I have been fortunate. Not in the shiny, surface way that luck is often spoken about—but in the quiet, soul-rooted way that shapes a life from the inside out. I’ve been held by the hands of strong, resilient women. Women who walked ahead of me with steady steps, who spoke wisdom without needing to raise their voices, who passed down a legacy not of riches, but of roots.

My great-grandmother, Ida, lived to be 98. She was strong, independent, and unapologetically authentic. Her presence was like the land she loved—simple, honest, unshakable. She planted gardens with her hands and faith with her life. She walked to church in shoes worn smooth with purpose and stood firm in what she believed, even when the world shifted around her. There was a quiet authority in her, a kind of self-assurance that didn’t need explaining. From her, I learned that you don’t have to be loud to be powerful—that you can shape generations simply by living true. Her life whispered what I carry still: you can change the course of a family with steady love and a soul anchored in truth.

Then there was my Gram, Betty. She’s gone now, but her love lingers—like the scent of warm apple dumplings rising from the oven, like the laughter of cousins floating through a crowded house. Her kitchen was a refuge, her presence a balm. Her hands were always moving—pouring coffee, folding laundry, wiping tears, blessing us in ways we didn’t always see at the time. She didn’t just make meals; she made moments. Around her table, love was ladled out generously, and everyone had a place. She taught me that hospitality isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about noticing, welcoming, and feeding both the body and the soul.

My mother, Sue, gives me laughter. Not the kind that fades quickly, but the kind that cuts through sorrow and stays with you. Her humor is a lifeline—sarcastic, wise, honest. She can pull light from the darkest corners of a room. She teaches me still that laughter is sacred, that joy is not a luxury but a necessity. When the world feels heavy, her voice reminds me to exhale. Her love is unwavering, and her laughter has been one of my greatest comforts.

Jan—my other—has always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. She saw something in me before I had the courage to chase it. Her encouragement didn’t come in loud declarations, but in soft nudges, quiet support, and the kind of belief that makes you feel brave. When I applied for my first job as a local staff writer, it was her voice telling me, “You can.” Her faith became my stepping stone. Her love, a quiet light guiding me forward.

Then there is Anita, my mother-in-law, who loves with such gentleness you almost miss the depth of it—until you realize her steadiness has become one of your anchors. She doesn’t need to lead the room to leave an impression. Her love is felt in thoughtful check-ins, quiet understanding, and the way she simply shows up. She’s taught me that you don’t have to lead loudly to hold a family together. Sometimes, the strongest pillars are the ones that hum quietly in the background, holding everything up with grace.

There were also the women who stood in front of classrooms: teachers like Mrs. Tice and Mrs. Yopp. They didn’t just teach subjects—they taught belief. They saw in me a voice worth cultivating. I don’t remember every lesson, but I remember the way they made me feel: capable, chosen, worthy of being heard. Their belief planted seeds I didn’t know how to tend at the time, but they grew anyway.

And then there were the ones who didn’t carry titles or family ties—friends, acquaintances, strangers in passing—who lifted me in ways they’ll never know. A compliment at the right moment. A kind glance when my strength was slipping. A gentle truth offered with care. Those small, fleeting moments stitched together something steady in me. They reminded me that sometimes, being seen by a stranger feels like being known by God.

And if I’m honest, some of the people who shaped me most didn’t come wrapped in warmth. A few of my harshest critics have left the deepest impact. Their words weren’t always easy to hear, but they were often what I needed to grow. They challenged me to look inward, to rise higher, to do better. Not every critic was cruel—some were simply honest, and their honesty became a mirror I had to face. In hindsight, even hard truths, when received with humility, became a kind of grace.

All these women—woven into my story by blood, by choice, or by divine interruption—left fingerprints on my heart. Their lessons weren’t always spoken. Most of the time, they were lived: quiet examples of how to carry yourself through joy and heartbreak, through success and silence. That’s how the best lessons are passed down—not from pulpits or podiums, but in the rhythm of ordinary days.

If I carry anything forward, I hope it’s this: the strength of planted feet, the grace of a well-fed table, the gift of laughter in hard seasons, the courage to take risks, the belief in others before they believe in themselves—and the awareness that even the smallest gesture, when offered in love, can echo forever in someone else’s story.

To the women who shaped me—and to the quiet encouragers, the honest critics, and the unseen lifters along the way:

Thank you for showing me how.