What I learned in 2025

It is December 30 at around 8:30PM and I’m laying in my bed munching on chocolate covered pretzels certain of two things: I will not finish this piece by 2026 and I will not see the ball drop. My eyes are heavy and my snack was a comforting way to close out the year. I start scrolling through my entire camera roll to relive the peaks and the valleys of this past year. We learned, and will continue to learn all the days of this wild and beautiful life.

I learned that joy, grief and self expression are not reserved for anyone in particular. They’re accessible to all and the bedrock of our humanity. Emotion is the great equalizer. You don’t need money or shiny things, status or perfect perception; you just need to feel.

I learned that shopping lists will become treasures. My father in law called with his orders for Giant Eagle and I always snuck in the requested sweet treats that he shouldn’t have had, but he had a zest for life and Marie Callender cream pie. God rest his soul.

I tried to tune out the noise because the only voice I often needed to hear was my own along with some guidance from the good Lord. No one can tell you what you need and no one’s coming to rescue you so take up your arms and do it yourself and give grace and kindness and let others flourish while you quietly and patiently unwrap the gift of your life.

I found solace in a cozy garden center, collecting stuffed animals, Gregory’s Coffee drive through, cemetary drive-bys, and lots of trail mix.

I re-learned that special events are especially likely to be an emotional and logistical mess. Lower your expectations or opt out of events that trigger bad feelings and overwhelm.

I learned that grief evolves. I realize I compare the present day to the way it used to be. Before the pandemic, or the breakup, or you stopped drinking finally, or your Papa died or whatever your pivotal moment was. For me it was when nana and even our Mimi hosted parties and Papa ate everything in sight and recycled all the little ginger ale bottles and read the paper with his coffee. And Nonny picked the chicken bones clean and Homer ate fusilli and Wilma made apple crumble and Carl enjoyed her meatloaf sandwiches. When James and I had more time to just be, when gatherings felt safe, and there was a little less tension in the air. I also realize if we continually compare the imperfect present to the perceived glory of a past we long for, we will always feel a tinge of sadness. But I want to enjoy what we have and how far we have come and relish the gifts of our babies, and the noise, and the graying hair and soft belly that made life, and the extra effort required to find your misplaced grace, and the sweet release of accepting the flawed within all of us.

I keep relearning that reinforcing something makes it significant; what you resist persists.

I learned that Purely Obsessional OCD is still a doozy and the postpartum varietal is really monstrous. But feelings aren’t facts, you’re not the sum of your fears, and you will continue to be ok.

I learned about symbiosis…as in the baby, well sturdy toddler now, and I have become quite symbiotic. We actually fell into co-sleeping which is something I didn’t envision for us. I chose not to breastfeed and I know that breeds a lot of closeness so we started contact napping. I savor every day the chance to rest with the baby. And while it's a responsibility and sacrifice when a life relies on you for sleep, it has been such a gift of pause and calm and sweet serenity. His chest rising and falling in cadence with mine, searching for me in the night, nestling his tussled hair atop my chin or in the crook of my neck, the air of evening milk I shouldn’t have offered but you do what you must, and the release of a periodic snore.

While it can be seen as limiting, it’s been the joy of my life to be a sanctuary for this child. I am not certain we will have any others. I was not certain we would even have him. So I relish the naps and I relish the nights and I pray that I'll always remember the feeling of his little body next to mine breathing in deeply in perfect peace, and also an occasional head butt! Let’s be realistic.

I’ve learned it is squarely our responsibility to regulate our emotions, navigate our outcomes, and handle our responses. As a reassurance seeker and a people pleaser it is common for me to seek cohesion, advice, and comfort from those near and dear, but you also have to find a way to create a safe place unto yourself.

I've learned that I'm virtually replaceable everywhere in the world except within the four* walls of my home. In the role of mother I am irreplaceable in this moment in time. Thus I pray, I may always have the strength and the longevity to fulfill this role. And while motherhood is glorious, it also comes with pockets of rage, overwhelm and loneliness. I think we have to be transparent about how indeed hard it is. Does the irritability and strain ever pass if we place impossible expectations on ourselves? Likely not.

I've learned that little boys are wild. Positively wild. Curious, and clumsy but all the while determined, with an infectious laugh like a drunken college student running naked through the hall. Nothing is safe! Nothing is safe. But they make you laugh, and keep you on your toes and you love them all the while and Google should my toddler wear a helmet many times throughout the day.

Even the tantrums and big emotions are endearing. When I was in therapy navigating life with JJ, my therapist said it was quite courageous to demand that your needs are met. To do whatever is necessary to enact change in the way that you need changing. Somehow, as we age or maybe this is just me projecting, I do not always fight for or demand what I need. I may sulk or moan in perfect passive aggressive fashion, but this little person not even on the earth for two years already knows what to do to get his needs met. And I will use him as my example to garner the outcomes I am seeking.

The love between JJ and Jameson continues to nurture my soul. They have a connection that is incomparable and it warms my heart to know that while they were not birthed by the same woman, they are connected in life as soul brothers. And my first born Tiernan is becoming such a strong willed and ethereal spirit. I love listening to her sing song renditions of favorite music and when she tells me all the best secrets.

I learned about fungal diaper rash, and whoa is it funky. So much poop!

Individuals very dear to me said goodbye to their grandmothers this past year and I learned that while our parents’ love can be grand a grandmother's love is indomitable and transcends space and time. To my dear ones who buried someone that they adored in 2025, I pray that you see their smile in every star in the sky.

I'm still learning so much about my husband. I feel like nothing tests you or exposes your weaknesses like a tiny human, staring at you with beautiful bold eyes, taking in every effort and word like a sponge at the bottom of the ocean. We were married 10 years this past October and there and chapters we've yet to read, and I find it especially fragile to unearth these next chapters with the steady gaze of a child looking on.

I learned to do quite a bit while nap trapped. I actually wrote Christmas cards that were not on time. They will never be on time. I also made little trinkets for my mother and father's anniversary party. I learned a few basic stitches and embroidery, and I read new books. Well, not really. I read parts of books and then lost interest because my attention span is abysmal. I answered lots of emails cocooned next to the once hopelessly busy, now dormant little man for our daily siesta.

I learned how to cheat the algorithm. I started a brand new account where I only follow toys, crafts and stuffed animals. I also learned how to not consume or scroll so much. I don’t want the baby to inherit my phone addiction so I use the Meta app to post and share some tidbits. I do not take in content unless I am on my laptop which is way less accessible than my phone. I want to keep my toes in the world of media, but more prominently be in the actual world through its highs and its more accurate woes.

If you've something super important to tell me and we are in real life friends, please text or call me. I might miss it on Instagram!

I learned that friendship can span the sea. And age and culture bear no importance for twin flames.

I learned about forgiveness. By the grace of God, many people came together to comprise the village caring for a very special teenage boy, now 18 and staring at me in the face with his eyes full of hope and wonder, despite all he has navigated.

I learned I still have so much to learn but with earnest effort the pursuit continues. May 2026 and may you be kind to you.

What I learned in 2021

Another year! Another year we lived in fear. When I was gathering my thoughts this past week to craft my annual reflection I felt resounding anger. Another week of stances shifting, of people we entrusted with our welfare changing their minds, and the common person dealing with the ramifications. Weeks upon weeks of frantic testing lines, shortages, anxiety, and sick friends. Another week of astounding hypocrisy by leadership as they took lavish vacations and the rest of us cowered in our homes. Weeks where we were left riddled with uncertainty and confusion as the goal posts continued to shift, the requirements evolved, and the children, and the vulnerable, and the elderly remained experimental specimens in a Petri dish. Another week of elites calling the shots from the safety of their cozy homes in protected communities while others performed the mental and physical gymnastics of determining how they would feed their families, keep their businesses open, and keep their mental health from deteriorating further. I’m angry at our proclivity to elevate individuals to the status of demigods to shortly after watch them fall from grace as their abuses come to light. I’m angry that they think we will forget.

Last year around this time, I felt societal pressure to never err, or say the wrong thing, and vowed to do whatever was required to be marked good in this war of identities that we are raging in this beloved country. This year I feel angry at my lunacy, and our willingness to be led like sheep by talking heads on the television toting platitudes that lose their meaning after their bearers continue to behave so poorly. Angry that here we are two years later being told there is no solution. Angry at the years of performative activism and grandstanding that has not helped a literal soul. Still angry I never got to say goodbye to my grandpa.

And then I paused as the anger raged. Anger doesn’t sit well in the body; it always hurts. I took a breath to focus on the ember inside that has yet to be stamped out and as I always do , found a way back to gratitude. I fixed my eyes on the beauty that remains. The beauty of a quaint Christmas spent alone at home with my husband and our menagerie of rescue cats. The technology of FaceTime to allow opening gifts in tandem with loved ones. The beauty of the promise of a child to remind a family of the miracle and innocence of new life. Gratitude for the decency of people in my community despite the grim perception being painted by the inept commentators of our time, and relief that the tv has an off switch. Grateful that grief is unexpressed love and that is why it never really runs out because love never dies. Grateful that after the rain, there comes a rainbow.

I learned I would be an aunt! And how to make a mobile for this beautiful blessing due in May. I learned a whole lot about adoption as well as I investigate my own path to motherhood. I also learned it is ok to feel profound joy for someone realizing their most sacred dream, and to still feel a tinge of longing that you might realize yours as well.

I explored so many new projects. I realized the culmination of publishing a cookbook with my sister friend Rossella Rago and was delighted to witness firsthand the photo shoot of said cookbook! What an experience it was. I established new connections in the community, found more reasons to smile with Sorriso Kitchen, and met joyful new spirits at my sanctuary, Ethan & the Bean. I leaned into the arts and was led to new understanding by mentors and friends.

I saw love stories come to an end as it was decided the abuse had gone on long enough, and witnessed other love reborn when it was not thought possible. I learned we are all working through loads of shit. It’s the human condition. Crying continues to be cathartic but so does laughing and dancing around to 80’s music alone in a coffee shop.

I relished the glory of reunions and revisited the sadness of separation. Realized I needed healthier boundaries with media that stifled my peace. I learned how to make jewelry, did lots of yoga, tested so many recipes, painted, and sipped! I hosted art shows, planned a bowling birthday blowout, and celebrated small businesses and talented makers with my stellar team. I shed some relationships while fortifying others, and found new souls to walk this world with. I realized I know next to nothing about alleviating the suffering of someone who is genuinely sad and genuinely afraid, and in the same breath realized that presence is the only support that people often require. You being there is the elixir that heals, not some magical solution they never asked for.

We said goodbye to some of our beloved furry friends and hello to new additions. Animals have been for me a source of such grace and solace always, but especially during volatile times. They teach us how to love unconditionally, to be present, and to express as much goodness as is maximally possible during sometimes only a short while on earth. May we all be better at what comes so naturally to animals. May 2022 too be better, and if it isn’t may courage prevail.

Past reflections:
2020
2019
2018
2017
2016
2015
2014
2013

What I’m fearful of this 4th of July

Stirred by Winston Marshall, Mumford and Sons’ former banjo player, and his grace under fire I felt compelled to reflect on the state of my fear in advance of Independence Day.

I fear the day that each and every human soul be held to impossible standards of purity, a moral litmus test literally no one could pass.

That we will continually change ourselves and our hearts in order to be deemed worthy by a collective, albeit a dysfunctional one…In doing so, we’ll edit ourselves until we are unrecognizable.

I fear that in an attempt to ensure absolute perfection of word and deed, that we become the very forces that we loathe. The same forces we purport to stand up against in supposed service of eradicating the world of its ills.

I fear when words and their meaning become so altered that they become diluted and useless. Words can move mountains, until they don’t.

I fear the end of personal accountability and responsibility. The end of resilience, the end of nuance.

I fear the end of the possibility that our immutable characteristics are the least important, least interesting things about us.

I fear a compulsion to assess every single thing that we have done and said in the past with such ferocity, that we no longer have the courage to err and atone in the present.

Our predecessors, my husband among them, fought and bear scars for our unequivocal right to despise this country if we so choose. And to do so without fear of mistreatment or reprisal. Think what you will of America, its origin story, and its people, I still find that to be an extraordinary state of affairs.

Fears aside, I'd be remiss not to say I'm fortunate to have the freedom to be afraid and share what stirs me in the night. I’m thankful for the freedom to choose to live not by lies, at least for now. I’m thankful for this land, its trials and its triumphs, its beauty and its promise.
___

Recipe for the Italian American Berry Shortcake pictured is available here.

Listen to Winston Marshall on Bari Weiss’ podcast, Honestly, here and read his essay, here.

A love like theirs

He had a setback; a scare if you will. Even at 91 years old, Papa having anything wrong with him is unfathomable. He’s unsinkable. Nonetheless he ended up in the hospital. One day turned into two. Two felt like an eternity for Nana. But his prognosis was just fine and he would be home on the third day.

She tasked me with going to the house and picking up a set of clothes for him to wear home from the hospital. It had been some time since I visited the basement. Papa’s place. Functional, yes, with clothes, a tool bench, and his own bathroom. An outpost marked by carefully orchestrated chaos: trinkets, doodads, items collected through the years. And the pictures: a shrine to our family.

Nana called to relay what Papa would need. She carefully listed all the items, one by one, accompanied by an exact description of where to locate each. She’d memorized where every blessed item of his resided, dictating instructions so I could navigate the room. The care she took with identifying Papa’s needs took my breath away. If you had been eavesdropping on our phone call, it would’ve seemed as if he was going to the Met Gala. But no, just from a hospital bed, to the car, and home. The home they filled for decades, together. 

A bond for the ages, theirs is, proof manifest in images affixed to the walls. Images of me as a baby girl. My doting older sister. Polaroids of the generation prior. My mother with pigtails, a grinning little girl. Innocent. Somewhere within us beneath the layers of thick skin remain those children. Giggly children. Nana and Papa chronicled our lives as a testament. Nana continued talking despite my distraction. “He will need a clean white t-shirt, a pair of slacks. The shoes he likes that slip on. You mustn’t forget socks and a light jacket in case there is a breeze.” I stared at the pictures and clenched his t-shirt.

Will our generation know a love like theirs? One marked by resilience. Of surpassing all of the odds and then surpassing them again. Nana and Papa lived on a milkman’s salary; they simultaneously had nothing and they had everything.  Their lives have been intertwined for the last 62 years. A love like theirs isn’t readily replicated. We will have our love stories, sure. Beautiful, though different given all the amenities and provisions time and progress have afforded us. But when I grow tired or anxious in the fabric of the day-to-day, I’ll think of the tender urgency in her voice and strive for a love like theirs. Clean underwear and a clean white t-shirt. Papa is coming home.

Social Hour

I attempted to unplug for the day and broke that resolution the minute I Instagram storied from my semi-monthly brunch with a dear friend Molly, at our most favorite spot, Raymond’s in Montclair, NJ. Although we don’t work together in that sweet little house on Park Street for years now, we have been diligent in maintaining our sisterhood. Same place, every other month or so, a corner booth, hot cappuccino for her, iced for me, over easy for her, scrambled for me, butter for her, butter and jam for me.  There are animated giggles, angst balanced by joy, and cold home fries because we just have so much to say that we can’t quite finish the food in its “hot” window. I surely can’t unplug now as I feverishly type from another cafe, brimming with thoughts from our two plus hours of being immersed in one another. 

Molly always graciously shares her wisdom and assurance with me, I share with her my latest frenzy or accomplishment. We are quite possibly mirror images of one another born in different times. Catholic-raised, anxiety-ridden, maternal, a little rebellious, introspective, deeply feeling, and bearers of smiles on the outside even when we are hurting on the inside. Per usual we dove to great depths covering topics like social comparison, shame, guilt, and fear. She had recently taken herself off a few social platforms as they were not serving her in a productive and healthy way. And while my job is precisely to reside in this strange digital world, I can’t quite disagree with her choice. I think it was a prudent practice in self care. She asked how I can subject myself to reading and digesting all of this highly polarizing and evocative content on a daily basis. Image after image, narrative after narrative. “Isn’t your brain fatigued from all of these perspectives?” she said. “Whose truth is actual truth because yours is surely different than mine. And why should anyone else's perception be superior?” Preach, Molly. 

I am endlessly seeking information from the outside in. Social cues, suggestions from media, family and peers, and mandates from thought leaders set the pace for my day. Quite frankly, it is tiring to react every moment of every day. To attach uncessecarily to the plot that unravels around me, I become a character in a play I never auditioned for. I compare my uncut footage to someone's highlight reel, or worse I portray a highlight reel for fear of sharing what is imperfect. Sometimes, most times, it is a monologue of my own vicious making. “Words are powerful,” she said, “and we are most harsh when speaking to ourselves.” Right again she was. 

During our social hour, Molly shared with me wonderful, personal news. Yes, you heard right. We exchanged news in person, face to face, not via a screen. We touched hands and celebrated. We chatted about gender bias, podcasts, how to establish routines, how challenging it can be to exercise first thing in the morning, and her position on television. Words are powerful. Best we share ours thoughtfully with people deserving of them, and disengage when it all gets to be too much.