The Woman Who Raised Me

Growing up in a family like mine has shaped me in ways I never could have imagined. If my 11-year-old self could see me now she wouldn’t believe the person I’ve become. She would probably smile, wide-eyed with wonder, and maybe even dance around me in joy knowing that I’ve made a place for myself in this world a place where people feel safe around me, where I can carry burdens even the ones that aren’t mine and hold onto pain until it fades away.

At 11, I had already stepped into the worlds of business and politics. I learned young that life isn’t just about surviving. It’s about understanding, about standing firm in what you believe. Growing up exposed to so many different perspectives made me mature faster than most, sometimes to the point of selfishness. But one thing about me has never changed: I have an old soul. I belong to the echoes of another time, one where classical music drifts through candlelit rooms, where fingers move instinctively across the piano keys or the strings of a guitar.

Maybe it’s in my blood. My grandmother was a violist, her hands weaving melodies like a story only music could tell. And before her, my great-grandfather was a musician, crafting violins and guitars from wood, as if he could carve music itself into being. Now I understand why classical music feels like home. It’s the language of my family the unspoken poetry passed down through generations.

My grandmother Dutch by blood, a woman of skill and spirit is a force to be reckoned with. She isn’t just a musician; she’s an artist in every sense of the word. She paints, she knits, she gardens with hands that know both gentleness and resilience. When she was younger, she was a tailor, stitching dreams into dresses making up brides for their weddings. And oh, she could bake! The kind of baking that fills a home with warmth with the scent of something golden and sweet, something that feels like love.

She has her temper, of course. A fire that rises quick and burns bright. But that never made me love her any less. If anything, it only deepened my respect for her. Strength comes in many forms and hers is a strength I carry within me. She is the reason I stand where I do today, the reason I have such unwavering pride in my roots.

She bore ten children, a mother’s love stretched across lifetimes though fate took five of them too soon. Miscarriage, sickness, the kind of losses that carve deep into the soul. But still, she stands. Still, she sings. And her voice. ohh her voice—carries something ethereal, something almost holy.

As I sit here, listening to The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi, I imagine her. Young, vibrant, perhaps lost in a melody of her own making. A woman who has seen more life than most ever will who has endured and created, loved and lost. A woman who has shaped me, more than she will ever know.

I love her. Not just for what she’s given me but for who she is. For the music in her soul, the fire in her spirit and the legacy she carries in her hands.

And I will carry it, too.

I love you❤️ my gorgeous grandma 🥰