The Women Who Built Me: A Tribute to My Real Matriarchs

Mother’s Day arrives with a familiar set of expectations. We see the flowery cards, the pastel brunches, and the biological narratives that dominate our feeds. For many of us, the story of who "raised" us doesn’t fit neatly into a Hallmark card.

This is a Mother’s Day post, yes, but it’s also bigger than that. Mothering love is not limited to one biological person. It is a force. It shows up through the matriarchs who choose to build you, protect you, correct you, hype you up, and love you hard enough to leave a permanent mark.

Biology is a baseline, but it isn’t a blueprint. My life was shaped by a village of women who chose the job. Some were mothers by title. Some were not. All of them carried that essential mother’s love in one form or another. They didn’t just provide a roof; they gave me a roadmap for moving through the world with strength, grit, and an unapologetic sense of self.

I am also the sum of women who came long before me—Irish, Slavic, and Jewish, among others. They left families behind, followed their faith and their hearts to America, and set out on their own. That kind of courage doesn’t disappear. It gets passed down. It is DNA woven with courage and fortified with a deep sense of faith and family.

These are my real matriarchs. These are the women who made me.

The Foundation—Baba’s Unbreakable Love

It has been eighteen years since my grandmother, Florence—better known as Baba—left this world.

Eighteen years since anything felt truly normal.

Time is strange in grief. Truthfully, I don’t think anything has felt "normal" since she passed. Her absence changed the atmosphere for good. Eighteen years have gone by, yet it still feels like yesterday. I can still hear her witch-worthy cackle. It filled a room and pulled everyone else in. I can still feel the warmth of her hug. She didn't just embrace you; she hugged you with her whole heart, like she was trying to press her strength straight into your bones.

Baba was my grandmother by DNA and my mother by love. She was one of the matriarchs who carried that force for me. She stepped into the work of raising, steadying, and shaping me in ways no label could fully capture.

The last time I saw her was after I made Easter dinner. She hugged me, thanked me for the beautiful meal, and started to cry. I didn’t understand it then. Looking back, I think she knew. She wanted my cousin Kathy there, and Kathy knew to come. Baba didn’t want me to be alone for what came next.

I couldn’t have known how hard it would be. I couldn’t have known the questions I needed to ask. There is a particular silence that follows losing the person who raised you—a list of questions that will never be answered and stories that will never be finished.

Wherever she is today, I hope she knows I still love her with every ounce of my being. What was left unsaid was probably left that way for a reason. She did her absolute best to give me the very best. I am who I am because she was who she was.

Baba was not the beginning of that strength. She was part of a longer line of brave women who crossed oceans, carried tradition, trusted their convictions, and built a life from scratch. That ancestral grit lived in her—and through her, it lives in me.

She loved me a bushel and a peck, and I carry that love with me every day.

The Zest—Kathy’s Courage and Spice

If Baba was the foundation, my cousin Kathy was the electricity.

She was technically my cousin, but she carried that same mothering love in her own unforgettable way. Kathy was DNA-kin, yes, but she was also one of my matriarchs. She filled the roles of mother, aunt, and best friend all at once. Kathy was "my favorite aunt," but she was also a mirror. She reflected back the person I believed myself to be.

Growing up on Long Island under the care of someone as angelic as Baba set a high bar. It’s hard to be held to that standard. It’s even harder when you feel like you’ve let that person down. I know I did, often. Every time I stumbled, Kathy was there—even from Boston. She was my advocate. She talked to Baba and reminded her how amazing I was, how good I was, and how proud she should be of me.

Kathy brought the spice. She brought the zest. While Baba taught me about the heart, Kathy taught me about the "verve." She encouraged me to be a little more pessimistic—not in a negative way, but in a realistic, "don’t take any nonsense" way. More importantly, she taught me to be courageous.

Her kids probably have even better words to describe her "zest," but I see it as fire. She taught me to take life more in the moment. The ache of her absence is heavy today. There are no words big enough to describe how much she is missed.

The Angel and the Devil on My Shoulders

My life has been a constant dialogue between these two forces. Baba and Kathy were the angel and the devil on my shoulders, and I mean that in the most empowering way possible.

They were not the whole story—they were the latest expression of it. Behind them stood generations of women shaped by immigration, sacrifice, faith, reinvention, and nerve. Irish, Slavic, and Jewish women, among others, helped form the backbone I stand on.

One taught me to lead with empathy and unconditional love. The other taught me to lead with courage, spice, and a healthy dose of skepticism. You need both to survive in the world, especially in industries like security and marketing, where your boundaries and your brilliance are constantly tested.

Emptiness can be surprisingly heavy. When you lose the people who formed your internal compass, you have to learn how to calibrate it yourself. Still, the beauty of being raised by such strong women is that they don’t truly leave you. They leave their fingerprints on your soul.

Passing the Torch—The Next Generation of Verve

The most incredible part of this journey is seeing the legacy continue. I see it every day in the two beautiful women I helped create.

My daughters carry the history of the women who built me. I see Baba’s heart in them. I see Kathy’s spice running through their veins. I also see the deeper inheritance behind them—the women who left one world for another and built new lives with faith, nerve, and grit. Knowing they come from that kind of strength—and knowing I get to help them navigate their own power—is both daunting and beautiful.

Legacy isn't just about names on a birth certificate. It’s about the "verve" and greatness we pass on. It’s about teaching the next generation that they don't have to choose between being "angelic" and being "spicy." They can be both. They can be leaders who give whole-hearted hugs and leaders who take no nonsense.

A Lesson in Leadership from the Village

We talk a lot about leadership in my professional circles. We discuss strategy, KPIs, and executive presence. Yet some of the most profound leadership lessons I ever learned didn’t come from a boardroom. They came from my upbringing on Long Island and from a cousin in Boston who wouldn’t let me give up on myself.

Leadership is about advocacy. Kathy taught me that by being my voice when I hadn’t found mine yet.
Leadership is about consistency. Baba taught me that by being the unwavering foundation of my life for decades.

This Mother’s Day, I am honoring the village. I am honoring the women who stepped in, the women who stayed, and the women who showed me that family is a choice we make every day. I am also honoring the women who came here before me—women who left home, followed belief and instinct, and had the courage to begin again.

If your "matriarchy" looks a little different—if it’s made of grandmothers, cousins, mentors, or friends—celebrate that today. Honor the women who saw your potential before you did. Honor the ones who gave you the courage to be "too much" in a world that often asks us to be less.

To Baba and Kathy—I carry your cackles and your courage with me. I am standing on the foundation you built, and I am making sure the next generation stands even taller.

Stay Visible. Keep Leading.