Today is my mom’s birthday.
Growing up, I always knew my mom’s caretaking and generosity were next-level. She never reserved her kindness for people or places that held personal significance—her heart extended to everyone. Her charity wasn’t selective, and I think a lot of my own belief in doing right by others comes from her example. She moved through the world with a quiet humility that taught more than words ever could.
What I respect most, though, is that she never tried to make me just like her. Instead, she taught me to stand firm in my convictions—whether they were popular or not. She encouraged me to use my voice (which she jokes was a little too much, blaming the stork for a “voice box malfunction”) and to find the sacred in small acts done with big love.
My dad gifted his four children a sharp sense of sarcasm, so we lovingly poke fun at my mom often—but never with any real bite. She’s cheesy. Endearingly, unapologetically cheesy. But in her presence—then and now—it’s always felt like a special kind of cheese. The kind not everyone gets. The kind that wraps around you like warmth.
For the believers, she’s a touch of God in a woman. For the doubters, she’s the kind of person who melts her way into your heart, forcing you to consider what divine force could create someone so pure.
She’s the type of woman who, when a stranger once mentioned they couldn’t afford college, offered to cover their book expenses if they ever changed their mind—without knowing their name, just knowing their need. She’s the kind of woman who shows up, gets dirty, and swings a hammer for Habitat for Humanity with a heavy toolbelt and a full heart. She’s the OG of garden parties—brewing the perfect iced tea under the sun and sipping chocolate martinis with extra pizzazz. She’s the ultimate caretaker—quietly pulling all-nighters to curate goody bags with heartfelt intention, not because she volunteered, but because no one else would. A true artisan at heart, she weaves her creativity into the world through hand-stitched costumes for her grandchildren and quilts stitched with comfort and love. She is the queen of lists and handwritten notes, knowing that words—in any form—carry weight, make a difference, and connect us to purpose and one another.
Her grace makes an impression. Her goodness leaves a mark.
Happy birthday, Mom. You’re rare, and you’re real. I love you.
The Forty Files 