Cheers to the Matriarchs

This summer, when I walked into the funeral for my 95-year-old aunt, a photo on a table in the visitation room made me catch my breath. 

This photo of my mom on her wedding day back in 1974: she’s 18, about to graduate from high school, and not yet visibly pregnant with me.

She’s surrounded by my grandmother (in pink, on my mom’s right) and my grandmother’s sisters. I’m struck by the hair, the dresses, and this village of strong women rallying around my young, beautiful, scared mom.

It’s a scene that I wrote about in my memoir come to life. My feelings about this photograph are complex and layered. These women were doing what women of that generation did: pulling together, staging a celebration, keeping up appearances, and moving things along.

It’s a moment shaped by cultural expectations as much as it was shaped by love.

But these women were a force. They were the ones who created the backdrop of nearly every good memory I have. I grew up underfoot in my grandmother’s house, weaving in and out of their conversations, their cooking, their rhythms. They were the ambience, the glue, the energy, and the vibration that made home feel like home.

Back in July, when I got the call that Aunt Cat had died, I hung up the phone and cried. She’d led a long, full life. 95! But we’d all thought she’d live to be a hundred at least. 

She was the last of the Queens; her immediate family called her The Queen, and there’s no arguing with that. Her passing was the end of an era. I felt a shift in the air; it was palpable.

And then I saw the photo. The matriarchs, including my mom, are gone.

Over the past year, it has occurred to me that I’ve become the matriarch of my own family, the one my husband, my children, and my stepdad count on to keep the warm feelings of home, family, and holidays alive.

Growing up, my mom made me clean and do daily chores, but she didn’t ask much of me in the kitchen. After my grandmother died, I watched her take on Thanksgiving—sometimes with joy and often with a kind of exhaustion I never wanted for myself. 

When I started a family of my own, I insisted that she didn’t need to do it all. And she let me help. Some.

Earlier this week, I went through my mom’s recipes written on scraps of paper. The Thanksgiving menu. A list of ingredients for the southern dressing, the one dish I watched her make every single year, but never learned how to replicate. 

I don’t like dressing.

When I asked everyone what they wanted on the menu this year, Dillon immediately said, “The dressing.” Shawn acted like it was no big deal, but I know he likes it too, so I’ll make it. Not because it’s tradition or because I feel like I should, but because the people I love look forward to it.

I suppose that’s why my mom did it too. The role she played—and the rewards she received—were mixed together. 

So this year, I’m raising a glass to the women who came before us. The ones who made the holidays happen. The ones who held complicated lives together with grit and class. 

Cheers to the matriarchs.

And cheers to the pieces of their legacy we release, and the parts we choose to carry forward. ✨

This post was originally shared in my newsletter Hello Friday, a weekly dose of inspiration, encouragement and behind-the-scenes stories to help you create a life that feels like home.
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