My mom always said, “The harder you work, the luckier you get.” This saying rang especially true in the third grade when my classroom turned reading into a competition. Every time we finished a book, we added a car to our paper train on the wall. It was simple and visual, and I liked that. And I was competitive, and I wanted my train to grow. It gave me something to work toward and made reading feel fun.

There was a time in my life when the world practically ended if I couldn’t find the perfect outfit. I didn’t throw tantrums often as a kid, but for some reason, when it came to clothes, especially for special occasions, I would completely unravel. I remember one specific day when we were getting ready to go to a family gathering. My mom, dad, sister, and I were all getting dressed, and I just could not find the right thing to wear. Nothing felt good enough. I stormed around the house, crying in frustration. 

Every year around my birthday, July 3rd, we packed up the car and headed to Palm Springs. It was our little tradition, and even with the sweltering desert heat, I looked forward to it every time. The hotel pool, the lazy afternoons, and especially the fireworks on the 4th of July. Since my birthday came the day before, the fireworks always felt like an extra celebration just for me.

Growing up, my family didn’t take chances at the airport. My family lived by my mom’s saying “Failing to plan is planning to fail,” and especially when it came to travel, that wasn’t just a saying, it was our standard. We were always three hours early, no exceptions. My dad even made us laminated ID badges to wear around our necks like we were part of some official airport task force. Snacks? Packed. Boarding passes? Printed and backed up. Delays? Anticipated. We were ready for anything.

My mom always said, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” It usually came out when I was full steam ahead on a terrible idea. Like the time I decided I needed a belly button piercing. My friend had one and it looked good on her, so naturally I wanted one too. I brought it up to my mom, and instead of fighting me on it, she just said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Which, let’s be honest, made me want it even more.

When we were kids, my sister and I used to play board games with our dad, and Battleship was one of our absolute favorites. It wasn’t just about sinking ships, it was about scheming, giggling, and low-key cheating in the most innocent way possible. We’d pretend we had to go to the bathroom, then sneak peeks at his board, thinking we were being so slick. The best part? We could never remember what we saw. We'd come back feeling like secret agents, only to wildly guess and completely miss. Every time my dad would calmly say, “Miss,” we’d burst into laughter like it was the funniest thing in the world.

As a kid, I was a minimalist before I even knew what that word meant. I liked my space clean, simple, and free of anything that felt “extra.” One day I decided my room needed a full reset, not a deep clean, but a purge. I started small: a stack of old clothes, a blanket I never used, a few knick knacks I was suddenly over. It felt good, lighter. So naturally, I took it a step further… and set my sights on my couch.

Growing up, garage sale weekends at our house were basically a full production. And my mom? She was the director. My sister and I weren’t just bystanders, we were staff. We had to wake up early, help haul out the boxes, and be ready with price stickers and change boxes in hand. She didn’t give us “pretend” jobs, either. We were really in it, negotiating prices, greeting customers, and handling money with the kind of seriousness only a kid with a fanny pack full of quarters can have.

Back in the day, when we had a real home phone (landline and all), my sister and I weren’t allowed to just answer it with a plain “hello.” Nope. My mom had a script. We had to say, “Riley residence, Jackie speaking,” clearly, politely, and with a smile you could hear through the phone. It felt so official, like we were working at a front desk instead of just trying to talk to our friend from school. I remember thinking, Why is this such a big deal? It’s just the phone.

There was a time when I swore I didn’t like 80s music. My mom would have it playing in the car, at home, anywhere she could sneak it in. And every time she did, I would sit there in silence, arms crossed, face unmoved, determined not to enjoy it. Stubbornness is a family trait, and I was no exception. My sister, on the other hand, gave in almost immediately. She was humming along to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and belting out Pat Benatar before I’d even admitted the music had a beat.

I still remember the magic of the American Girl store in Chicago like it was yesterday. My mom, grandma, sister, and I made the trip together, and in my little-girl eyes, that place was nothing short of a dream. Towering displays, endless dolls, matching outfits, it was like stepping into a storybook. But what really stuck with me wasn’t the shopping. It was teatime. We sat down with our dolls for a dainty little tea service, complete with tiny sandwiches, sweet treats, and fancy pink lemonade. I felt so grown-up and so full of joy, like the whole day had been made just for us.

I still remember calling my mom in absolute tears over a C I got on a paper in college. I was an A student, straight As were my thing, so getting a C felt like total devastation. It wasn’t even my final grade, just one assignment, but at the time, it felt like the end of the world. I was dramatic, panicked, and convinced I’d just ruined my GPA and possibly my entire future (classic college meltdown energy).