Fiber You Were Made Of.

Tell me the fiber you are made of-

Fiber stitched with strength

Blue cardigans made of copper

Yarn fashioned with iron rod

The faith of the last thread holding,

Tying together the divisive parts-

What kind of fiber can face this?

Is the cap on your head knit with courage,

Are the small hairs welded with fire-

Decade of soldering you faced.

Only this maternal cloth can bond the broken

The faith of the last thread holding,

Fighting for fusion wired between

Sewn for seventy-eight short breaths here.

Last thread connecting you to eternal

What kind of fiber does he hold?

9 years old as he tenderly stroked

Tears running along the hem of his face

Fighting for fusion against sharp breaths-

I now know the fiber she was made of.

A fiber that buttons the mouth of the enemy

Stitched with streets of gold-

Woven in the malleable fabric forever.


To the women in this photo, what strength and courage of conviction you each hold. To Nonna, your fiber was stronger than gold. 1935-2013


Golden Buzzer Moment

Have you ever watched America’s Got Talent and found yourself getting weirdly emotional? More importantly, have you ever watched Golden Buzzer moments on Youtube and found yourself uncontrollably sobbing?

If so, then I am right there with you.

There is something about these videos, you guys! They target emotional people like me. And apparently my roommate. We cry every time. It’s worse than those Budweiser puppy commercials that will break a grown man down in 30 seconds. You know the ones.

Each Golden Buzzer moment goes something like this-

The contestant is seen with feel-good music, and occasionally a story that moves you from the start. Next, you see their family and watch as they bravely walk on stage.

The unexpected contestant, the beauty out of despair or a bold voice from a small body happens and blows away the judges.

A standing ovation. Judges began to share what they are thinking and critiquing the performance. Then comes the GBM. The Golden Buzzer Moment.

Slow motion.

Change in music.

Hand of a judge smacking The Golden Buzzer.

Gold confetti explodes from the sky.

& a reaction that will make your heart burst from the pure, unadulterated joy. 

It. Is. Magic.

It’s a moment we should all get to experience once and every day all at the same time. To live that sort of loved and to love others with that kind of celebration. Finding ways to highlight the gifts of our people like we smacked a golden buzzer just for them.

What if we championed the ones around us like this? Where our friends saw what their talent does for the world. Their gift that brought everyone to their feet. Their gift that made heaven and earth slow down. Their gift that changes the tune, shifts the atmosphere, brings unending cheer.

What if we exploded gold confetti on others in the way we lift them up? The way we speak and act towards one another.

“I want to live every day like it’s my golden buzzer moment.”-Emily Fetterman, 2019

I want to live every day knowing I am fully loved and cherished by a God who intricately designed me with purpose and passion.  And even more, to live life cheering one another with gold confetti, tears, and the roar of a crowd going wild.

How God cheers wildly for us when we live as we have been created to live. Created to live life to the absolute full. How heaven cheers, too.

Live each day like it’s your Golden Buzzer moment.


What are 14 Year Olds?

I’ve said it before and I will say it again, no reactions are funnier to me than when I say I teach 14-year-olds.

“That is the WORST age.”


“That must be a challenge.”

*Looks at their own adult child* “I hated you in middle school!” (You know who you are.)

“Kids today are so _______________.”

Fill in the blank with what you’ve surely heard kids today are and are not. It’s May. Kids are a lot of things to me right now, and about 15% of those are positive. Ask me again in September and I will like them all again.


Oh so sweet!



That’s real. 

So what are 14-year-olds?


14-year-olds are ridiculous.

14-year-olds are insecure.

14-year-olds are scared.

14-year-olds are putting on a front.

14-year-olds are addicted to their phones.

14-year-olds are tired of being lumped into one category. (hehe)

14-year-olds are in their feelings.

14-year-olds are anxious.

14-year-olds are hopeful.

14-year-olds are intense.

14-year-olds are trendsetters.

14-year-olds are inspiring.

14-year-olds are craving attention.

14-year-olds are the next big thing.

14-year-olds are no-nonsense, thankyouverymuch.

14-year-olds are hilarious.

14-year-olds are protective. 

14-year-olds are empathetic.

14-year-olds are talented.

14-year-olds are our future.

14-year-olds are wise beyond their years.

14-year-olds are dreamers.

14-year-olds are lovely,

They are loving,

And they are worthy of love. 


& to mine, who have shaped me and challenged me and changed me, you are 14-year-olds who are loved.  






Shhhh, self-doubt. Confidence is speaking.

Does anyone else hate being shushed?!

Ughhhhhhh. It irritates my soul.

I loathe shushing. I know hate is a strong word. Mrs. Dale, my 3rd-grade teacher taught me to say “dislike strongly” instead of hate, and I work really hard to not hate anyone or anything.

But I HATE being shushed. I have zero regrets about saying that.

My mom’s family is super Italian and if we lost our voices, our loud hand signals will still silence the biggest crowd.

We are loudexpressive people. We are not silenced or shushed for nothing. It’s one of the main reasons I used to get easily embarrassed while going to the movies with my mom and her also Italian, also loud friends. (And ironically, would often shush them.)

I’ve asked myself, “Self, why do you hate being shushed so much?” And I think it has to do with the belief that when they are shushing me, they are suppressing me. That I am being told I am too much and I take up too much. Too much energy. Too much noise. Too much space. When people shushed me in college, it felt like they were telling me that my existence was too much.

And for a while, I suppressed me. I became quieter. I became self-conscious. And I did everything in my power to become less instead of more.

Long walks. Reading. Journaling. Sitting at the park by myself. Dieting. Exercise. Silence in conversations.

Plenty of things that are, of course,  good for me but all in the hopes to lose the unique essence of me. That somehow I would find freedom in becoming less.

Here’s what it really is, shushing is not the problem. There are times when it is necessary to be silent. Be still. Just simply be. Our world is too noisy and chaotic for us to have to add to it or feel the need to add to it. Silence really can be golden. I’m so thankful for the ways I’ve experienced beauty in the silent and in the still.

However, loud laughs, big smiles, outrageous dance moves, and true curvacious-ness have their beauty, too.

My friend, Gelly recently wrote a book on this idea of squeezing, fitting in, molding, and just all around shrinking we do in our lives to make ourselves less. Essentially out of a place of fears and doubts.



I’m excited for you all to read it. I’ve included the link because it is a book everyone should read, especially if you’ve ever tried to shrink yourself or squeeze into what you think others want you to be. I’m even more thankful for how she has encouraged me in my own dreams, in my own beauty. Shaking her pom poms for women everywhere, as a reminder of the type of woman I so hope to be.


From Gelly’s #gvootd (girlish vigor outfit of the day) challenge!

Maybe certain people do want you to be less. Less loud. Less positive. Less smiley. Less shy. Less awkward. Less talkative. However, the “less” people were never really your people to begin with, were they?

Surround yourself with the “more” people. Who cheer you on as you are more vivacious, more full of life, walking in more freedom, and more the exact person you were created to be.

They may shush you, but they will never shrink you. They may ignore you, but they will never deplete you. They may dismiss you, but then they will never get to know the power of you.


So instead, dear kings and queens, be all you.

All the wonderfully made parts of you.

You are charisma, you are pizzaz-

You are a dream being lived out, and hopes held on.

You, you in the fullness of you are altogether too good

(Not too much), too good to be true.


Link to Girlish Vigor:Screen Shot 2019-04-28 at 4.09.21 PM

[PRE-ORDER] Girlish Vigor: Stripping Off What Shrinks and Stepping Into Strength



Flat Tires & Dear Friends.

I’m currently sitting in the “lobby” of Goodyear while the employees take a look at my very flat tire, so I could use some positivity in my life right now. And prayers. All of them.

They have FoxNews playing which just makes me think of my Nonno, and the many times I wanted to watch cartoons growing up and was forced to watch the news instead. Here we are.

Anyways, most of you know 8th graders are the people I choose to hang with. And typically I am a major fan of them. They are weird, quirky, smart, and goofy in all the best ways.

1200They are also goofy in the worst ways and they get *spring fever* where all logic is thrown out the car window and hormones take over the wheel. I use phrases like “leave the dirty jokes at the door” and “hit the pits twice” meaning make sure to put deodorant on your smelly selves.

It’s a glorious time.

In that strife, there are nuggets of goodness.

I walked into lunch and a group of boys were having a very serious conversation that I absolutely could not get over. The one boy kept asking his friend what was going on this week and why he was acting differently. He asked him, “What’s going on this week? You are getting in trouble at home and I think it’s my fault. Ever since you have been friends with us and this week. I’m a bad influence on you.”

It was just pure. The genuine concern and really wanting to know what was going on his friend’s life while also having the self-reflection to see if it was him. This kid is not a bad influence, he’s a good friend and person, but to see how much he was worried absolutely moved me.

Then, while working on projects I sat with two girls and a boy. The girl was telling the other two how boring life was and she needed something exciting to happen.

They replied, “Maybe you need mint chocolate frappucino from Starbucks!” “Go with me!” And offering at least ten more solutions to the pressing problem of boredom. I said to her, “What good friends you have to care about you so much?” She agreed.

I asked a student if he was going to the track invitational and he said, “No, I am not going. I don’t run, I throw because I’m fat and lazy.”

His friend without hesitation said, “No, you are a thrower and that’s what you’re good at. That has nothing to do with you.”

He just looked up, they did a small handshake, and he thanked his friend. It was simple yet so profound.

All today. On an ordinary day like today while there are tough conversations, bad attitudes, frustrations (on my end)–there are these gems.

The beautiful spoken into broken spaces.

Every middle schooler needs a friend like these. Every middle schooler needs a champion. Every single day they need a hero in the form of knocking down lies, real concern, and an offer for minty chocolatey drinks.

And if we’re honest with ourselves, isn’t that what we need to?

Also, my tire is now fixed and I’m out of Goodyear. God is good, y’all.




Heard That.

“I don’t feel like you’re honoring my voice right now.”

It was directed at me from a 13-year-old. He felt like I wasn’t listening.

3 minutes before the bell was going to ring and I was sending them into Christmas break.

His words hit me, stung me, and ran through me all at once. I even found heartbreak and humor in his sentiment.

The humor coming from the reality that again, the bell was about the ring. The heartbreak that he felt like I was not listening to him. And the small joy that in return, he had been listening to me.

“We honor voice, ” I state.

“Your voice matters.”

“Peeps, if we are not going to honor each other’s voices and listen then why are we doing this?”

“Let’s remember to listen, wait, think, and then respond.”

I say it over and over like a worn out and somehow renewed mantra.

Listen. Wait. Think. Respond.

As an adult having conversations, I usually only do one well. Respond.

Ughhhh. #Fail.

Even in my teaching when I tell kids to listen, I’m waiting for my chance to respond. News Flash, J-Tinz. That’s not actually listening.

Enter our cafe conversations.

IMG_9485.JPGConversation-starting questions and stats such as,

“More people own a cell phone than a toothbrush.”

“Would life be better if we were all the same?”

“Has social media made us more or less social?”

Where they sit at the table and solve all the world’s problems.


These kids make the United Nations leaders look like fools.

It all starts with listening.

We are in a world where people say, your voice matters as long as your voice sounds like mine. If you look like me, talk like me, believe exactly what I believe then I honor your voice. If not, then it doesn’t matter. I’m choosing to disregard it.

Regardless of your political stance, generation, race, background–we’ve all seen this and most likely, we are all more than a little guilty of it.

We have so much noise in our world and offer everyone little voice. We give them a slice of a voice. Or worse, no voice at all.

And then I say, “I hear you,” while speaking over you. And I’m sorry. Working on it with you.

Maybe together we can,




(and then) Respond. 

Sunday Night Dinners.

Watching the onion sauteed with oil and garlic, prepped to add the sauce and seasoning. I tell the friends I’m making dinner for that “cooking Italian food makes me feel like I’m cooking with my ancestors.”

I’m only thinking of one. Nonna.

Sunday nights were especially sacred when Nonna was still with us. She made them that way.

The table set for 15. The tablecloths for special occasions only and the fancy dinnerware.

In the kitchen, Nonna would be cooking until the last minute. Stirring sauce with meatballs, adding time on the oven for the roast, mixing the salad, and laying out the bread. Enough food to feed a small army, we would always say. Often when I picture her, it’s working hard in the kitchen.


Additionally, she had the most beautiful penmanship.

She taught my sister and me how to mix the meatballs, adding in the milk. “What?! You add milk?” We would ask, confused and amazed. She smiled. She walked us patiently through each step.

She hosted sleepovers with our cousin, Daniella and every time we made homemade pizza with fresh dough. The best.

We made biscottis, lasagna, gnocchi, pasta, Caprese salad, Italian wedding soup, and sauce. I learned it all from her first.

To create a garden you’re proud of.

To use your hands to knead out the difficult parts.

To make your life and work hard for it.

To fashion a lasting bond simply out of oil.

To delight in it all. She delighted in us, her family.

As I stir the sauce, I wish she were next to me. Stirring it too, reminding me what to add in. To see her beautiful, olive hands press, pour, and persist alongside me.


Nonna was an angel to us all. We all knew it and believed it. She was strong and fierce when she needed to be, but mostly she was soft and pure. I think we all believe to our core she could do no wrong. Her life was a sacrifice of time, energy, and endless love. An outpouring of so much more than food despite that being her way of often showing the love. I can’t think of anyone besides my own mother who comes close.

For awhile after she passed, I think it was hard to get back into the kitchen and find joy like I used it. She would be happy to see me here and feeding friends & family alike.

Thank you, Nonna. For your recipes, your advice, your unending amount of grace while we learned, and sacrificial love in the kitchen & out.

Never doubt the impact you make in your life. Even if it’s while you’re cooking for your people. Especially while you’re cooking for your people. I know our Nonna made a lasting one on ours.


Ti amo, Nonna.




The best question to be asked about your job is,


“Why do you get up every day and do what you do?”

If I was sitting with you over coffee, I would ask you the same question. What is your, “why”? Is it your goals, your spouse, your kids, your dreams, actual love of your job?

For most everything we do, there is purpose and intention behind it. The way we organize our closets, our morning routines, our daily commutes. It all has a purpose behind it. So the same is true of our jobs and careers.

Watching the faces of my friends and family react when I say I teach 8th grade in a school with unique challenges is always fun for me. Even funnier when I actually share some of the stories.

Then when they reply, “Why 8th grade?”

I picture my, “why”, all 126 of them. Their smiles, questions, high fives, goofy remarks, or even the disrespectful ones all come to my mind. All the middle school things.

Honestly, there are days I forget why I do what I do, and the motivation to get out of my warm bed to hang out with fourteen-year-olds completely disappears. I don’t want to drive 45 minutes to deal with hormones and attitudes. Shocking, I know.

On Tuesday, I received these notes of them reminding me. I remember why I do what I do on the days I don’t want to do it.


“Thank you for listening to me.”

“PS-Thanks for making school interesting.”

“Not everyone likes history but you find a way for all to enjoy your class.”

“You inspire me as a Mexican female to let my voice be heard.” *cue the tears on this one*

And simply, “Thank you.”

On this Thanksgiving, here is what I want to say to you, 8th graders:

Thank you for challenging me every day. To think about the world through your eyes, and with your stories. To encourage me to stop, listen, wait, and then respond. To pause whatever meaningless task I’m doing to hear you out. Thank you for speaking your truth even if it is completely opposite of what your peer just said. Thank you for trusting me with your lives, and your vulnerability. For showing me every day how to be a better person and for making me laugh, hard. You all are far from perfect, you know you challenge me in many more ways than just making me a better person. But I love you still, and no I don’t think I will ever stop letting you know. You’re some of my all-time heroes. Thank you.

I’m so thankful on this Thanksgiving for them. My, “why”.

What’s your reason, “why’? Why you get up early and go to work. Or get up early and go to school. Or get up really, really early and parent. Why you just get up and do the darn thing.

Some of you, (especially those in the medical fields) do jobs I cannot imagine ever doing in my life, and yet there is a reason why. What beautiful things would your people have to say about you? What would they thank you for? I hope one day I get to hear yours. Your “why” and the receiving end of that. Why you’re the person and friend that you are. Why you care for the world around you. Why you fight the good fight every single day.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear reader, to you and all of your reasons why.

I actually really like lemons.

It’s true-I do.

You can use them for cooking or slice them up & throw them in some water. So versatile, those lemons.

I saw this sign while out and about, and it got me thinking about lemons and lemonade.



How sometimes the lemon can truly be sweet, and in my opinion, the lemonade is occasionally bitter. Or how in life, we think we want all the sweet but that is actually a pretty bitter way to live.


All sweet produces not only cavities or stomach aches but in life, entitlement or arrogance. Without the bitter, how do we savor the sweet? I believe to my very core that we need both.

There are some lovely books on this topic by truly talented authors. One is “Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet,” by Sara Hagerty and the other is “Bittersweet,” by Shauna Niequest. (Both linked below.)

You want to know what’s a scary prayer, “Lord, Your will be done.” Because we are out of control. We have zero control over God’s will and what He is going to do. When I think about the times in my life I have yielded to God’s will, He has done beautiful, sweet, praiseworthy things in my life. He has also allowed for some of the most difficult things in my life. I’m sure the same could be said for you.

Asking the Lord to do His will when my Nonna was sick with cancer, when I didn’t get the job I wanted, when I faced true rejection in relationships. Asking Him to do His will when I went to college, moved back to Columbus, starting to work at a middle school, and forming a new community. The bitter and the sweet.

The sovereignty of God is that He is consistently good and never ceases in being good. His way is always better than ours.

It’s not easy to remember that when the bad feels too bitter to bear. Loneliness, anxiety, unanswered prayers, waiting, and inevitable grief.

& then I am reminded again. The sweet is always sweeter after the bitter. The sunrise is always more beautiful after a few dark days.

I love the show, “This Is Us” for many reasons, probably enough reasons for another blog post, but this clip talks about the bitter and sweet of life. (Specifically around 3:20).

What bitter things are in your life right now, where God and you are taking them to slightly resemble lemonade? Is it work related? Family related? Friends? Significant other related? Or maybe all of the above related?

I don’t know about you, but for me sometimes it’s all of the above. The bitter sting of singleness, of “will I get to be a mom?”, of disappointments and dreams not yet achieved. Sometimes it’s being bitter with myself and that the person I want to be around least in the day is me. I can only fill in the blanks of your own bitter, and the pains in your life that no matter how hard you try to make them sweet-they just aren’t.

No amount of “everything happens for a reason” can settle that kind of hurt in your life.

This is the part where words fall short. Where I can’t spin this into crap and call it comfort. Because we all know life can be overwhelmingly bitter, and honestly just sour.

What I can encourage you in only, is keep seeking the good. Keep looking for the glimpses of it. Dig through the dirt as long as it takes to find a little gold. It’s not ignoring the bad and pretending it’s all good–no, it’s seeking the good amidst the bad. God always brings redemption into a story somehow.

Maybe after all, the lemons can begin to taste oh-so sweet.


Bittersweet by Shauna Niequest 

Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet by Sara Hagerty

I’m fluent in Spanglish.

Have you ever seen the movie, “Spanglish”?

It’s currently on Netflix and if you have not seen it, I highly recommend it.

The movie is about a girl applying to college and she writes an essay to Princeton about her mom, whom she considers being the most influential person she knows. The story follows her mom, a woman who doesn’t know English figuring out living in America with her young daughter on top of working for a wealthy, white family. The Clasky’s.

The movie is funny, heart-wrenching, intuitive, and truly endearing from start to finish.

There’s a parallel and battle of two worlds.

Rich and poor.

Slender fit and curvy strong.

American and Mexican.

Sure those differences are evident. But it goes even deeper. Much, much deeper.

The differences of two daughters in the movie and the mothers who are raising them. On one hand, you have the American woman (Deborah Clasky, played by Tea Leoni) who belittles her daughter, excludes her, chastises, and disconnects from her. And then you have the Mexican woman (Flor Moreno, played by Paz Vega) who empowers her daughter, uplifts her, fights for her, and passionately protects her.

There are so many parts of the movie that are difficult to watch and times you want to scream, mostly at the American woman! Like, girlfriend is cray cray. Lol. There are also times that Flor is in the wrong, too. Neither is perfect and both are trying to do what they feel is right for themselves and their families. Both Deborah and Flor deeply love their people.

However, Flor is the one I walk away from the film consistently wanting to be more like.

And guess what?  She doesn’t speak English. She is a single mother. She barely has enough money to make rent.

Want to know what else this incredible movie character is?

She is an illegal immigrant.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but illegal immigrants have been mentioned on the news one or maybe two times in the last few months. In response, we as a nation have a lot of words on the subject. We all have those friends on Facebook with nasty responses who say things like, “What about those of us paying taxes, don’t we matter?” Well yes, thank you for your taxes, but please also thank the countless undocumented workers who pay billions in taxes each year. And do not even get me started on those who think it’s okay to separate children from their parents at the border. Or do get me started, at your own risk.

I am not here to categorize any people group. I’m not even here to say that every single person coming to America is a good person, that would clearly be naive.

What I hope you hear is that this fictional story of a woman named Flor is much like the many Mexicans dreaming of a better life here in the states.

How many Mexican mamas simply want the best for their babies? How many are finding decent schools for their children to go to? How many are trying to flee domestic violence? How many want to make an honest living, and do everything the right or best way possible?

And yet how many of them live in deep fear? How many worry night after night about staying or going? They see the news too and are terrified. Just listen to our Hispanic friends as they say, “My family and I always have it in our minds that if we leave the house, they’ll grab us again.”-(Eric Ramirez from Guatemala)

So if you have not yet seen this movie, please watch it. Watch it for the laughs, the tears, the sweetness of it, and the message. For the entangling of culture & language. Of the strength, compassion, integrity, fire, and love of one Mexican woman, mother/daughter bonds and be encouraged.  Let us be the ones who seek to fight for this kind of woman and her babies.

To learn the language.

To share in meals.

To educate them.

To assist them.

To protect them.

To equip them.

To welcome them.


“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

-The New Colossus, Statue of Liberty poem, English.


“Dadme tus cansados, tus pobres,
Tus masas amontonadas gimiendo por respirar libres,
Los despreciados de tus congestionadas costas.
Enviadme a estos, los desposeidos, basura de la tempestad.
Levanto mi lámpara al lado de la puerta dorada!”
-The New Colossus, Spanish.