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There are 14 career paths that your teenager needs to avoid due to the recent breakthroughs in artificial intelligence. Specifically one that Google released just a few weeks ago called Gemini 3 Deep Think. This new technology is so easy to use that even a 9-year-old could run circles around most adults with it. If your teenagers are considering going to college in the next few years, you need to understand what this new technology is and how it impacts your child’s future career choices. For this reason, I'm hosting a one-time live stream discussion on Zoom titled: "How To Future-Proof Your Teenager's Education In The Face Of New A.I. Advancements" You'll Discover: ◆ The 2 A.I. upgrades from the last 6 weeks that made engineers say "oh crap"—and why one keeps looping until your kid's future job is done. ◆ Why the phrase "learn to code" is now terrible advice for your teenager (and what to tell them instead before they waste 4 years on a degree that's being automated as you read this). ◆ 18 industries your teen should avoid at all costs—including 3 that guidance counselors are still pushing as "safe careers." ◆ How smart is A.I. in 2026? I'll show you something live that will make your stomach drop. Most parents have no idea what their kids are competing against. ◆ What "A.I.-resistant education" actually means when your teen is 16—not theory, not buzzwords, but the specific skills that can't be automated in the next decade. (And no, it's definitely NOT coding.) ◆ Why "getting good grades" is now the educational equivalent of getting really good at operating a fax machine. Register by tapping on this post and selecting one of the two time slots. 📹 Even if you can't make it, make sure to still register so you get the replay and reminders. If you CAN make it live, you'll be glad there's a Live Q&A… because I know there will be questions on your mind you'd like answers to. 💬 Tap on the post and select one of the time slots. Our Zoom plan only has 200 spots so register now and set a reminder so you don't miss it.

Grant and I were secretly married for six years. At his family foundation’s gala, he slipped off his wedding ring to lead the opening dance with Meredith, his pregnant ex-fiancée. He told the press she was the one who had always understood his dreams. Every newspaper in Boston celebrated them finding their way back to each other. When he came home, he warned me, “Don’t make a scene.” I didn’t. On our wedding anniversary, I left a gift for him in his study. A velvet box, the kind meant for a celebratory gift. Inside were the divorce petition I’d already signed, the property settlement agreement, and the eight-week ultrasound of our baby, tucked beside an appointment confirmation for a termination procedure. He never even glanced at it. He was already out the door, rushing to comfort his ex, who had supposedly “had a nightmare.” He didn’t know he’d just thrown away his last chance. ... I looked at him, at the bare finger where his wedding ring should have been. Grant rubbed the pale indentation, an unconscious gesture, as if soothing a phantom limb. “The gala was crowded. My grandmother was there,” he explained, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. “It would have caused unnecessary complications.” The excuse was so lazy it was almost laughable. In the past, I would have pushed. I would have demanded to know where he’d put the ring, made him fish it out of his suit pocket, and watched him slide it back on his finger. This was, after all, the man I had once fought so hard for. Over the years, I’d grown adept at making excuses for him. Just like six months ago, when Meredith returned to Boston after her own divorce. He’d left me burning with a fever to drive halfway across the state to pick her up from the airport. When he got back, he ignored my protests and insisted on hiring her as a consultant for the family foundation. Back then, I’d chalked it up to his sense of responsibility, to the pul......

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At my fifty-first birthday dinner, my husband, the senior pastor of a megachurch, announced in front of our family that God had revealed to him the need to replace me as “First Lady” in order to revitalize the church’s brand. His choice was our young, beautiful worship leader. My son and daughter, the heirs apparent who treated our church like a family business, even led the applause. They thought I would let myself be held hostage by “God’s ministry.” They expected me to cry, to accept being pushed aside for the sake of this family’s dignity. But they didn’t know I had already died once before. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply took two documents from my clutch and, in front of everyone, signed my name to both. One was a divorce agreement. The other was my letter of resignation from every charitable foundation and community position I held through the church. They thought they were just upgrading a “First Lady.” They had no idea they had just pulled the life support from their entire religious empire. … I had been coordinating the final details for this so-called “birthday dinner” since six that morning. It wasn’t just a family gathering; it was a crucial stage for cultivating relationships with our church’s major donors. I personally confirmed every guest’s seat, ensuring those with allergies were kept away from nuts and that conservative legislators weren’t seated next to liberal tech founders. I even adjusted the Texas wildflowers the florist delivered, making sure their scent wouldn’t be strong enough to clash with the expensive Napa Valley Cabernet in the crystal glasses. I was so tired I could barely stand up straight. Meanwhile, my husband, Josiah—senior pastor of our church, the Cross of Light—was in his study, giving an interview to *Texas Monthly*. Through the door, I could hear his magnetic voice explaining his views on “the modern pastor.” He never bothered with these details. In his eyes, they were the invisible duties a “First Lady” was expected to perform. Our son, Caleb, was the first to arrive. He didn’t even glance at me before rushing into the study and excitedly placing a report in front of his father. “Dad, look at this! Seraphina’s Instagram live last week brought in over three thousand newly registered young believers. User retention is up twenty percent!” “Traffic conversion.” My son, a seminary graduate, was spouting the coldest corporate jargon. Before long, our daughter, Faith, arrived. She handed me a tablet. On the screen was Seraphina’s latest worship music video. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder gown, singing beneath a spotlight with tears glistening in her eyes. The whole production was as polished as a luxury car commercial. “Mother, I hope you’ll watch this,” Faith said in a brisk, businesslike tone. “You need to learn a more shareable style. Your image is too traditional.” I said nothing, just silently pushed the tablet away from my face. The dinner began, with the Bach I had chosen flowing through the living room. My children flanked their father, enthusiastically discussing how to “brand” the church and develop merch to turn it into a full-blown IP. “Our church is essentially a faith-based brand,” Caleb said, his voice brimming with confidence. “Dad is our core CEO, and Seraphina is our most dazzling brand ambassador.” There was no place for me in their bright, harmonious business plan. I was like an outdated piece of hardware, about to be rendered obsolete by a software upgrade. I quietly supervised the kitchen, making sure every Beef Wellington was a perfect medium-rare. Soon, the food was served. Caleb raised his glass first. “To you, Dad! Your visionary outlook is unmatched. You’ve charted an entirely new course for our family enterprise.” Faith also stood. “Dad, without your courage to rebrand, the church wouldn’t be where it is today.” She set down her glass and frowned at me. “Mother......