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She Knew That Hard Times Don’t Announce Themselves
My nana grew up in a world where “hard times” weren’t a chapter in a history book; they were the background music of everyday life. She never dramatized struggle, and she certainly never wore it like a badge of honor. To her, difficulty was simply something you dealt with.
When things went wrong, she didn’t ask, “Why me?” She asked, “What do we do now?” There was a quiet practicality to the way she faced trouble. Bills didn’t pay themselves, meals didn’t cook themselves, and children didn’t raise themselves. Worry was a luxury; action was a necessity.
She taught me, without ever sitting me down for a lecture, that resilience isn’t loud. It doesn’t need an audience. It’s the decision to keep moving even when you’re tired, scared, or unsure. Especially then.
She Knew the Value of Making Do
My nana was the queen of “making do.” Nothing was wasted in her house—not food, not fabric, not time, and certainly not people. Leftovers became new meals. Old clothes became cleaning rags. Broken things were fixed, not replaced, whenever possible.
This wasn’t about deprivation; it was about respect. Respect for effort, for resources, and for the unseen labor behind everything we consume. Long before sustainability became a buzzword, my nana practiced it as common sense.
She knew that abundance doesn’t come from excess—it comes from appreciation. When you treat what you have as enough, it usually is.
She Knew Love Was a Verb
My nana didn’t say “I love you” often. She didn’t need to. Love showed up in packed lunches, knitted jumpers, and the way she always seemed to know when you were about to walk in the door.
She loved through action. Through showing up. Through consistency. If you were sick, she was there. If you were struggling, she listened—really listened. No phones, no distractions, no hurry.
She knew that love isn’t proven by grand gestures, but by reliability. By being someone others can count on, even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.
She Knew Silence Had Power
My nana was not a woman of many words, but when she spoke, people paid attention. She understood something many of us are still learning: silence is not emptiness. It’s space.
When someone was grieving, she didn’t rush to fill the air with platitudes. She sat with them. When there was conflict, she often waited before responding, letting emotions settle like sediment in a glass of water.
She taught me that not every moment needs commentary. Not every feeling needs to be explained. Sometimes the most respectful thing you can do is simply be present and quiet.
She Knew Pride Could Be a Trap
One of the most surprising things about my nana was her comfort with humility. She didn’t confuse self-respect with stubborn pride. If she needed help, she accepted it. If she made a mistake, she owned it.
She knew that pride, unchecked, could isolate you. That insisting on doing everything alone was not strength—it was often fear in disguise. She showed me that accepting help is not a failure; it’s a form of trust.
At the same time, she never begged for validation. She didn’t need applause. She knew who she was, and that was enough.
She Knew Food Was Never Just Food
In my nana’s house, food was memory, culture, comfort, and connection all rolled into one. Recipes weren’t written down; they were felt. A pinch of this, a handful of that, and always a taste before serving.
Meals were events, even when they were simple. You sat down. You talked. You paid attention to one another. Food was how she welcomed people, healed rifts, and celebrated small victories.
She knew that feeding someone was about more than calories. It was about care. About saying, “You matter enough for me to take time.”
She Knew Children Were Always Watching
My nana never underestimated children. She spoke to them like people, not projects. She knew that kids absorb more from what we do than what we say.
She modeled patience, fairness, and accountability. If she was wrong, she apologized—even to a child. That lesson stayed with me: respect is not age-dependent.
She understood that every interaction was a lesson, whether intended or not. And she chose hers carefully.
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