, the US Northern Command, the US Strategic Command, and the US Air Force Space Command.

Officers inside the mountain worked around the clock to track potential Soviet missile, bomber, and spacecraft launches.

Today, the center is still functional as a backup and training site.

While the core of NORAD's operations moved to the nearby Peterson Space Force Base in 2006, the Cheyenne Mountain Complex has remained operational as a backup and training facility.

Today, the complex is owned and operated by the US Space Force, with NORAD and USNORTHCOM using only 30% of the complex's floor space and accounting for 5% of the daily population inside the mountain, according to the US Northern Command.

The mountain complex is entirely self-sufficient.

The complex spans over 5 acres inside the mountain across 15 underground buildings, and is entirely self-sufficient.

With over 6 million gallons of water stored in carved granite pools and 510,000 gallons of diesel, as well as efficient food storage and thorough air filtration systems, the complex is equipped to operate for weeks on end when sealed off from the outside world.

The complex is built to endure nuclear, electromagnetic, cyber, and biological attacks.

The Cheyenne Mountain Complex was built to survive nuclear attacks, but its facilities can also withstand electromagnetic bombs or solar destruction, chemical and biological attacks, and cyberterrorism.

Two 3-feet-thick, 23-ton blast doors seal off the complex from the outside world.

In the case of a threatening emergency, the complex is sealed off from the outside world in about 20 seconds by its 23-ton blast doors, which are 3 feet thick and built to endure nuclear shock waves in the case of a nearby explosion.

The doors, which are open during regular operations, will regularly close for drills.

The last time they closed outside drills was during the September 11 attacks in 2001, Wired reported in 2017.

The complex's buildings are mounted on earthquake-resistant springs.

The 15 buildings are mounted atop over 1,300 steel coils designed to absorb seismic shocks in the event of an earthquake or nuclear blast.

The springs hold the buildings 18 inches above the mountain's rock base to ensure the safety of staff and equipment, per the US Space Force.

Inside the buildings, pipes are bendy to avoid bursts during potential ground movements, per Wired.

The complex is also home to the world's "most secure Subway."

Between 350 and 580 people work inside the complex every day, the Air & Space Forces Magazine reported in 2016.

The mountain complex also houses medical and other facilities for staff to use daily and in case of a "button-down scenario," an emergency where the complex closes its doors.

The facilities include a regular clinic, a dentist, a self-checkout convenience store, and a chapel with a nondenominational chaplain.

The gym inside the facility, which transforms into a hospital in the case of an emergency, has regularly scheduled spin classes for those working inside the base.

A Subway located inside the complex, which feeds staff on a daily basis, prides itself on being the world's "most secure Subway" location, per Wired's reporting.

Today, government officials at the complex monitor the skies for nuclear threats.

Today, government officials working from the mountain complex monitor the skies for evidence of missiles or spacecraft launches, nuclear tests, and suspicious space behavior, among other concerns.

The command center also provides backup operations and training for NORAD and USNORTHCOM staff.

To keep communications within the center secure, no electronics connect to outside networks — which are also impossible to reach through the granite mountain — and officials use Defensive Cyber Operations to detect and stop attempts to infiltrate inside networks, Wired reported.

If the main NORAD and USNORTHCOM command post goes offline, the mountain complex can take over anytime.

Aside from providing support and training to the Peterson Space Force Base operations, the Cheyenne Mountain Complex is also equipped to take over as a command center for NORAD and US Northern Command if the main command at the base goes offline during an emergency.

Inside, employees are often reminded of where they are and what they do.

Signs like the one above remind employees inside the mountain center that power and personnel are what keep the operations running.

In the case of an emergency, staffers would be sheltered in the complex, but their families or others on the outside wouldn't be allowed entry, a sacrifice that many of them keep in mind often.

In the Wired story, an officer told the reporter that in the case of an emergency, he told his family: "I'm going to be in the mountain doing my job… and I can't help you."

Employees at the complex regularly have "sleepover" drills where they practice leaving their world behind.

The complex is home to confidential communications … but also harmless jokes.

Aside from the inherent heaviness of working inside a mountain bunker built to outlast nuclear destruction, staff pass their days doing their jobs and even keeping inside jokes alive, like the stuffed alien doll that staffers keep on the director's desk.

• I had my first child when I was 23. I was in my 40s when I had my second.
• My daughter experienced my youthful, uncertain years. My son is getting a more confident parent.
• Now I know that presence matters more than perfection, and both of my children experienced that.

When my daughter was born, I was young and terrified. At 23, I was learning how to be an adult while learning how to raise a child. Motherhood felt vast and uncertain, like stepping into a life that expected everything from me before I'd even figured out who I was.

Seventeen years later, I had my second child. This time around, I'm in my 40s and older and wiser.

There's something extraordinary about becoming a mother again after nearly two decades. The world feels different, and I am different.

My daughter and I grew up together

Every stage of my daughter's life has mirrored one of my own transformations. When she began school, I returned to university to complete my teacher training, choosing a path that allowed me to share the same holidays and rhythms of her world. As she was making friends, I was learning who I was, too. When she started secondary school, I was stepping into leadership, becoming head of the department. She has seen me break, rebuild, and bloom, all before she ever reached adulthood.

There was a time when my anxiety was so heavy that even leaving the house felt impossible. Yet now, she has seen me carry us across continents. Together we've climbed glaciers, paddled through the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea, been blessed by monks in a Buddhist temple, been on Safaris in the Savannah, and volunteered in orphanages and women's refuges.

Now we live in East Africa, where mornings begin with birdsong and sunsets fold into gold. She has watched me turn fear into freedom and learned that courage can be quiet, it's the steady decision to keep moving forward, even when it would be easier to stay still.

I sometimes wish I had been the woman I am now, more confident and with the wisdom to guide her. But when I look back, I see a different kind of beauty in that earlier version of me. I loved my daughter fiercely, even when I didn't fully love myself. And she learned that love isn't about perfection; it's about showing up, again and again, even when you're scared.

I started a new chapter that I never expected

For years, I thought my story as a mother had been written. Life had taken unexpected turns, and I quietly made peace with the idea that there wouldn't be another chapter of the parenting kind.

Then, I met someone new. His smile, his warmth, his quiet charisma caught me off guard in the gentlest way. I wasn't looking to start over, but life has a way of surprising you when you've stopped expecting it to.

And then, suddenly, there he was. My tiny miracle, one I had never dared to imagine. I was middle-aged, comfortable in my skin for the first time, and holding a beautiful baby boy in my hands.

It took us all time to adjust

When I initially told my daughter that she would be getting a sibling, I could see the storm cross her face. It wasn't anger, really; it was more confusion and hurt. For 17 years, it had just been us, our rhythm. My news rewrote her world overnight.

During my pregnancy, I felt immense guilt. Guilt for not giving her the perfect childhood I had always wanted for her. Guilt for not giving her siblings sooner. Guilt for taking away the "just me and her" that had defined our little universe for so long.

But love is a patient teacher, and over time, it showed me that families can expand without breaking. There is room for new beginnings without erasing what came before.

Now, watching them together fills me with a kind of gratitude I can't put into words. She's seventeen years older, yet she holds him as if he's always belonged in her arms.

Motherhood is different this time around

Now, motherhood feels quieter, more deliberate. I don't rush to do everything perfectly or measure myself against invisible standards. I trust my instincts in a way I couldn't before.

The days still blur together, but I don't wish them away; I know how quickly they pass. There's a peace that comes with knowing who I am, and it allows me to love without the old fear or self-doubt. This time, I'm not trying to prove I can hold it all together; I'm simply allowing myself to be here, holding him.

These days, I go on picnics and read my books beneath the trees, telling my son about the shapes of the clouds and the names of the birds. We sit in the stillness, and I let the moments linger. With my first, I remember always being in a hurry, rushing from one thing to the next, thinking I needed to do better, to do more, to earn more money so I could give her a better life. Looking back, I see that she has had an extraordinary one. She grew up with love, adventure, and resilience, all the things that truly matter. I think, perhaps, it was me who needed to slow down, to realise that "better" doesn't always mean "more."

Raising children 17 years apart has reminded me that life has its own timing. It humbles you. It cracks you open in ways you never expect.

My daughter got the raw, unedited version of me, all nerves and love and trial by fire. My son gets the calmer, seasoned version, softer around the edges, grounded in grace.

But both get the same heart, just written in different chapters. In some ways, they are the bookends of my becoming.

• I never could've imagined how challenging and unpredictable life would be as a military spouse.
• Deployments are so hard, we miss living near family, and we hate constantly saying bye to friends.
• We've learned to appreciate the present while also giving ourselves grace for the path we chose.

Telling a military spouse, "You signed up for this," is one of the most dismissive things you can say.

In reality, no one and nothing can prepare you for life as an active-duty spouse.

I met my husband in college when he was a cadet in the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC), and from the start, we shared big dreams of building a life together.

I watched him work hard to earn a highly coveted pilot training slot in college, and eventually commission as an Air Force officer one week before our wedding.

Since then, we've lived in three homes and moved across the country for his job. Between deployments, monthslong trainings, and multiple moves, our life feels anything but normal.

I thought I knew what to expect from this lifestyle, but I was wrong.

Though we've met lifelong friends and made the most of our active-duty life, being a military spouse has been harder than I could've imagined.

I wasn't prepared for how brutal deployments would be

My husband has deployed a few times, and it's one of the hardest things I've had to go through.

During deployment, it felt like our home was drained of the life and love that he brings to it. My world seemed to stand still, and I had to slowly and painfully learn how to navigate life without him.

Milestones, both big and small, were reduced to messages and phone calls. I remember tearfully breaking the news of my grandpa's passing on the phone, aching for us to be together to grieve.

The pain of deployments lingers far beyond the actual time apart. The emotional weight begins months before you say goodbye with daunting tasks like drafting wills and arranging life insurance.

Few people mention the challenges of post-deployment reintegration and navigating how to piece back your life to a sense of normality.

We deeply miss living close to family

We're very close to our families in the Midwest, and it's heartbreaking to watch life continue back home without us.

Though we prioritize returning to the Midwest for holidays and weddings, we still miss the smaller milestones. With each visit, we notice our parents and grandparents quietly aging, and it's painful to feel so far away.

In moments when our families need support, the distance can be stifling and leave us feeling helpless.

Saying goodbye to friends hasn't gotten easier

In the military, friends quickly become family as you bond over shared experiences and a mutual understanding of military life.

Over the past seven years, we've formed some of our closest friendships through the military, but saying goodbye hasn't gotten any easier.

I've sobbed into my best friend's shoulder as we parted ways before her overseas move. My husband and I have stood on countless driveways, watching our friends' moving trucks come and go.

We've held back tears while helping our friends pack their home into stacked boxes.

As a military spouse, finding your support system and starting over can be exhausting. The more I say goodbye to friends, the less enthusiastic I am about making new ones.

However, one silver lining is having friends scattered around the globe to visit — and there's always a chance we could get stationed together again.

Our life rarely feels like it's in our control

My husband might have signed on the dotted line for his contract, but the military affects both of us. As a military spouse, you give up some of your own freedom to support your partner's service and commitment.

Even simple things, like planning a quick weekend trip or attending a wedding, require prior approval. Travel must always be authorized, and without that approval, it's considered an unexcused absence with serious consequences.

Our lives can also change with very little notice. Though we can share our preferences, ultimately, the military's needs take priority.

We've built a life we love here in Florida, but there's always uncertainty looming about what our future holds.

We're trying to give grace to our younger selves

My husband committed to ROTC at 19 years old, just a few months before we met. Later in college, he received his dream assignment to train to be an active-duty pilot. He gleefully accepted his admission — and everything that comes with it.

In reality, it's hard to grasp what a 10-year military commitment really entails as a college kid.

We dreamed of a life filled with adventure and travel. And while some of that has been true, we've also experienced the weight of sacrifice and uncertainty that we didn't fully anticipate.

In many ways, we were young and naive, and it's OK to admit life looks different than we envisioned.

Over the years, my husband and I have learned to live more in the present, appreciate the precious time we have with family, and worry less about the future.

• Coast Guard personnel have set procedures to follow when they're boarding suspected drug boats.
• Not every interdiction plays out the way they think it will, prompting changes in the moment.
• Weather, sea conditions, how smugglers react to being boarded, and the type of vessel all can impact the interdiction.

USCG TACLET SOUTH OPA-LOCKA, Florida — When a go-fast boat loaded with drugs was on the run, elite Coast Guard troops weren't far behind. They'd been chasing this vessel for nearly 50 nautical miles through blinding rain and eight-foot waves, Lt. Matthew Lesyk, officer in charge of Law Enforcement Detachment 404, recalled for Business Insider.

A Coast Guard helicopter had spotted the vessel and fired off warning shots, but the Tactical Law Enforcement Team (TACLET) giving chase could barely see anything.

"That reflects how serious and dangerous this job can be," said Morgan Fussell, an ME3, or maritime law enforcement specialist. It isn't always smooth seas.

And while there's a step-by-step process for drug interdictions, things don't always go to plan.

Not every drug interdiction goes smoothly. Drug runners do unexpected things, and sometimes suspected drugs turn out to be something else entirely. Coast Guard crews have to be ready to change their course of action in the moment.

Both Lesyk and Fussell said they've mostly boarded "go-fast" vessels with some fishing boats and semi-submersibles. Beyond the latter being slippery and riding low in the water, it's also possible someone aboard could pull a scuttling valve, quickly sinking it.

At Coast Guard TACLET South, headquartered just outside Miami, these specialists go out on months-long drug interdiction deployments. In preparation for the high-stakes counter-drug missions, which require boarding potentially dangerous vessels on the high seas, they go through intense training.

"I've trained to the worst scenarios possible so that when we're out there, if something does go left or right, we're ready to react and execute that mission," Lesyk told BI during a recent visit to TACLET South.

The Coast Guard has two TACLETs, one in California and one in Florida. Like the Coast Guard's Helicopter Interdiction Squadron in Jacksonville, Florida, TACLETs are selective and take years to join. Once teams are deployed, their job is to conduct counter-drug operations and enforce maritime law.

"There's definitely a certain mindset that you need to have in order to execute these missions properly," Coast Guard maritime law enforcement specialist Morgan Fussell said. There's a certain flexibility needed should the standard boarding process suddenly go awry.

For TACLETs, the foremost concern during boarding is the safety of their team. If a Coast Guard member falls in the water trying to make the initial boarding, a dangerous process in the open ocean, or is threatened by someone aboard the drug vessel, the mission set changes instantly. Important, too, is keeping the suspected traffickers safe. If a smuggler jumps overboard trying to escape, switching to search and rescue mode is key.

Leysk recalled an incident in which an abandoned runaway boat nearly ran over a crewman who had jumped overboard. A marksman in a helicopter shot out the engine at the last minute to keep the man out of harm's way. TACLETs take similar precautions.

The most difficult part of the boarding process can vary. Sometimes it's how smugglers react, especially if they're armed. Sometimes it is just getting aboard an unusual vessel like a narco-sub. The sea conditions and weather can play a role, too.

With the semi-submersible narco-subs, TACLETs have a tool they bring to pump the water out should the smugglers attempt to sink the vessel. And other boats and safety officers also tag along on the boarding process to keep an eye out and ensure team members are aware of any potential problems.

Once the boarding team has gained control of the target boat, they begin the process of gathering information from the crew, determining the vessel's origin, and searching for drugs, which can be in barrels or hidden in false bulkheads and fuel tanks.

Fussell told BI that one of the craziest interdictions she's been on involved opening bales she assumed had drugs in them but turned out to be carrying tons of sausage, not cocaine or marijuana. "The weird part about that was it was packaged like drug packaging," she said, wrapped up and thrown in bales.

When it comes to expecting the unexpected, sometimes it isn't drugs. Sometimes it's sausages.

The boat was headed southbound, which is less suspicious than vessels headed north toward the US from South America. But it still checked enough boxes for reasonable suspicion as the Coast Guard gathered intelligence on it before beginning the standard interdiction process.

TACLET members may engage in a varying number of interdictions during deployments. They may be on a Coast Guard vessel, like a cutter, with a primary focus on stopping drug runners, or they could be aboard US Navy or international allied vessels, which means interdictions aren't always the priority.

Regardless, they continue to adjust to different tactics traffickers turn to get drugs into the US.

"They're seeking new ways to smuggle contraband at any given time," Cmdr. Chris Guy, commanding officer of TACLET South, told BI during the recent visit, and "the level of sophistication at times has gone up."

With more drugs now being seized at sea by the Coast Guard than ever, he said, getting the right people to do this mission is becoming more important. "We need more people," Guy said, "and we want to make sure when our folks go out and conduct the mission, that they're going to be very best they could be."

• Kim Greene started breeding protection dogs after getting pregnant with twins.
• Her dogs now sell for $175,000 and are fully trained when they're placed.
• The business grew after she divorced and started running the company alone.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Kim Greene, founder of Svalinn Dogs. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I was a little girl, I got a horrific case of poison ivy from petting and loving on the family dog. After experiencing intense itching from head to toe, I developed a total aversion to dogs. I made my husband agree that we would never have a dog when we got married.

My husband and I both worked internationally, he in defense and me in humanitarian efforts. We met in Afghanistan and later moved to Kenya, which was a region where his harder skillset and my softer skillset could both be utilized.

There, I found out I was pregnant with twins. I gained more than 80 pounds during the pregnancy, which made me feel like a sitting duck in an environment where a lot of things could go wrong. I wanted protection, but I didn't like the idea of having a firearm or a bodyguard. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a dog, but it seemed better than the alternatives.

I started the business just before having twins

My husband and I imported two security dogs from the US. Right away, we thought we could do it better. I wanted to create a dog that would fill the role of a pet, one that could be snuggled and loved, yet also offer protection. I wanted my dogs to be guardian angels for their families.

My then-husband and I developed a comprehensive business plan with a budget of $5 million. But we could only raise $160,000 from friends and family. That's when I realized this might be harder than anticipated. We officially launched in 2005 and started our breeding program in 2007.

Today, the business is 20 years old, and my twins are 19 years old. The boys and the business grew up side by side. Often, I felt like the business was my needy third child. Twins demanded a lot from me, but the business demanded even more. I put the boys in day care so that I could focus on my career path. That gave me fulfillment, but it was also a necessity: financially, we had nothing to fall back on.

I moved the company to the US, and was shocked at the costs

As my sons started school, it became clear that one of them needed more academic support than he could get in Kenya. In 2012, the boys and I abruptly moved back to the US, while my then-husband stayed in Africa to continue the contract work that was supporting our family.

I felt the business was established in Kenya, but moving back to the US felt like starting over. Our American launch in 2013 was a rude awakening. The cost of running a company in the US was staggering, and we didn't make a profit until 2017.

During those years, I thought about giving up every single day. But I couldn't see a quick exit strategy. People and animals were relying on me. Plus, I still had conviction about the idea of a protection dog. I also felt that at this point, I was the only one stupid enough to keep trying to profit from dogs who needed three years of training. I thought I could outlast the competition.

The business took off after my divorce

My husband and I divorced in 2019. That was a pivotal point for the business. Svalinn wouldn't exist without him, but once I was able to restructure the company on my own, I felt we found our stride. Even before the divorce, I had been a single mom for many years while he lived abroad. Svalinn is all about helping moms and children feel secure, and I felt we were able to really embody that once I was running things on my own.

I also found the confidence to charge more for our dogs. Before that, I was charging about $75,000 per dog. When you consider that it includes up to three years of 24/7 care, support, and training, it really wasn't enough. We were losing money.

Once our dogs were established, the market was willing to pay what they were truly worth — though even now I'm not sure we charge enough. Today, the dogs cost $175,000. We place about 18 to 20 dogs annually. We have 13 employees, and our reputation has taken off.

As for my own finances, I'm getting there. Divorce is an expensive proposition, and so is building a business over 20 years. Yet, I have a job I love. My sons are gritty, hard workers who are true to themselves. That comes from growing up in a family where they had to roll up their sleeves.

My children and I have gleaned important life lessons about hard work — and taking time for fun — over the past 20 years. That's my greatest wealth.