It’s impossible to examine my sense of self without thinking about the people who shaped me. When you really think about it, we’re all growing up at the same time — my parents, my siblings, and me. It feels strange to admit that out loud, but also important to honor.
My parents aren’t the same people they were almost (ahem) 40 years ago when I arrived. And I’m not the same daughter, sister, or mother I was then, or ten years ago, or even last year. Over time, we’ve all been different versions of ourselves — for each other, and to each other.
I think about that evolution like those teddy bear sand art projects we made at street fairs growing up. Single grains of color, settling into thin, uneven layers that somehow become something beautiful.
My dad moved across the world when I was a very little girl — a relevant and undeniably sad part of my story. It’s one of those early fractures that shaped me in ways I’m still learning to understand. Those pieces aren’t the sparkliest parts of me, perhaps, but they’re essential. They’re part of the sediment, the darker grains that give contrast and depth to the sand‑art teddy bear I’ve become.
Although this relationship didn’t really bloom until much later in my life, I feel a responsibility to my three‑year‑old self to keep investigating it with honesty, bravery, and love. To be honest, reader(s), it’s still emotional. But damn, I’m grateful for the growth that comes from doing — and talking about — hard things. That sweet little girl inside me deserves nothing less.
My mom is my soulmate. My constant in a life that wasn’t always picture‑perfect, but was somehow perfect for us. Her love is my security blanket. When I reflect on my connection to her, I can’t help but cry. I cry because how on earth is it possible to love someone so thoroughly that any doubt, any fear, any pain becomes manageable simply because she loves back. Anyone who knows her is blessed — so what do you even call it when you get to be her daughter?
I sometimes refer to my stepdad as a cartoon character, or the Mayor. He’s bigger than life, loved by everyone, always moving, always serving. To me, he personifies growth — a constant desire to do more, learn more, give more. He is growth over time, and so is our love for one another.
I am one of five children — seven if you count (and I do) my sister‑ and brother‑in‑law. They are the heart and soul of my being, the source of my silliest memories and my biggest celebrations, the hand‑holders who showed up when sadness felt overwhelming.
If I were on stage accepting a Nobel Peace Prize or a Grammy, I’d thank my brother Ian for teaching me that humor and sarcasm are as essential to self‑expression as my love of writing. I’d thank my sister for reminding me, over and over again through her actions, to approach every scenario with an open mind — because of her, I choose curiosity before judgment.
I’d thank my brother Ari for the moment he told me never to lower my chin when walking into a room. He called me confident, and brilliant, and unique — and because he said it, because he believed it, I grew into those things.
I’d tell my little brother that from the second I met him, my sense of purpose shifted. My identity expanded the moment I went from little sister to big sister, and what an honor it is to hold that title.
To me, my sister‑in‑law is what you become when you choose to do the right thing — every…single…time. And my brother‑in‑law is what you become when you choose to listen with intention to the people you love.
Writing this post has inspired me to start capturing the childhood stories — the hard ones, the funny ones, the ones that feel almost unbelievable. The moments that built me, challenged me, cracked me open, and made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. The stories that deserve to be held up to the light, examined, honored, and maybe even retold with a little more compassion than I had the first time around.
This project is intended to be a journey, and this week was about connection to the people who formed me. Today’s blog post is an introduction to my bullpen — my aces. These people are my sand‑art teddy bear lineup, each one a layer, a color, a shape that made me who I am.