The Math Worked
Here's what the math doesn't say
The photos came through while I was in Seattle.
My stepdaughter as Rapunzel. My fiancée as Mother Gothel. My son, eleven months old, as Pascal, the tiny chameleon, green fleece, eyes wide at everything.
Disneyland. Oogie Boogie Bash. A Tuesday.
Purple lights. The Headless Horseman in the background of one shot. The theme park glowing behind them. All three smiling.
I swiped through the photos at my desk, 1,100 miles away.
That night on the phone, my stepdaughter couldn’t stop talking. They’d gotten shovels of candy. Gone through every maze. Rode rides. People kept stopping them. Compliments on the costumes, recognized immediately. Rapunzel, Mother Gothel, Pascal.
“We have to go again next year! Promise?”
I said yes. Of course. Next year.
I didn’t say: I wasn’t there this year. I didn’t say: I was in Seattle while you were being recognized, while you were filling your bags with candy.
The vacation had two bookends: the weekend I flew down to join them in California, and the weekend I flew back to help pack up and drive home. The middle, the part where the memories happened, I spent in Seattle.
The math says Year 1 worked.
Here’s what the math doesn’t say.
The Numbers
85 flights. 262 hours in the air. Eleven days, if you stacked them end to end.
Travel Expense: $45,011.
Distance Premium captured: $104,989.
Corridor Rate: $400 per hour of flight time.
Margin: 1.35x, Strong for the year.
What Worked
The route held.
Phoenix to Seattle. Multiple flights per day. Weather disruptions were rare. Even during the government shutdown, TSA kept functioning just enough. When flights canceled, I rebooked within hours. The corridor never fully broke.
The finances held.
The gap stayed large. My compensation didn’t drop. Local alternatives didn’t surge. Travel costs inflated slightly but within buffer. The Distance Premium remained significant enough to justify the expense.
The logistics held.
Sunday flights, Friday returns. The rhythm became automatic. Pack the same bag. Drive the same route. Board the same planes. The body learned the pattern even when the mind resisted.
The structure held.
Five days in Seattle. Full focus, no competing obligations. Two days in Phoenix. Fully present, phone away. The separation, paradoxically, created clarity.
There were Friday nights that worked the way we’d hoped. I’d walk in, get the download on the week. We’d talk about our plans for the weekend over dessert. Just us, while the house was quiet.
Those nights are what the arrangement was supposed to protect.
My stepdaughter is taking a cooking class. Weekends, we cook together.
A grocery list is waiting when I get back. Saturday morning, she tells me the start time.
Last Sunday, 8am: cinnamon rolls. She made the dough. I prepped the wet ingredients and stayed out of her way. By the time they came out of the oven, the kitchen was piled with used bowls and flour-dusted tools.
She doesn’t ask if I’ll be there anymore. She tells me when to show up.
What Almost Broke
Work
I’ve written about month six. It passed. I stayed. The scar tissue remains.
Me
The weight accumulated in ways I didn’t expect.
Not the flights. Those became routine. Not the apartment. That became familiar.
It was subtler. The slow erosion of feeling like I belonged in either place.
In Seattle, I was the guy who disappeared every Friday. I couldn't meet up on weekends. Always half-out-the-door.
In Phoenix, I was the guy who appeared every Friday. Needed to catch up. Needed to be briefed. Always half a step behind on the rhythms of my own household.
Present in both places. Fully home in neither.
The flights stopped hurting. The goodbyes stopped stinging. I couldn’t tell if that was growth or damage.
The headaches from month six faded after I changed teams. The sleep never fully came back.
Us
We made this decision together. The decision was ours. The weight of carrying it has been hers.
The texts got shorter as the months passed. Not angry. Just shorter. Less to say, or less energy to say it. The calls became logistics: schedules, decisions, updates.
After the kids are down, we stream a show. The same medical drama series we started a year ago. Still haven’t finished it.
Neither of us watches it alone. It’s ours.
She burrows her freezing cold feet under me for warmth. Like she always does.
Some weeks that’s all we get. Some weeks it’s enough.
There was a Saturday in January, month eleven.
The week had been brutal. Layoffs looming. I landed Friday night already empty. Saturday morning, I slept in. She didn’t wake me.
When I came downstairs, it was almost noon.
I’d overslept through the errands I promised to get done. The morning was already gone.
“You’re not showing up for the family.”
I wanted to defend myself. I’d been trying to hold it all together at work. Staying on top of the pressure so I could be fully here when I was here.
But she was right. I was there. I wasn’t present.
The corridor had delivered my body. It hadn’t delivered me.
There were moments when I could hear something in her voice. Something frayed.
I asked her recently if she’d make this choice again.
She was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know. Ask me in a year.”
That answer sits with me. What it cost her to say. What it might cost us if the answer changes.
The People I Met
I’m not the only one in the corridor.
A colleague from Florida told me about his apartment in Seattle. Two bedrooms, he wanted space for when his wife and kids visit. A week here, a week there, make it feel less one-sided.
I asked him how often they come.
“They haven’t. Not yet.”
He’s been paying rent for almost a year. The second bedroom stays empty.
A senior engineer in Riverside, California I used to work with. Wife is a nurse at the local hospital. Non-portable. Bought at 2.9% in 2021.
He flies Ontario to San Jose, one hour each way. Same state. Same trap.
He considered same-day round trips. No apartment. Just the exhaustion. He picked the exhaustion he could survive.
Another one. Joined my team a couple months after me. Older. Kids in high school. When I mentioned my son was only a few months old, he stopped mid-sentence.
“That’s really young. They change every week at that age.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Every time I see him, he’s grown a little.”
I said it like it was beautiful. I heard it like it was loss.
A woman on my regular Sunday flight runs a different configuration. Two weeks in Seattle, then home for ten days. Fewer flights, longer stretches.
“It works for us.”
She said this without looking up from her laptop. I didn’t ask what “works” meant.
Different configurations. Different frequencies. Different ratios.
Everyone’s math works.
What I Missed
Halloween at Disneyland, a Tuesday. I saw the photos.
His first steps, a Thursday. I saw the video.
The morning routine. Every weekday for twelve months. I’ve never seen it.
Two hundred bedtimes. She did them. I did maybe forty.
The ordinary moments. The ones that don’t get photographed. The ones that accumulate into knowing someone. Those happened while I was in Seattle.
I can calculate my Distance Premium to the dollar. I can track my Corridor Rate to the hour.
There’s no formula for what I missed.
Saturday mornings, I push him around the house on his balance bike. He hasn't figured out how to propel himself yet, but it doesn't matter. He points where he wants to go. I push. Laps around the kitchen, the living room, the hallway.
When I stop, he looks up and points again. Makes a sound that means “more.”
This is what presence looks like. Not the arrival. The laps.
Year 2
Year 1. 85 flights. $45,011 in travel costs. $104,989 captured. 1.35x.
The math worked. I’m still not sure if it was worth it.
There was one weekend in October. I landed early. I walked in while they were still awake.
My son looked up from his toys. Reached for me. “Da da.” My name, in his voice, in the room.
That’s what I’m chasing. That’s what the math can’t measure.
The arrangement continues. If something breaks, I’ll document that too.
The documentation continues.
If you’re in the trap too, I’d rather hear from you directly: hello@1100mileworkday.com
Disclaimer: I’m documenting this in real-time, with the understanding that the math working doesn’t mean it’s working. These are not recommendations. They’re field notes from an unsustainable arrangement that shouldn’t have to exist. The content in this newsletter reflects one person’s experience and should not be construed as financial, tax, legal, or career advice. Individual circumstances vary significantly. Consult qualified professionals before making decisions affecting your employment, taxes, or family situation. The author is not a financial advisor, attorney, or tax professional.