The Women Who Rooted Me in Love
This is a tribute to The Mother Tree of my family—rooted in love, creativity, and dance.
In the quiet forests of the world, towering trees communicate beneath the surface. Through tangled roots and silent signals, the oldest and tallest—the mother trees—nourish the seedlings around them. They share water, earth, and wisdom. They ensure survival not through dominance, but through generosity, devotion, and connection.
I was lucky enough to be raised by such trees—a glorious matriarchy.
The miracle of the matriarch: she blooms not only in her time, but in every life she makes possible.
The Mother Trees
My matriarchal line began with my great-grandmother, my Nana, born in Poland and arriving in America through Ellis Island around 1915. She came carrying more than luggage—she carried stories, resilience, dreams. A gifted seamstress, she longed to be a fashion designer, though her generation had other plans. Still, her hands never stopped creating. She stitched beauty into clothing, meals, artwork, and everyday moments. And danced until her last years.
She married an Italian immigrant in Philadelphia and gave birth to my grandmother, Mandy.
From a young age, Mandy studied dance. She moved with an ease and grace that made her look like a star on any stage—professional training, radiant presence, and a heart that led every motion. Love was her great choreography. She was the heartbeat of our family—tender, wise, endlessly devoted. The kind of woman whose love fed you before you knew you were hungry.
She married the boy next door—not the suitors who wined and dined her, but the one who took her to the creek to spot lizards. Her handsome David became her home. Family was her devotion. Dance was her language. And loving me became her life’s great joy. I was her Precious Angel from the moment I arrived until her last breath.
My Mother
My mother was born luminous and fiercely imaginative. She longed to be a model. At sixteen, she fell in love with the blue-eyed brother of a friend from drama class, and soon after, I entered the world—an only child from an only child from an only child. Three generations of singular devotion welcomed me.
My mother expressed her creativity in everything—birthday parties, drawings, fashion, dancing, writing, and her own self-help book. She encouraged my passions, modeled my earliest designs, rescued animals with infinite tenderness, and showed me that joy is a practice, not an accident.
They taught me that creativity is an inheritance—and joy, a sacred ritual.
Rooted in the Mother Tree
Though we were a small forest, our roots ran deep and wild with love. My matriarchs taught me not simply how to live, but how to create with love.
I followed my great-grandmother’s unrealized dream and became a fashion designer.
I followed my mother’s courage and became a writer.
And in all things, I followed Mandy’s heart—choosing love as the reason, the compass, the call.
And oh, how we danced.
Dancing was joy made visible in our family. It wasn’t reserved for performances or parties—it bloomed in kitchens, living rooms, holidays, Tuesday afternoons. It was ritual, rebellion, and remembrance. Movement returned us to ourselves—free, joyful, alive.
Even now, though these extraordinary women have passed from this world, I feel them moving through me. When I sketch, write, or turn up the music and twirl alone in my studio, I am dancing with their spirits. I am creating with their hands.
I don’t just remember them—I move like them, make like them, and love like them.
Deep Roots of Love
They lived in a world that often asked women to shrink, quiet their brilliance, and give more than they received. And yet they grew a grove of strength and sweetness—a sanctuary built from courage and care.
That is the miracle of the matriarch:
She doesn’t just endure.
She loves.
She creates.
And she celebrates.
She dances through the mundane and teaches others to do the same.
Each woman in my line was a mother tree. I am forever rooted in them. Their legacy is the soil from which I rise.
And I offer this truth to anyone feeling unrooted:
Look to the women who came before you—those you knew and those you never met.
Their love didn’t end.
It surrounds you.
It steadies you.
Love rises through you, from the soles of your feet to the crown of your becoming—sturdy, vibrant, alive.
~ ✦ ~
P.S. If this touched something in you, I invite you to read or reread BECOMING VINTAGE—a love letter to the lineage, the lessons, and the dance that shaped me.