There’s a quiet kind of love that finds you when you least expect it — not the sweeping, storybook kind, but one that arrives like the tide. Soft. Steady. Sure.I wasn’t looking for it. After all, love had already been a chapter in my story — or so I thought. I’d lived a full life: marriage, motherhood, family, faith. I believed that part of me was complete. But somewhere between endings and beginnings, love came again. Not loud or dramatic, just real. And it feels, in many wa

Every family has its traditions — the small rituals that become the heartbeat of who we are. For me, that rhythm has always come from the kitchen. From laughter, stories, and the smell of simmering sauce on a Sunday afternoon. Pasta Nonna was born out of that love — of faith, family, and food. It’s my first published book, and it feels like a piece of my heart on paper. The story follows a grandmother who teaches her family that food is not just about what we eat, but about h

My story didn’t begin with me. It began across an ocean, in Sicily — in a small village where the sun kissed the hills and the air smelled of olive trees and hope. My grandfather was just a boy when he crossed that ocean, lying on the floor of a crowded ship beside animals and strangers, clutching a pouch of coins his family had sewn around his neck. He arrived in America through Ellis Island, small and scared, but determined. He missed his sponsor — the man who was supposed

For so many years, my purpose was beautifully clear — raising my sons. Those years were full of laughter, chaos, love, and the steady hum of family life. From the early days of childhood to the whirlwind of junior high and high school, I lived every moment right alongside them. They played sports, made music, cast their fishing lines into the sunlit water, and explored the outdoors with endless curiosity. Wherever they were, I was. Our lives were woven together with cousin sl

Self-love isn’t something that arrives all at once. It’s not a switch you flip or a lesson you learn and never forget. It’s a slow, quiet unfolding — a gentle returning to yourself, piece by piece, after life has taken you apart. For me, self-love began not in celebration, but in survival. It began when everything familiar started to fall away — my marriage, my career, my mother. Each loss felt like an anchor being lifted, leaving me drifting and unsure of where to go next. B

There’s a moment in every woman’s life when she pauses and realizes — she’s lived a thousand stories, but rarely her own.For more than thirty years, my world revolved around my family. I was a wife, a mother, a caretaker. My days were full of love, laughter, and purpose — and though the years went fast, the memories stayed vivid. Raising my two boys was the biggest and best adventure of my life. So far. When those chapters close — when the marriage ended and the boys were gro