The Women Who Helped Raise Me

My grandmother Clauda was old-school. The kind of woman who believed in hard work, high expectations, and not making excuses.

She raised five children—three daughters and two sons—and she was not easy on them. Especially my mother. Especially when my mother became pregnant with my older sister at sixteen. She believed in accountability. In consequences. In doing what needed to be done.

But something softened in her when it came to her grandchildren.

With us…

She was gentler. Warmer. Her love showed up in simple ways. Every Christmas, new socks. Sometimes toys, if money allowed. Always sweets in the house. Always soup simmering from whatever she could pull together. She could stretch a meal like magic.

And when she got older, she started burning her chocolate chip cookies because she would forget they were in the oven. And to this day…

The smell of burnt cookies still brings her back to me.

Her hugs. Her zucchini stew. Her love. All wrapped into one memory.

Then there was my Aunt Sandy…

My mother’s big sister. A force of nature. Loud. Blunt. Unapologetic. And fiercely loving. She was one of the first people to hold me when I was born. She loved music in a way that made it feel alive. She could hear a classic rock song and tell you everything—the band, the album, the year, the stories behind it—and then sing every word like she had been there when it was written.

When I was fighting cancer, she baked for me. For fundraisers. For bake sales. For hope. She made sure I was eating when I did not want to. She made homemade applesauce. Apple cinnamon pancakes that tasted like comfort.

And when cancer took her, it left a silence that still hurts. Some people do not realize how loud love can be until it is gone.

My Aunt Gail…

My mom’s younger sister. Still calls me “Bug.” She always will. She was the fun one. The wild one. The one who let us stay up too late. The one who taught us about makeup. How to feel pretty. How to laugh. How to be a little bold. Weekends with her felt like freedom.

And even now that nickname reminds me that somewhere inside me the little girl still lives.

Then there was my Grandma Liz…

My father’s mother. Italian. Stylish. Elegant. The kind of woman who could walk into a room and somehow make everyone else look underdressed. She had more shoes than anyone I knew. She loved to sing. She loved to act in dramas. She loved telling stories with her whole body.

And like so many Italian family's food was never just food. It was love. It was gathering. It was tradition. It was identity. If I love to cook now, if feeding people feels sacred to me, I think some of that came from her.

My Aunt Debbie…

The oldest daughter. The caregiver. The prayer warrior. The one you could always count on. Every summer in Santa Barbara, she made us feel safe. Loved. Wanted. We would go school shopping. Spend time at the picture framing shop where she worked. And somehow, even ordinary errands felt magical with her. She has always been the kind of woman who makes you feel held—even without saying much at all.

And then there was my Aunt Janet.

My Aunt Jenny.

Or at least, that is what I thought her name was for most of my childhood. Turns out it was not. She had always loved the name Jennifer Rene. She had once wished it were her own. And when I was born that became my name. She gave me something I would carry forever without ever realizing it. A name. A story. A connection. She had her own battles. Her own pain. Her own resilience. She is gone now but I think of her often.

And then there was Nikki…

My father’s second wife. By title, she may have only been my stepmother for a season but in my heart, she became so much more than that. She was in my life when everything happened with my father. When innocence was shattered. When silence took root. When adults were trying to make sense of things no child should ever have to endure. And even after everything came out, she stayed. And if I am being honest, a part of me has always believed she stayed because she wanted to make sure it never happened again. To make sure we were safe. To make sure someone was watching. To make sure someone stayed.

There are women in this world who nurture and then there are women who protect. Nikki was both. Every summer when we visited she made sure we had what we needed. School clothes. Shoes. The little things that made children feel seen and cared for. She spoiled us in all the ways that mattered. She made the best homemade cheesecake. Beef with broccoli that somehow tasted like home.

What I remember most was not what she gave us. It was how safe I felt around her. She carries one of the most forgiving hearts I have ever known. A beautiful soul. The kind of woman who proves that motherhood is not always about biology. Sometimes it is simply about who chooses to stay.

And finally…

My Aunt Tina.

A step-aunt by title, but never in my heart. I was born on her birthday, and from the very beginning, she claimed me as her own. She does not have children of her own, but she has always called me her daughter. She has listened to me without judgment. Loved me without conditions. Held space for truths I did not always know how to speak out loud. She helped me discover my love of volunteering. My love of serving others. My voice. And because she carries her own story of survival, she understands parts of me that not everyone can.

When I look back now, I realize something: I did not just inherit DNA. I inherited recipes. Nicknames. Shoes. Songs. Prayers. Humor. Service. Strength. Softness. Resilience. I inherited women.

And to every grandmother…

Every aunt…

Every woman who held me, fed me, teased me, prayed for me, protected me, believed in me, and helped shape me—

Even the ones I did not name here—

Thank you.

There is so much of you in me.

And I hope I am making you proud.

— Jennifer Rene Wallace