The older I get, the closer I feel to my grandmother, Rosie.

She has always been my favorite person. My second mother. My anchor.

When I was little, I didn’t fully understand the quiet strength she carried. I just knew I felt safe with her. I loved our time together—simple, steady, sacred. But now, with time and perspective, I see her with new eyes. I see the storms she weathered that I was too young to name or understand back then.

She lost her mother, her husband, and her son—my father—all within three years. These three blows would bring most people to their knees, but not Grandma Rosie. She kept going. She did life her way.

I remember overhearing her sister and others say, “We invite her… but she never comes.”

And yet, when she did show up, she was radiant. Hair done, lipstick on, warm and chatty as ever—until, just as quickly, she’d slip away. When she’d had enough, she left. No apologies.

As a child, I thought she was just private. But now I realize—she was free.

Living alone wasn’t lonely for her. It was a sanctuary.

And I get it now.

As I grow older, I see myself in her. Or maybe I see her in me.

The peace in solitude. The quiet joys of puttering, reading, writing.

The beauty in being still.

People assume I’m an extrovert—and maybe I am in specific spaces—but a part of me longs for silence. That treasures the slow moments, the unscheduled hours – the small rituals that center and fill me.

Grandma Rosie used to check out stacks of books from the library. She would mow the lawn with her rusty push mover, tend her garden or sometimes buy the vegetables and fruits she would later can. She would keep an ear on the Detroit Tigers game, and sneak an inner check on her perfectly cooked New York strip sizzling over a tiny Weber grill propped on the hood of her white Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.  Then Grandma Rosie would settle into that teal-colored plastic-webbed porch chair which left crisscross marks or made me slip through as a child. She didn’t need company to enjoy her evening. She had herself. She had her rhythm. And she didn’t care what anyone thought about it.

There’s such dignity in that.

Such power in knowing who you are and living like you mean it.

Years ago, I named my inner compass after her.

Rosie—my north star.

The part of me that always knows what matters.

The part that says, “It’s okay to do it your way.”

The part that reminds me… I come from resilience – from grace – from a woman (my grandmother) who knew how to stay true to herself, even when the world didn’t understand.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and the light is soft, I feel her with me.

Not in a loud or dramatic way—just a whisper.

A gentle nudge that says:

Keep going, sweetheart. You’re doing just fine.

Do it your way.

Live the life that fits you.

I did… and so can you.