The Helpers Are Still Here
I had barely sat down at my desk when a man appeared at the window. He looked nervous when I asked if he was checking in.
“I’m here to make an appointment for my daughter,” he said.
Then he paused.
“Well… she’s not really my daughter. I’m her guardian.”
He began explaining why the young woman needed to speak with a mental health professional.
In 2024, her mother died from cancer. Three months later, she came home from school and found her father, who had taken his own life.
“She’s a good kid,” he said quietly. “She’s just been through more than anyone her age should ever have to face.”
The only extended family was a grandmother in Vermont who believed placing her in a home would be best, and an assigned guardian who was soon retiring to another state, didn’t feel he could care for her properly.
I sat quietly, absorbing the weight of what he was telling me.
Then the story took another turn.
He and his wife had been neighbors of this family. They didn’t know them personally, but they knew about the tragedy through the community.
Last year, he and his wife, both retired, made a decision that most of us might only talk about.
They stepped forward and welcomed this young woman, whom they just me, into their home.
They had spent their entire careers helping others. He is a retired police officer, and his wife is a retired nurse. Helping people wasn’t just their profession; it was simply who they were.
As he spoke, he didn’t sound proud or heroic. If anything, he seemed a little uncomfortable telling the story.
To him, it was simply the right thing to do.
Just like that, the heaviness I had carried into work that morning began to lift, as I felt tears on my face.
Because there, standing in front of me, was one of the helpers.
Earlier that week, I had been feeling overwhelmed by the state of the world, war, worry, and the kind of uncertainty that makes you fear for the future your children and grandchildren will inherit. When I get stuck in my head instead of living in the present, those worries can take over.
But that morning, I was reminded of something Fred Rogers once said:
“When I was a boy, and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”
In a world that often feels loud and uncertain, it’s easy to believe kindness is fading fast.
But every so often, life quietly places one of those helpers right in front of us.
And in that moment, we remember something important.
The helpers are still here.
Enjoy the Ride, and always look for the helpers along the way.
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Remembering Jimmy
Today would have been my brother Jimmy’s 80th birthday. Jimmy was my first true love. We were 18 years apart, but we shared February birthdays, and if you can believe it, the same parents. His birthday fell on Washington’s Birthday, back when George Washington had a day all to himself, before someone bundled it into Presidents’ Day.
For years, I heard how much Jimmy loved sharing his birthday with our first president. He especially loved the tradition of a coconut cake crowned with a single cherry in the center, marking the day in his own sweet, ceremonial way.
He left me when I was 6 years old, and it was for another woman. That’s when he had the audacity to get married.
No worries, I made my feelings crystal clear in church that day, grabbing onto the tails of his tuxedo and throwing the very best fit a heartbroken five-year-old could manage.
I say he was my first love for many reasons. For one, he loved my sister and me unconditionally. I’m not exaggerating; in his eyes, we could do no wrong.
Before “the other woman” came along, he took us everywhere, even on dates. Church carnivals, the circus, sledding hills, his workplace, if Jimmy was there, so were we.
He worked a shift that had him sleeping late, or trying to. That never stopped us. My sister and I would sneak into his room with rollers and barrettes, stifling giggles while we decorated his hair. He’d pretend to sleep through it all, patient and saintly.
Jimmy made me an Auntie when I was just eight years old. If you ever want to feel judged, show your second-grade nun a photo of your brand-new nephew. I can still see her face. I’m fairly certain she gasped.
His wife, my sister-in-law, wasn’t nearly as much fun as the dates had been. The dates thought we hung the moon. They proved it with little gifts and extra attention.
I have two vivid memories of her. Once, she patiently taught us how to make tissue paper flowers on her big bed. The other time, she committed the unforgivable act of eating the ears off my chocolate Easter rabbit. My sister witnessed the amputation and immediately hid her own basket in the closet.
Some things a child simply does not recover from.
Fast forward to 2005, when Jimmy was told he needed a heart transplant. It makes sense — after pouring out that much love over a lifetime, his own heart was simply worn out.
Then one day, Jimmy decided he didn’t want to move forward with the procedure. In the room next to him was a young man with a newborn baby. Jimmy couldn’t bear the thought of receiving a heart before him.
He told us he had lived his life. He had raised his children and held his grandchildren. That young father, he said, was just getting started.
The medical team asked him again and again to be sure he understood. They told him he likely wouldn’t live more than a year without the transplant.
Well… they were wrong.
Jimmy lived the rest of his life in bliss — with a dash of ignorance. He did what he wanted. He ate what he wanted. He squeezed every drop out of every single day. And instead of one year, he gave us three — three full, unapologetic years on his terms.
Today, my sisters and I are thinking about him. We’re laughing at the blizzard outside because Jimmy would have absolutely loved the drama of it all — probably convinced it was arranged in his honor.
He moved through life without worry, without apology, without overthinking a single thing.
Unlike his sisters.
So today, in his honor, we’re trying to do the same, to live just a little more freely, to not give a shit about the small stuff, at least for the next twenty-four hours.
Let the snow fall.
Who cares.
Happy 80th Birthday, Jimmy! I still LOVE you ❤️
He died in 2008 at the age of 62, the very same age I just celebrated. Somehow, it feels like a sacred milestone. Like I’ve stepped into a year he never got to see… and I intend to live it the way he would have. Well, I’ll do my best.
Enjoy The Ride!
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My Soul Checked Out
I seem to have reached a crossroads in several areas of my life, and not the symbolic kind. This feels more like one of those chaotic intersections where all the traffic lights are out, and everyone is inching forward while making aggressive eye contact.
I’ve been at this same intersection before, where I stayed 17 years, SEVENTEEN, past my expiration date. That’s not employment, it’s a mini-series.
If only life offered the same courtesy as Netflix after a marathon: Are you still watching?
I didn’t leave that job; I slowly fossilized inside it.
And what did I walk away with after nearly two decades?
Let’s see, some resentment, a PhD in Advanced People Pleasing, and a self-worth that had clearly left the building long before me.
My current job, on the other hand, has nothing wrong with it. The environment is healthy, the people are lovely, the pay is good, the freedom is there, and even the location is top-notch. Honestly, the old me would have lit a gratitude candle daily for an opportunity like this.
Yet here I am, feeling trapped in a cage for only five hours a day, which somehow feels brief and endless.
The uncomfortable lightbulb moment occurred after a two-week hiatus over the holidays.
It’s not the job.
It’s not the environment.
It’s me.
Somewhere along the way, my tolerance for comfort quietly expired. I’m having a hard time being anywhere or doing anything that doesn’t stretch me, teach me, or scare me just a little.
The term “personal growth” gets thrown around easily, usually without instruction. I know, because I’ve been one of those throwers. It all sounds great until you have to put it into action, then it feels less like growth and more like my soul developing an allergy to comfort.
If I’m not learning or growing, everything around me starts to annoy me. Idle conversations feel like a hostage situation. My spirit doesn’t whisper anymore; it sighs loudly and checks its watch.
I’ve reached the point where even walking through the door fills me with a dread I can’t explain. It’s like being trapped in a pair of tight pants. No one else notices, but you are silently suffocating inside the waistband.
Most unsettling? The shift within myself. My compassion for the situation is gone, along with my patience. I’m sharper around the edges, quicker to blurt out things that should have a filter, and I don’t particularly like who I’m becoming in the process. Apparently, this is what happens when you stay past your soul’s checkout time.
When staying somewhere begins to cost you your softness, you already paid too much.
Enjoy the Ride!
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And the Oscar Goes to …. Grandma
Oscar season is here, and wow, it really has me thinking. Partly because I’ve seen a few of the nominees, and partly because I’m starting to believe I give more convincing performances in my everyday life than some of what I’ve watched on screen.
Case in point: Just the other day, I was babysitting my 3-year-old granddaughter, and within minutes, I delivered what some or maybe most would consider an award-worthy performance for “Best Surprised Facial Expression.” If trophies were given out, I’d currently be picking out jewels from Harry Winston. Something dazzling, yet classic.
Have you ever played 100 rounds of hide-and-seekwith a three-year-old? Well, let me just say the word “hiding” is used very loosely, and it often involves more than just closed eyes and the confidence that she disappeared.
My role required the ability to project complete disbelief repeatedly. After counting to 10, I entered the room pretending not to see her sitting on the sofa, eyes covered, and giggling. The restraint it took for me not to laugh deserves another nod.
There I was, gasping and asking aloud, “Where can she be?” Looking under blankets, which by the way would have been a better choice, couch cushions, and yes, I even looked in the trash can! My commitment to scanning the room as if she mastered vanishing was like no other. By the way, this was all with no rehearsal.
This got me wondering: if our everyday lives were eligible for awards, how many of us would already have a mantle full of statues? Let’s face it, some of the finest acting doesn’t happen on the big screen; it happens in living rooms, when we’re pretending not to see the giggling child in plain sight, and delivering an Oscar-worthy performance anyway. Ladies and gentlemen, that is skill.
Enjoy the Ride!
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We’re Not Confused
I can’t be quiet anymore about the state of this country. I’ve read too many books and watched too many movies that feel less like fiction lately and more like a mirror of what’s unfolding right in front of us.
The latest attempt to make us feel like we didn’t see what we all just saw with our own eyes was the last straw for me. Maybe it’s the Philly in me, or the Aquarius, or just being a human with functioning senses, but there’s a point where you want to yell, “Don’t tell me what I saw.” This kind of gaslighting hits deeper than disagreement between political parties. This messes with trust, with shared reality, with the social glue that lets a country function at all.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the lowest points in history to repeat themselves. I don’t want the pages of books by George Orwell and Margaret Atwood brought to life around us, and I certainly don’t want stories meant for the movie theater played in real time, but here we are.
For me, this is no longer casual frustration. It’s my moral alarm going off like there’s a five-alarm fire. My values are colliding with reality on a whole new level. This anger didn’t come out of nowhere. It came from paying attention, even when I didn’t want to.
Can I honestly say I’ve been paying attention every day? No, because I also enjoy peace and a good night’s sleep, and watching a news loop 24/7 never helped anyone, but stepping away for the sake of sanity doesn’t mean I have my head in the sand.
What is does mean is that when something rises that is so blatantly obvious and wrong, I can’t pretend it’s not happening. I can’t normalize things that are so far from normal, and I certainly can’t be comfortable in my silence; that is something I cannot live with.
I don’t claim to have all the answers, and to be honest, I wish I did, along with a whole bunch of other folks. I’m not interested in shouting matches or partisan loyalty. What I am interested in is truth, accountability, and protecting the very fragile idea that shared reality still matters. Because once that is gone, everything else becomes negotiable, and history has shown us exactly how it ends, and it’s not happy.
So here I am, saying something. Not like a hero. Not from a rooftop. Just honestly. Because staying quiet seemed like a lie. Peace, naps, and minding my business are great, but there’s a point where “staying out of it” looks a lot like pretending.
I don’t have the answers, and I’m certainly not auditioning to be anyone’s moral compass. I just think reality shouldn’t be flexible, truth shouldn’t require a subscription plan, and speaking up shouldn’t be defined as “wrong” or “too much.”
If you’re looking for ways to make a difference, you can, and it’s not as complicated as you think. Make a donation. Volunteer. Do something kind for someone. Make a meal for a neighbor or a sick friend. Plant a tree. Shovel a sidewalk. Smile at a stranger. These simple acts build trust, anchor communities, and remind us that shared reality is still worth protecting.
At this point, I’d rather be inconvenient than comfortably numb.
Enjoy the Ride!
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It’s In My Blood
Ever since the New Year, resilience has been following me around. Showing up uninvited. Changing outfits. Making eye contact. Every time I notice it, I think, Okay… what are you trying to tell me? I don’t have the answer yet, but something’s clearly lining up. This doesn’t feel accidental. It feels like a tap on the shoulder I can’t keep ignoring. Dare I say—slightly annoying.
Lately, I’ve read three books about unimaginable struggle and relentless perseverance. Two are set during the Depression era—a time that now feels almost fictional, given how we lose our minds over a Wi-Fi outage. Hunger and poverty. Not plot devices. Just daily life. These are the books that make you close the cover, stare into space, and whisper, What the actual F? Not because they’re unbelievable, but because they’re true.
The third book lands differently, but hits just as hard. It’s a memoir about a woman who gave up everything to become a nun. That kind of choice doesn’t get easier just because it’s modern times; if anything, it’s harder. The road to joining isn’t easy, and the decision itself spans over decades. So when people say “it’s a calling,” believe them. There’s no other explanation.
These stories don’t comfort you. They confront you. They force an ugly comparison between then and now. Between resilience forged by survival and our modern tendency to lose our shit over minor inconveniences. Back then, hardship wasn’t a “season.” It wasn’t a bad week. It was life. Hunger and uncertainty were constants, not crises. And still, people got up and kept going. No quotes. No podcasts. No self-care checklists. Just grit, necessity, and the understanding that stopping wasn’t an option.
And closer to home, the children in my life keep offering their own quiet lessons in resilience. A little boy I mentor told me he got two things for Christmas: a football launcher and an omelet maker. He’s ten and has never once mentioned an interest in cooking, so I asked about it. He shrugged and said, “No, I don’t know how to cook. But it looks like I’m going to learn.” Meanwhile, his classmates received everything Apple under the tree. As he calmly added, “They don’t know how to use their brains.”
Then there’s my one-year-old grandson, who was so excited to put on his snowsuit that he fell and fractured his nose. The next day, he was happily dancing on top of the coffee table, looking like Rocky, wondering why everyone else thought that was a bad life decision.
So yeah, maybe resilience keeps tapping me on the shoulder as a reminder that it’s been carrying me the whole damn time. If these stories have taught me anything, it’s this: I was raised by and with resilience.
It’s in my blood.
And it’s time to remember who I am and what I’m made of.
Enjoy the Ride!
Book Recommendations: North River and Why Sinatra Matters, both by Pete Hamill, and A Change of Habit, by Sister Monica Clare.
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Plot Twist: I’m The Glue
A theme has been running through my head since just before Thanksgiving, and it even showed up in some of my recent essays. The feeling of how things once were. The idea that once my mother, the glue of the family, passed, our family dynamic changed. I lost something in my life, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Instead, I invited victimhood and resentment to enter my thoughts. Yes, this dynamic duo is powerful, loud, and moved right in. They have a way of bringing out the worst in me. Given enough airtime, they can turn a quiet moment of grief into a full-blown internal TED Talk on how unfair everything is.
As the holiday season went on, and nothing old was knocking on the door, the longing grew louder by the day. I became determined to identify exactly what I was missing, as if clarity might magically appear, bringing all my answers with it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
So I went inward. The people I think I’m missing aren’t the same people they were six or seven years ago. Truthfully, I don’t know who they are now beyond the occasional smiling square on social media or the obligatory “happy birthday” text. My house of thirty years? No. I genuinely love my new home. The city? Absolutely not. Nice try, nostalgia.
Which leaves me with the lingering question that refuses to leave the room: what have I been yearning for all this time? What unnamed absence cracked the door just enough for grief, and her exhausting friends V and R to wander in, kick off their shoes, and make themselves comfortable?
And then, quietly, the answer arrived. What I was missing wasn’t a person or a place; it was a feeling. The feeling of creating something and offering it to others. Of gathering, giving, and contributing in a way that feels alive and connective.
For decades, I was the one who did that. I was the “glue.” The planner. The one sending the texts, setting the dates, arranging the chairs, and making sure everyone had a place to land. Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing what had always grounded me, and apparently, my nervous system noticed long before I did.
I found the feeling again on Christmas Eve, standing in my own home, hosting. Cooking, arranging, welcoming. Creating space. And there it was, that familiarity. Not the past itself, but its essence. The part that still belongs to me.
I noticed it in my own voice when I talked about the evening later, more energy, more ease. Excitement. Joy. Dare I say passion? It felt good to recognize that part of myself again.
The longing didn’t vanish, but it softened. What I was searching for hadn’t gone anywhere; it was just waiting in the wings for me to show up and set the damn table.
As always … Enjoy the Ride, and have a Happy, healthy, peaceful 2026!
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The Undocumented Magic of Christmas
Christmas really has a way of bringing out all the feels. The whole past, present, and future thing is absolutely real. Thankfully, these ghosts are purely metaphorical, because I do not have the stamina for rattling chains or surprise hauntings.
As I mentioned in my Thanksgiving post, losing the family glue hasn’t been exactly a Hallmark moment. Changing everything that once was isn’t for the faint of heart, but, allegedly, it is possible over time.
This year, we befriended a couple in our community who transplanted here from the Bronx. Can you say Italian, homemade bread, and pizza? Because I say it loud and with a lot of passion.
As you’d expect, family and looking out for others are hardwired into their DNA. With most of their family either gone or still in New York, they lean on friends and neighbors. Turns out this is a recurring theme with transplants around here … who knew?
So this Christmas Eve, I decided to throw open our doors to our fellow transplants, those navigating recent losses, and of course, friends, while quietly wondering if this would be a beautiful new tradition… or the start of a very festive recipe for disaster.
Thankfully, the evening ended with new connections, hugs, kisses, very full stomaches, and one promise of homemade bread delivery. Come on already …
As we sit here this quiet Christmas morning, reflecting on the night before, we realized something shocking: not a single photo was taken of anything or anyone. No evidence. No proof. Just vibes.
This means one of two things—either everyone was genuinely present and living in the moment… or senility has officially entered our lives.
Either way, I’m choosing to believe it’s a win. Because maybe the real magic of Christmas isn’t the perfectly staged photos or the proof for social media, but the moments that don’t need documenting to matter. The ones that fill your home, your heart, and apparently your stomach, and then quietly settle in as something you just know happened.
No ghosts required. Just good people, open doors, and maybe some homemade bread on the way.
Enjoy the Ride! Tinsel is required today.
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The Ache of Familiarity
I can’t stop thinking about Rob Reiner. I keep asking myself why. His death has settled into me in a way I can’t quite name. We never met. We shared no friends, no blood, no history. We lived in different orbits, so why does his absence ache like something personal? Why does the knowledge of his death ache?
Yes, the tragic way he left this world weighs on me, of course. But that isn’t the root of it.
The truth came to me in a dream last night; it was familiarity. He had been an integral part of my life for decades, not in person, but in something just as intimate. He was flickering through television screens, filling movie theaters, shaping the background noise of my growing up. And that mattered.
My family watched All in the Family from the very beginning in 1971. I was seven years old, too young to understand the politics or the jokes, but old enough to absorb the feeling of it. The show became a mirror, reflecting my own home back at me. Loud fathers. Quiet mothers. Slamming doors. Arguments that somehow dissolved into laughter. It taught me, without words, that I wasn’t alone, that our chaos was shared, familiar, even lovable. We were the “different” family on the block, and that was okay.
So maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. Not because I knew him, but because he knew something about me. About us. About families and flaws and love that bangs around loudly before settling into laughter.
This feeling of grief that I’m having isn’t necessarily for Rob Reiner the person. It’s for what he gave that seven-year-old little girl in her living room the first time she experienced his work, the gift of recognition. The feeling of being seen before I even knew I needed it.
Rest in peace, Rob Reiner. You certainly enjoyed your ride and made mine better.
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A Village. A Volvo, and One Unapologetic Terrier
Today I had the pleasure of reading an essay titled “It Takes A Village” at https://athingirl.com/2025/12/11/it-takes-a-village/. Please stop by for a touch of Christmas Spirit.
That being said, I had my own village experience today, and I’m still thawing out from it since this afternoon.
On my way home from work, my neighbor texted me a photo from his Ring camera. A dog had shown up, and he was wondering if I knew who it was. Thankfully, I did. It was Scout, the rambunctious terrier mix, who had a hard time adjusting to life in an adoptive home. Little by little, she’s been getting better… just not today.
I pulled into my driveway and, lo and behold, there she was, right on my lawn. That lasted about two seconds. I called her name. She stopped. I walked toward her. She ran.
My phone dinged again. Another neighbor had been alerted and was heading out to drive around looking for Scout. Great! Meanwhile, I was now playing chase with Scout, who had managed to make it two blocks away in the freezing cold.
I knocked on the owner’s door. She was delighted to see me until she realized Scout was roaming the neighborhood solo. Mind you, it’s freezing, I’m 61, and I’ve been playing tag with a four-legged escape artist for a solid 20 minutes. So when she asked, “How did she get out of the yard?” I honestly don’t know what my face said, but my mouth stayed shut.
Just then, my knight in shining armor arrived, or rather, a white Volvo with every amenity known to man, including heated seats. Bless him. I climbed in, and we resumed the hunt in the lap of luxury.
The owner jumped in her own car, and off we all went. On our third lap around the neighborhood, we spotted Scout. I leapt out of my chariot for yes, another thrilling round of tag.
After “running” through yard after yard, Scout finally headed straight to her front door. I tiptoed, praying not to spook her, opened the door, and let her in. Mission accomplished… mostly.
Now it was time to call the owner, who is elderly and driving. After what felt like a million redials, she finally answered. I told her Scout was safely inside the house, warm and unapologetic.
I waited on the porch like a giant popsicle while my other neighbor, and those glorious heated seats, drove off to run errands. As I walked home, one thought crossed my mind:
“What if someone captured this insanity on their camera?” OH MY GOD!
By the time I finally made it home, frozen, windblown, and rethinking my entire personality, I decided two things. First, Scout is extremely lucky that she’s adorable. Second, if your Ring camera captured a woman running through your yard, yelling “SCOUT” with increasing desperation, that footage is fake news.
Enjoy the Ride!
Life With The Top Down 
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