When I was seven, I left behind the familiar rhythms of Alaska—the soft hush of river water, the quiet strength of village life—and found myself in North Carolina, where the air felt heavier, the accents were different, and I was suddenly the one who didn’t quite belong.
But then I met her.
My grandmother—my stepmother’s mother, but in every way that mattered, mine. From the second day I arrived, she wrapped me in warmth that felt like home. Summers, winters, weekends—we were inseparable. I don’t remember the exact moment I began calling her my favorite person, but I know I never stopped.
She was a true Southern lady. Graceful, composed, and kind in the way that reaches into your bones and teaches you how to live. She believed in courtesy and cooking from scratch, in handwritten thank-yous and the importance of carrying yourself with care. But more than anything, she believed in love—the real kind. The kind that makes you feel seen. The kind that shows up, every time.
She taught me Christianity in a way no church pew ever could. Not through doctrine or dogma, but through the daily practice of gentleness, dignity, and doing what’s right. Her faith wasn’t loud, but it was strong. Like her.
Today would have been her birthday. She lived to be 81—the oldest in her family line—and it’s been nearly 13 years since she passed. But I still carry her with me. In the way I stir a pot. In the way I mind my manners. In the way I try to be kind.
I have one photo of us, from when I was seven: me dressed like a cowgirl, her in her elegant lady clothes. We’re sitting together at a country club, worlds away from where I started. But I look at that photo, and I know—I was exactly where I belonged.
Happy Birthday, Grandma. Thank you for raising me into myself. I hope Heaven is hosting tea in your honor today.