Piedmont Region of Italy

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

By Esterina Anderson

Following directly after our last blog in Valle d’Aosta https://esterinaanderson.com/2026/06/21/italy-has-more-to-offer-than-hilltop-towns-and-great-cities/

After the rugged beauty of Valle d’Aosta, our next stretch through northern Italy brought an entirely different rhythm—lake life, elegant city streets, and rolling wine country.

This leg of the trip felt softer. Less dramatic mountains, more charm and leisure. More time by the water, slower mornings, and places that surprised us in ways we didn’t expect.

As we left the Alps of Valle d’Aosta behind us, the flat fertile plains of Piedmont spread out before us. This is a land of serious agriculture. It felt more like Kansas than Italy with the miles and miles of cornfields. Only here there were also sunflowers, rice and lots of hay. This is one of the areas where risotto and polenta come from. 

As we turned North into the Lake region, the farmland gave way to foothills- the Alps towering in the distance once again. 

Once in Lake Orta it felt like we landed in a tiny vacation paradise where people were clearly there simply to enjoy the lake, slow, swim, rest, and soak it all in.

Our hotel had an incredible infinity pool overlooking the water, and from there it was also possible to step right into the lake itself. As ocean people, swimming in truly fresh water felt both strange and exciting.

Orta San Giulio felt like something out of a storybook. Narrow winding streets lined with charming little shops opened into the main piazza right on the water.

We wandered through the streets & shops and ended up purchasing a small original painting from an artist who works exclusively with palette knives instead of brushes. He was running the small shop so we had the chance to meet him, which always makes a piece of art feel more special. 

The town is also home to the Sacro Monte di Orta, a UNESCO World Heritage Site dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi. The sacred mount consists of 20 chapels built between the 16th and 18th centuries, each filled with frescoes and life-sized sculptures depicting moments from the life of St. Francis.

We spent a leisurely few hours exploring all 20 chapels with Koji. It was obscenely hot, and about halfway through we found the perfect open-air café where we cooled off and rested before finishing the walk.

https://youtu.be/-oHBP8MpHoE?feature=shared

Another day, we took the short ferry ride from the piazza to Isola San Giulio, the tiny island that sits in the center of the lake.

The island is home to a basilica, a Benedictine abbey, and a small community of cloistered nuns. Cars are not allowed, and the atmosphere is meant to be quiet and contemplative.

One of the most special parts of visiting the island was walking the “Path of Silence and Meditation,” a peaceful path that circles the island. Along the route are signs with reflections on silence, stillness, and contemplation.

The walk itself is short. It was also so meaningful that we walked it three times.

The first time, we just took in the stillness. The second time, we slowed down even more. After that second lap, Daren noticed there were additional reflections written on the backs of each sign. So naturally, we walked it a third time to take those in too. Koji cooled himself in the water while we mostly just honored the quiet.

https://youtu.be/SSD9uz_iTsQ?feature=shared

Our next stop was Turin. But before heading there, we made a small detour to Sacro Monte della Santissima Trinità near Lake Maggiore. After loving Sacro Monte in Orta, we thought another sacred mount would be worth exploring.

Unfortunately, this one felt entirely different. It felt isolated, neglected, and depressing. Still beautiful in its own way, but we didn’t stay long. 

Instead, we headed to Cannobio near the Swiss border in search of lunch. It ended up being more of a functional stop than a memorable one. The town was pleasant enough, with colorful flags stretching along the waterfront and hints of its international location near Switzerland.

From there, we made our way to Turin. My cousin Vinny and his wife Katia live there, and we had made plans to meet up. They were waiting for us at our hotel when we arrived.

Turin was nothing like we expected. I had heard it described as “Little Paris,” but I really couldn’t picture just how elegant and charming it would feel. The city center is massive, beautifully maintained, and at times it barely felt like Italy.

There are dozens of piazzas, grand tree-lined boulevards, statues, fountains, and endless porticos that stretch for miles across the city. Turin was the first capital of unified Italy, and you can feel that history in its grandeur and architecture. It feels sophisticated, and refined.

One thing Turin is especially known for is Bicerin, a traditional drink dating back to the 18th century made with espresso, drinking chocolate, and cream served in layers in a small glass. The name means “little glass” in the local dialect. Of course, we had to try it.

As a funny side note, I happened to be reading the The Italian Daughter on my Kindle during this part of the trip. It wasn’t my favorite book, but I enjoyed it enough to keep going—and it turned out to be a strange little coincidence because part of the story touches on the history of Nutella and Piedmont’s chocolate traditions.

When we found a cozy café to try bicerin, sitting there was a pastry called a pain au chocolat—essentially the French cousin of a chocolate croissant.

I wasn’t expecting much. My entire life, Italian pastries around family gatherings were everywhere, and truthfully I never loved most of them. I also wasn’t expecting to be blown away by something that looked like a simple chocolate pastry. 

I was wrong and it was incredible. Warm, buttery, flaky, and filled with just the right amount of chocolate—so good! 

The bicerin was equally delicious. Rich, and indulgent. It was so special, unique & interesting. If you find yourself in Turin and are curious it’s one of those things that lives up to its hype. 

Turin is filled with beautiful buildings, fascinating sites, and so much history. Vinny and Katia gave us a wonderful overview of the city. Unfortunately, the day we planned to explore more of the major sites, the weather had other plans. Those porticos ended up being a game changer!

Instead, we ended up back at their home for a lovely meal and even more meaningful conversation. Vinny is a little older than me, and although I saw him often when we were kids, age differences feel much bigger when you’re young. 

It was really special to discover how much we had in common—how our family experiences shaped us in similar ways, how much we understood without needing to explain, and simply how much Daren & I genuinely enjoyed being with them. I only wish we lived closer.

Turin quickly became one of our highest recommendations—and one we still feel we haven’t fully explored. I suspect we’ll be back.

The final stop on this two-week trip was the Langhe Valley in Piedmont. The Langhe is known for rolling vineyard-covered hills, prestigious wines like Barolo and Barbaresco, and world-famous hazelnuts. The landscape is stunning—gentler and softer than Tuscany’s rugged beauty, but beautiful in its own way.

Vineyards and hazelnut orchards stretch as far as the eye can see. It’s also the birthplace of Nutella, something I only learned because of the book I was reading. Naturally, we expected to find some sort of Nutella celebration in the area. Truly surprisingly there is nothing, not even a fridge magnet.

From what I read, Ferrero has historically been very private and protective of both its brand and its famously secret recipe. They don’t really get into tourism or public spectacle around Nutella the way you might expect.

There were hiking opportunities everywhere, with trails weaving through vineyards and rolling hills. But it was too hot to enjoy them – not that we didn’t try! We did and gave up. 

Instead, we spent much of our time enjoying the hotel, the pool, and the surrounding views.

Not every stop becomes a favorite. Some places we immediately loved and others can end of being a place to rest. 

Lake Orta gave us peace and the lake vibe. 
Turin gave us a city vibe and family connection. 
The Langhe gave us beauty and rest.

This was a great exploration of the Piedmont region. As long as it was and as happy as I am to be headed back home to Tuscany, I kind of wish it was just a little longer. 

Ciao Amici!

Home Can Be More Than a Place

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This week was all about family.

Long before our move to Italy, we had planned a trip to Rocca di Neto for April of 2026. I turned 50 in February and wanted to go to Italy to see where my father grew up and connect with my relatives. At the time, I was even hoping my father would be able to come too.

My father hadn’t been back to Italy in about 20 years. For his 70th birthday, my brother Mario and I helped him renew his green card so he could get his passport and travel again. This April would have been the perfect time.

Running in the background of all of this since 2018 was my effort to obtain Italian citizenship.

I had worked with a lawyer for a few years who suggested that the fastest path might be to move to Italy temporarily and apply from here. At the time, that didn’t feel realistic. We had kids still in school and jobs that wouldn’t allow for that kind of move. Who has the luxury of just packing up and heading to Italy “for a while”?

So I gathered all the paperwork and began the process through the Italian consulate in the United States. Because we live in Connecticut, that meant going through the New York City consulate. The wait time for an appointment there is several years long. After years of gathering and translating the correct documents, I added my name to the list in June of 2022 and still haven’t received an appointment.

Then last year, everything shifted in ways we couldn’t imagine.

I unexpectedly retired. Not long after, my father passed away in August. The months surrounding that were a whirlwind of family chaos and change. Daren was still working full time, but we started talking about what we really wanted next.

We both wanted to keep working—but in a way that allowed for more flexibility, less stress, and more control over our time.

And suddenly, moving to Italy for a year didn’t feel unrealistic anymore. It felt right.

After my father passed, the three of us—his children—made the decision that Pops would still go to Rocca in April. We cleared it with the family in Italy, who thought it was a great idea. This week, we carried that plan out.

Before moving to Italy, we had even considered settling in Calabria to be closer to family. We visited the area last October. I had met many of my relatives before in the United States when they visited.

When we arrived last fall, we were welcomed at the small airport in Crotone by my uncle and two aunts. The airport is so small they were practically at the gate. Even though it had been many years since we had seen one another, we all recognized each other right away.

And then came the welcome.

It was like the movies—one long table, full of food, constant conversation, introductions, laughter. We spent a few days with them, fully immersed in it all.

For me, it truly felt like home.

I lost my mom when she was 49, and my dad last summer. For the past 15 years or so, my father didn’t really have a place of his own, so “going home” meant going to newer places that were fine, but didn’t have a deep connection to me.

But in Italy—even having not been there since I was very little—it felt familiar.

My relatives’ homes were decorated the same way my parents decorated. The same types of frames, candy dishes, the same overall feel and aesthetic.

My uncle Joe and his wife even had the same dishes my parents had. My aunt said it was because she and my mom bought them at the same time.

My aunt Sarah’s food tastes just like my mom’s did. It’s uncanny—especially the rabbit sauce. When I told her this, she said it was because her mom (my grandmother, and my mom’s mother-in-law) taught them both how to make it.

We don’t know each other well, but my cousins—especially the men—have the same mannerisms as my father and brothers. The same humor, the same playful energy. They laugh and carry on with the same joy we had when my father was alive.

The language barrier was there, but it was also strangely fun to navigate. We made it work.

When we visited last fall, we seriously considered moving closer to them.

There are real benefits. It’s much easier to practice Italian when people are patient and willing to wait while you find the words or look them up. Learning feels more natural that way.

But Calabria is far south and not close to major international travel routes. With four adult children and family back home, we felt more at ease staying connected and accessible. Being that far away made us feel just a little too vulnerable.

And even though we didn’t move here, we are driving away, having carried out the plan to bring Pops back to his hometown on Rocca.

Thursday we packed into few cars and made the short trip up the road to local town cemetery where the family has a mausoleum. We placed my father’s ashes amongst the other relatives that have passed alongside his parents (my grandparents). 

My brother Frankie and his partner Mary were with us this time, and Daren and I took immense joy in seeing how quickly they were welcomed and made to feel at home—that they were with family.

It was special to see the experience we had before through their eyes, and to be back in it ourselves—this time understanding just a little bit more of the rhythm and the sounds around us.

Calabria feels like home. Not because I had been there before—but because so much of it already lived in me. The way people gather, the way meals are shared, the way homes are filled with the same small details I grew up with.

It made me realize that home isn’t always a place you return to. Sometimes it’s something that travels quietly through generations—carried in traditions, in mannerisms, in the way people connect with each other.

Being with people I barely know, in a place I had never lived, somehow—and truly—feels like home. It All Clicks.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Lessons from Pops

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

For those of you who don’t know, my father passed away on Wednesday. And for those who don’t know, my relationship with him was far from a beautiful “daddy’s little girl” type of scenario. I loved and hated him. I was afraid of him, yet I felt protected from the outside world by him.

My father was an alcoholic, mean, misogynistic, childish, and a bully. But he was also full of life, energy, and joy. He was strong—crazy healthy despite himself—and had the strongest work ethic of anyone I’d ever met. Just as strong was his play ethic: he worked hard and he played hard.

He lived a full life of ups and downs. He made money fast and spent it even faster. He loved drinking, gambling, and chasing women. He didn’t believe women should work or that education mattered. He believed you should take care of yourself and your family with food, shelter, and clothing in a basic sense. There was always enough, but always with the constant worry that maybe there wouldn’t be, the weight of bills looming.

From him, I learned a lot—what to do, what not to do, who I wanted to be, and how I wanted to show up in the world. This both served me and hurt me. The two main lessons I took from him were how to be productive and how to live fully at the extremes of emotion.

He hated the word “relaxing,” unless everything else that could possibly be done was already done. Before he came home, my brothers and I would scour the house for anything out of place, dirty, or unfinished. Yes, it was unhealthy—but it taught me to scan my environment, make lists, remember details, prioritize, and execute with whatever time I had.

This shaped me: I don’t know how to rest. I’m constantly doing, doing something, or several things at once. I am incredibly productive, and I think I like it that way. It’s a blessing and a burden, because I often don’t realize when I’ve pushed myself too far or taken on too much. My father, in an unhealthy way, taught me this.

Another word to describe him: loud. When the work was done, it was time to play and let loose. He had no qualms about body image, running around shirtless with his big belly. He sang at the top of his lungs, danced like a giant silly human without a care, and enjoyed food like there was no tomorrow. He loved sports—football mostly, the NY Giants in particular, but also soccer and basketball. Watching games with him was full of antics and superstition. The whole neighborhood knew if the Giants were winning or losing.

But with his intensity—whether excitement or anger—came loss of control. Things broke. People and animals got hurt, physically or emotionally.

Some of you who know me now might not realize that “loud” was once how I lived too. I still like to dance, be silly, and LAUGH—only now without the drinking and the overkill of noise.

Ultimately, I didn’t stick around to live like he lived or under his rule of thumb. I got the #$&* out of dodge and started a path of my own in the world.

I’ve learned over the course of the past 31 years that I struggle with boundaries. I was never taught them. I didn’t even know they existed. Particularly with extremes of work, play, and emotions—at first I had none. Everything was to the extreme. I’m now at a point in my life where I realize I can detach from those automatic reactions I was taught, and instead have healthier boundaries around rest, relaxation, and emotional highs and lows.

I am not perfect (who is?) and often struggle with doing too much without realizing it, or failing to recognize when I’m overwhelmed until it shows up as anxiety or panic. A lot of yogic work, mental health work, and a little medication have helped keep me balanced most of the time.

I sit here on my front porch on an August Sunday morning with my coffee and thinking about my dad.

There isn’t much rhyme or reason to this blog—just a moment to reflect on how my father shaped my life and who I am right now because of it. If I stay healthy, it’s not unreasonable to imagine living another lifetime beyond the years I’ve already lived (49). I can’t change the past, but I can absolutely change the future and how I choose to show up and react in it.

One day, those who are in my life when I pass will likely reflect on how I lived, what I taught them—whether it’s how they want to live, or how they want to avoid living. My hope is that whatever I put into the world, people experience it in a way that makes them pause—whether positively or negatively—and reflect on how their own experiences shape their behaviors and ultimately guide their decisions about who they want to be in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, that is the truest way my father continues to live on—through the ways he shaped me, both in what I carry forward and in what I’ve chosen to do differently. In that way, his life reminds me that even the hardest stories can become soil for growth, and that the future is always wide open for choosing a new way to live.

Seventh Floor, Going Down

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I know if I don’t capture the feelings now, I still might be able to later — but they will never feel as they do now.

Today.
My last day of work.
That elevator — the sound made me want to cry.

A hot day, not too different from today.
23 years ago.

5th Floor, Building 2 — right outside my door was the elevator bank.
Mary Susie Conti — the woman I was replacing — was loading up my head with all that I needed to learn.

I was paying rapt attention, but every so often I sussed out the environment. It felt so different to be in an office in the middle of the day instead of home with my two small children, who were now 45 minutes away in a new daycare. Every time I thought of them, my heart hurt just a bit, and I had to intentionally put it out of my mind.

The feel of the air with the open window (at a time when we were allowed to open windows — now I can’t imagine), the humidity in the office, and the sound of the elevator’s electronic voice blathering all day:

“Fifth Floor Going Down… Fifth Floor Going Up.”

Over the next few days and weeks, I slightly startled the 50 or so times a day I heard that electronic voice announcing the floor it landed on and which direction it was going.

Eventually, it became background noise and I didn’t hear it at all. But when I did tune in, no matter the day or time of year, I was transported back to being 26 years old and learning my new job from Mary Susie Conti.

For the past 8+ years, I haven’t come into the office much. I was on a reasonable accommodation and working from home long before COVID. But I have to say — it always felt like home when I did go in.

I honestly believe one of the reasons I got the job is because of that “home”-like feeling.

When I interviewed for that first job, I went through a series of interviews back to back.
Martha Shea was the first person who interviewed me.

Right off the bat, she made it known that if I didn’t pass her muster, the two doctors I would soon interview with would take her consideration into account.

She also made sure to tell me she was prior military and instantly started off by asking about my own military experience.

I was slightly intimidated, but something about her already felt familiar. She was my kind of people — I could tell.

I don’t even know how I wasn’t prepared for the question:
“Why do you want to work here?”

I mean — for heaven’s sake — if a person can’t answer that, they shouldn’t get the job!

Martha asked me that question and my truly unprepared, but terribly raw response — when I looked around — was:

“Because it feels like home.”

Martha cracked a genuine smile and asked me why.

I looked around, asking myself the same thing to understand why I had that feeling.

I saw the government-issued 3-month calendar, where you save paper with the months on both sides. The chairs. The carpet. The signage. The halls. The overhead pages. Men with military regalia ambling down the hall. The feeling I always got crossing from a state line onto federal property.

So that is what I said.
I first pointed to the calendar on the wall, then the chairs. I mentioned something that was broken in a corner and talked about how it all felt familiar.

I didn’t think about puffing everyone up with “helping veterans,” giving back, stories of grandfathers who fought in wars — or all the other things I subsequently heard over the years when I eventually became the interviewer.

My answer was candid and from the heart.

If my interview were a cartoon, Martha would have started off in a knight’s costume — complete with armor — to intimidate me.
Then it would have fallen off, and you would have seen her heart literally melting.

She proudly walked me down the hall to the person who would eventually become my first supervisor at the VA.

With a hand on my shoulder, she introduced me in a way that made it clear she liked me and wanted to take me under her wing.

I already felt protected — and that I was with my people.

Today, I drove into for the last time.

The sunrise down the street from me. A new dawn to a brand new type of day for me.

I saw people parking, taking out their bags and lunches, putting on badges.
These people were donned in suits, scrubs, lab coats — and everything in between.

I vividly remembered those early days of parking in that same lot. The uniforms, cars and smells were so unfamiliar at the time. Now they are all second nature. All these years I have been taking the same steps into the same building and heading to the elevators —

“1st Floor, going up.”

Today, I ran into one of my coworkers walking into the building.

We got on the elevator together, and I heard that same electronic voice, unchanged in all these years.

I asked him about his two young girls. He filled me in and then asked how old my children were now.

28 and 26.
My youngest is now as old as I was when I first started working there.

I worked there for their entire lives.
In some ways, I missed their lives because of that place.

I don’t know who I am without it.

Some people would say I worked there a lifetime (23 years).

Others, who have 40, 45 years in the government, would still consider me a newbie.

It’s all relative. But for me — between the military and the Department of Veterans Affairs — it’s been my whole life.

I had jobs in different buildings and offices. Not too many were close to an elevator bank.

Today, as I left, it was:

“7th Floor, going down.”

It felt like:

“Esterina, now going down and out — into the wider world.”

I sat in the parking lot for a long time.
I read the cards I was given, sitting in my car with the air conditioning blasting.

I felt nostalgic — but very excited.

Driving away was the hardest part.
No tears, but a large lump in my throat.

A piece of my heart will always be there — in those buildings, carpets, walls, files.

And just like that — “7th Floor Going Down” — one chapter closes, and another begins.

On Being a Federal Government Employee: Fork in the Road

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

April 27th, 2025.

As I sit here on the Metro North Railroad next to my husband on this very sunny, very windy Sunday, late April morning, I’m filled with wanderlust and a sense of possibility. As we speed by I notice trees, mountains, houses, cars, waterways, docks… so many ways of living and modes of travel.  

The subway this morning, leaving New York City, back home to Connecticut

My heart aches to experience it all. I sit and watch, feeling stuck where I am; on a moving train that is going too fast. I am unable to really see, experience or touch any of it.  Destination known.

I marvel at how at any stop I could really get off. How I could take another train to another destination and experience something new. I could…. Why don’t I? Why haven’t I?  

I am a government employee.

A Fork in the Road.  

That is the title now infamous email sent to government employees on January 28th. It quite possibly could open doors, new roads, endless possibilities. However, the doors and possibilities are soured by the ruthless ways civil servants have been discussed in the past few months. 

I am government employee with a possibility of taking early retirement. I am 49 and was not planning to retire for a while. But the possibility cannot stop lingering on my mind. I want to see the world! I want to get out from under the grind, off the crazy train. The past few years, but particularly the past few months have dampened the passion of flames I once had for work. It was long burning down, but the new administration has left but the smallest of sparks still attempting to burn.    

I have given my entire adult life to the United States government. At 18 I went into the Coast Guard. At 22, I continued into the active reserve pool and became a weekend warrior while raising two babies. At 26, I became a civil servant where I have worked ever since. 

I’ve been on a train, on the path set out by many. Get an education, get a job, start a family, get the bigger house…. 

In the past 31 years with very little help from the supposedly educational funds and benefits that tempted me into the military in the first place I obtained a Professional Secretarial Certification, a Bachelors in Business Administration, an MBA, and a certification Healthcare Analytics. 

There were countless other trainings I took through work or on my own. Regardless of where I took these trainings, I immediately gave everything I learned back to the government through my work. Up to and including teaching yoga. 

I chose the government  because like many undiscussed Americans, particularly second generation Americans, I grew up not have basic securities met. We always had food, though food security was something my parents often struggled with. There were enough clothes and enough help to feel ok. We did not have healthcare and my parents did not have jobs with paid vacation or sick time. Retirement is still out of the question for my 74 year old father. My mother passed away at 49, in part to smoking; but more in part to not having access to healthcare. 

I chose the military for the benefits. Paid education, vacation days, and healthcare. The military also seemed as if it were fair and just, that there were rules that had to be followed and consequences for breaking those rules. My home seemed to be a place where there were no consequences and no rights for women or children. As a teenager with looming uncertainty of my future, the military recruiters at the tables stationed around my high school looked healthy, happy and secure in themselves. I wanted that for myself too. 

I still don’t know if recruiters purposely mislead or they themselves do not know, but many of the things I was told were only partial truths. Healthcare is not for life unless you are destitute once you separate from the armed forces. The Montogomery GI Bill hardly paid for a semester let alone an education. I was not able to apply for specialty school right out of bootcamp as an E-3, a benefit I personally took advantage of because I had spent 3 years in junior ROTC. The immediate bump from E-2 to E-3  wasn’t a huge benefit, but the one that likely made what was a tough decision at the time for me. A decision that ended up being a very good one for my life.

Swearing into the United States Military at MEMPS in Brooklyn NY August 9, 1994

From that time, and into my career, and until this very day; there were spouted benefits. Benefits that lured me in, but were not what they seemed to be. Benefits that few who are the gatekeepers to obtaining these benefits even seem to know about. 

My earliest experience was the lack of knowledge at my first duty station on being an E-3. Then seemingly gregarious barriers to putting my name on a wait list for specialty school. I did everything I was supposed to as quickly and efficiently as I could. It seemed to surprise people that I had the oomph to push through the barriers and keep pressing until I got the answers I was seeking. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, but that was only the start of many years ahead of pretty much the same. 

I met and married my first husband who was also in the military at the age of 19. We had no plans of having children anytime soon, but I did know about the benefit to females of taking two years off to raise a child and coming back to finish any required time that was owed to the government. 

When my husband and I were re-located and co-located from the west to east coast, the new dispensary that I was assigned did not carry the birth control pill I had been on for years. I was prescribed a new pill and immediately experienced unwanted side effects.  When I went to the dispensary to discuss these issues; they took some bloodwork to ensure I was not pregnant, prescribed a new type of pill, and asked me to not take any pills until my next cycle. 

My newlywed husband and I were careful, but obviously not careful enough because I never did start that next cycle. I was unintentionally pregnant at 20 years old. My new duty station (which was for the first time in my career on land [opposed to on ship]) helped me to apply for the two year program to raise a child. The administrators and I could not foresee my request being denied because I owed 2 exactly two years and my husband was also a service member. 

The request was denied without an explanation. We were flabbergasted. The men and their wives at my at my station were so supportive and helped me and my husband with taking care of our newborn child. I will forever be grateful for the rallying and support provided. 

October 1996, pregnant with my first born
My baby Thomas at just over a year old with his daddy

Two years later my owed time was up and I had the option to reenlist. For the majority of non-Air station based jobs, most Coast Guard members were required to be stationed on a ship alternating with land stations. Unless they specifically wanted to be on ship duty or if circumstances called, folks were allowed to be stationed on land for back to back tours. 

The military does married couples the honor of trying to station couples together or close by. My husband’s tour was also up. His job required him to be at an Air station which were far and few between. Air stations at the time also required a 1 in every 3 or 1 in every 4 evening overnight obligation. My job as a cook was one of the few jobs in the Coast Guard that did not require overnight stays at all. It was the only way we were able to get by raising our son until that point. That and the help from the members of my station. 

Service members have some input on where they would like to go by filling out what was referred to as a “Dream Sheet”. We filled out our dreams sheets and requested to go anywhere in the world as long as I could be stationed at a land station nearby an Air station so I could be home every evening with our son. It should not have come as a surprise when this reasonable request was denied. Yet it was a surprise and felt like a blow. 

The Commanding and Executive Officers who were fond of my hard work, impressed that I finished a secretarial certificate and was taking college classes, and who were already upset from the denial for the maternity leave I asked for were also infuriated. The Commanding Officer (unprompted) wrote a letter asking for my request to be reconsidered because he felt I was just the kind of person that the Coast Guard should want to keep. He received a response back saying that it was my turn to go on a boat and if I didn’t like it, I did not have to re-enlist. 

I did not reenlist.

I enlisted into the Active Reserves for four years instead. My husband stayed in and I became a military spouse. We had another baby and I finished my bachelor degree. 

Four years later in 2002, both my husband and I had completed all required obligations to the military. It was not long after 9/11 and we decided to take a plunge into the civilian world. 

Finding work in your twenties hot out of the military with little other work experience and family obligations is not easy. I was interested in federal employment because of the benefits and pension.

I applied to dozens of government and private sector positions. It took about 6 months to find a temporary grant funded government position.

During my first few years as a civil servant I applied for the programs and leadership trainings that were available, but I was denied participation because I was not a permanent employee. I went back to school (out of pocket) while working full time and raising 2 children for an MBA. 

I used the information I was learning in school and my personal drive constantly to make my job, my role, and in turn my organization a better place. In 2007 I finished my Masters degree and landed a full time permanent position. About 5 minutes later I was asked to teach and mentor students in the programs I had never taken and had been denied access to. I was not snarly or punishing because I paid for and took my own initiative to learn what they denied me access to. I excitedly obliged because I wanted to provide my organization with the passion and knowledge I myself wanted to share. 

MBA graduation in 2007

I cannot believe that was 18 years ago. Since then I’ve learned even more. In my journey as a government employee I’ve changed as a human, but maintained exceptional performance reviews for every single rating period for 31 years without fail. I have given the government every piece of knowledge I learned, and for many many years, many more hours than I was ever paid for. 

I have since been divorced and remarried. My children have grown and left the nest. I’ve taken many other trainings at work and outside of work. I trudged a personal journey of experiencing C-PTSD from childhood which involved drinking, recovery and a lot of therapy.

Very typical office set up I had (back in the days I had an office that is)
At my ‘hands down’ favorite position I held in Primary Care
Screenshot
Group of lady work friends I had for many years

I’ve been on the path. I was not planning to retire now. I have more to give. But do I want to give it to the government anymore??? 

My heart has not  been in it a while. And the current administration seems to admonish and mock employees like myself. 

Until this very day I am dealing with “benefits” unknown to those who are the gatekeepers. My latest escapade involves healthcare. I have been paying for health insurance for a family through the Federal Employee Health Benefits (FEHB) since 2002. A few years ago while I was undergoing intensive outpatient therapy I was part-time and we used my husband’s insurance because the employee share for part-timers is unaffordable. We switched back to my insurance over 4 years ago, but the government has a stipulation that upon retirement in order to keep the FEHB for life, you have to have paid FEHB for the 5 consecutive years prior to retirement. 

This is what stopped me from Taking the Fork in the Road back in January. Healthcare. One of the very reasons I entered into the federal workforce 31 years ago. The lack of which (healthcare) I attribute to my mom passing at 49 years old. The very age I happen to be at the moment.

The only time I did not pay for healthcare was for the short period of time I shortened my work hours to deal with mental health issues.

Most veterans have mental health issues. Most individuals enter the military because the benefits outweigh the personal risks. Most individuals who join at a young age do not have many other options. Those lack of options, lack, limit = mental health issues that if not already experiencing, will likely show up later in life when the dust has settled. Like it did for me.

Back in January when the Fork in the Road email was sent, I read all over the place in OPM guidance and other government sources that under VERA authority (when early retirement is being offered) the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) waives this 5 year healthcare payment requirement. I asked about it at the time. No one has ever heard of it. Of course they haven’t. I’ve been down this sad road before. Benefits that are there but unknown or in some way inaccessible.

My Department is offering VERA again due to impending RIFs (Reduction in Force) and this time it specifically states that OPM is waiving the 5-year requirement. 

Why am I still here? What do I have to gain? 

I think I want to get off the train. I watch the world literally and proverbially whizzing by. A world I long to see and experience. 

I am not one of these mystery civil servants you hear on the news. One of these lazy people who is just taking from the population and needs their job to be cut with a sledge hammer. I gave the government more than I gained from it. I know my job can be involuntary cut in a few weeks. If I get to keep a job at all, there is no guarantee it will be at my salary level or that I enjoy. 

Yes, there is waste in the government. There is waste in all organizations. The fairness I had been seeking when entering the federal workforce is not on everyone’s side. As employees under the rule of the law, we are mostly indistinguishable from one another. All kind of being lumped in with the bath water that our administration wants to throw out.

As I reflect on my journey, I realize that my experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. The highs and lows, the challenges and triumphs, have all contributed to my growth and resilience. While the uncertainty of early retirement looms, I am filled with hope and possibility. I am ready to embrace change and explore new horizons. My dedication to public service has been unwavering, and I am proud of the contributions I have made. As I contemplate the next chapter of my life, I am reminded that there is so much more of me to give. The world is full of opportunities, and I am eager to seize them. 

 

Last photo I have with my mom (far left)

 

On Holidays, Divorce & Surrender

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The holidays can be a difficult time for many people. Those who are newly divorced or navigating the aftermath of a long separation are no exception. There are many reasons people struggle this time of year—loss, uncertainty, or simply the weight of change—but for this reflection, I want to focus on divorce, something I’ve now experienced over many holiday seasons.

It took me a long time to understand that the holidays do not have to remain difficult after a separation. That shift, at least for me, began with accepting what was, including my own part in it. That acceptance didn’t happen quickly, but it changed everything over time.

The loss of shared traditions, expectations, and future plans leaves a space that isn’t easily filled. When children are involved, that space can feel even more complicated and painful. What often makes it harder is not just the loss itself, but the feelings that linger—resentment, blame, or an inability to let go of what once was.

In my yoga classes this month, the theme has been surrender. Not in a passive sense, but in the sense of releasing resistance to what is already happening. Letting go of what we think should be happening, and beginning to work with what actually is.

That sounds simple, but it can be incredibly difficult to live.

Over time, I’ve come to see that in many relationships, when things fall apart, it’s rarely as simple as one person being right and the other wrong. In my own experience, there were things I didn’t see at the time. I was focused on responsibilities—children, work, daily life—and I missed signs that my partner was struggling. When I did begin to see them, I focused on fixing what was visible, not what was underneath.

Looking back, I can see more clearly now that there were unmet needs on both sides. I didn’t understand that then. I thought there would always be time to figure things out later.

There wasn’t.

When things finally broke down, I felt hurt and betrayed. But with distance, I’ve been able to recognize that the situation was more complex than I allowed myself to see in the moment. That understanding didn’t excuse what happened, but it did allow me to move out of blame and into something more productive.

That shift matters, especially during times like the holidays.

When there is ongoing tension between former partners, it doesn’t just affect the two people involved. It impacts children, families, and everyone connected to them. When there is even a small amount of cooperation or understanding, the difference can be felt by everyone.

This doesn’t mean every relationship can or should look the same after it ends. It simply means that holding on to anger or resentment tends to keep the pain active, while working toward acceptance can gradually ease it.

I’ve also come to understand that relationships change for many reasons. Sometimes people grow together, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes one person recognizes that something is no longer working before the other does. That doesn’t necessarily make one person wrong and the other right. It simply reflects where each person is at that point in time.

It’s easy to look back and wish things had been handled differently. It’s harder, but more useful, to look at what can be learned from the experience.

For me, that meant recognizing my own role, understanding where I had been unaware, and accepting that growth often comes through difficult transitions. Without that experience, I’m not sure I would have seen the patterns I’ve since worked to change.

The holidays can already carry a certain level of stress, even in the most stable situations. Adding unresolved tension to that mix only makes it heavier. It doesn’t have to be that way.

When we begin to let go of the need to assign blame and instead focus on acceptance, something shifts. It doesn’t erase the past, but it does change how we carry it.

Over time, that shift can make room for a lighter experience—not just during the holidays, but in life moving forward.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On #2 Leaving the Nest

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

…THE DAYS ARE LONG, BUT THE YEARS ARE SHORT

August 29, 2017

Gabby leaves for college in a few days. Similar to when she was born and had a blank slate to life, she is now beginning a brand new chapter of her life with a blank slate. This time she is beginning with a host of 18 years’ worth of experiences created through childhood behind her. Anything is possible. Some of the potential possibilities are controllable, and others are circumstantial.

Two years ago I wrote my first blog about the experience of Thomas leaving for college (A Cold August Morning). It’s hard to imagine that half of his college years have elapsed and Gabby is now leaving the nest too.

It’s not any easier. It’s just as beautiful, yet heartbreaking. It is actually like a piece of me leaves with them. I feel emotionally like I’m giving birth again, and a piece of me is being taken away from me. There is an emptiness in my body. I know from the experience with Thomas that the pain goes away after a few days, very similar to the way a body heals itself after the birthing process.

I’ve spent much of this summer off the grid and taking care of a very intimate, private matter. Perhaps one day I will consider blogging about it, but for now it’s very personal and may always stay as such. It also happens to be a transformational time of my life, with my youngest biological child morphing into an adult and going out into the world solo before my very eyes. I have spent some time journaling, contemplating, and thinking about the passage of time. Certain experiences will string together to create a future you cannot yet see or imagine. At the time, you have no idea how important certain things are.

Gabby is beginning the journey cut off from the age and necessary schooling restrictions that kept her close to me and under my care for the past 18 years. I’m so excited, scared, and happy for her. I wish I could keep being there in the day-to-day, knowing when she gets home from work, what she is wearing, etc. But that is unhealthy. It’s time for me to let her use the wings I helped her grow.

How did my experiences get me to this point in time?

October 1994 – One fine morning around 3am

I am 18 years old. I am freshly out of Coast Guard boot camp and on watch at my first duty station on the USCGC Boutwell. I am standing my first “mids” watch in port. It’s dark, I smell diesel, and I can barely make out the visuals of my new surroundings. I hear water lapping up against the hull and my feet hurt in these dress shoes I’m wearing in the middle of the night. I am on Coast Guard Island in Alameda, CA. It’s a little chilly and I’m wearing an issued jacket over my uniform that isn’t very warm.

I’m standing watch with a BPOW (brow petty officer of the watch) on the brow of the ship. My role is that of the messenger. Sometime around 3am I am instructed to wake up the folks who are on the 4–8am watch shift. My thoughts become slightly fearful… wake people up? I thought about how I was woken up around 11pm by a male voice. It is still a bit strange and new to me to be in close quarters with strangers, and even more so to be exchanging such intimacies with males, such as waking someone up. Until now it didn’t dawn on me that I would have to do that too. Earlier, the BPOW walked me through who I was to wake up and where their berthing area was on the ship. I took notes. I have four people to wake up. One is a female and the other three are male. Of the three guys, two are in the same berthing area and one is in another. I plan to start with the female to get my feet wet, then the single male, and then the doubles. I glance at their names on the list. Everyone addresses one another by their last name. I don’t know many people yet, and I don’t know any of these folks. One of the names is Messeder. He will be my direct replacement as Messenger of the watch. Messeder the Messenger—I smile quietly to myself.

October 1994 – That same fine day around 1pm or so…

As the daily work is drawing to a close, I am assigned to sweep the port side of the ship with a handful of other Seamen. I am sweeping not far from someone I am pretty sure I hadn’t seen before. His hat covers most of his face since he is looking down as he sweeps. When I’m not paying attention, I hear him say, “Hello DeGrazia.” I look up. He has a semi-confident, semi-nervous smile. I think to myself I haven’t seen this one before; I would remember him because he is cute. He has a nice crooked smile and eyes that seemed familiar, almost like I should know them. I look down at the nametag on his working blue shirt. Messeder.

August 1995

Messeder and I are out on a Sunday afternoon. At some point in the past 10 months, I started calling Messeder by his first name, John. We have been dating a few months. However, since dating is prohibited amongst shipmates, we need to stay clear of any places we may be spotted.

This particular cool, sunny August afternoon we drive south from my apartment in San Leandro toward San Jose. We have no plans other than explore the area and spend time together. Somehow we happen upon a zucchini festival in Hayward, CA. We walk around, eat fried zucchini, and play some games. We walk toward the end of the festival and onto the sidewalk. We continue a few blocks until we find ourselves in front of a movie theater playing a movie called Nine Months. Since the movie is a few weeks old, it only costs a dollar. We decide to watch it.

In the movie, the unexpected pregnant main female lead reads the book What to Expect When You’re Expecting and wants the baby’s father to read it as well. He isn’t interested, they fight and break up, and in the fairy-tale ending, he reads the book and is there for her when she has their baby.

Nearly 4 years later

May 1999

It’s late in the afternoon on a weekday. It’s warm, bright, and sunny. All the windows are open in our Cape Cod unit on Otis Air Force Base. John and I are now married for 3 ½ years. I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner and reading. We have a two-year-old named Tommy, and I’m 8 months pregnant with number two.

I’m rereading the same book I read with Tommy, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Apparently this book is quite popular among parents-to-be. With both pregnancies, each month I read the chapter that corresponded with my gestational timeline to learn more about what was happening inside my body and the baby.

Since I’m 8 months pregnant, I decide to read the ninth month and the closing chapter as well. I don’t remember reading this with Tommy, but the book talks about how messy and chaotic life will feel once the baby comes home, and how that chaos can last for years. It also suggests that one day, when the house is quiet again and the children have grown and left, you will miss that noise. I tear up and get chills. That moment feels so far away, but I can already sense how meaningful it will be.

18+ years later

August 26, 2017

It’s a bright, sunny, cool day. The summer is drawing to a close. The sun is rising later each morning and setting sooner each evening. The air in the morning is far cooler than the past few weeks, and last night it was downright cold while I was sitting outside on the porch with Thomas (we call him Tom or Thomas now).

John, Thomas, Gabby, and I are having an early lunch at Outback Steakhouse in Southington, CT. It’s only 11:30 in the morning and the restaurant is quite empty. It’s dark inside, but the sunlight floods the windows. We haven’t sat together for a meal, just the four of us, since Gabby’s 12th birthday in 2011, soon after John and I divorced following 15 years of marriage.

Thomas spent this past summer between his sophomore and junior year in college working and living in Rhode Island with his current girlfriend. He came home last night and is leaving tomorrow morning to go back up to school in Portland, ME. John drove down from Pittsfield, MA this morning where he lives. He just accepted a new job in Tennessee and will be training in Germany for two months. He is leaving in just over a week. Gabby lives with me but has been working at Panera nearly every night this summer. She is asleep when I leave in the morning and gone by the time I come home each afternoon. She will be starting her freshman year at the University of Rhode Island next Sunday.

John and I are on one side of the table. Thomas and Gabby are on the other. Thomas is across from John and looks like a younger version of his dad. Gabby sits across from me. For years people have commented that she is my little twin. We now have two grown children who are 20 and 18 years old. This is the nuclear family John and I started when we were not much older than these two in front of us. They very much look like we did back then.

What to say? There has been a combination of 23 years of laughter, fun, tears, pain, and growing together. Beginning tomorrow, the four of us are going our separate ways, farther apart than we’ve ever been before. Sitting here during this meal, we have a lot of conversation about the mistakes we made in the past as individuals and with one another. There is a lot of apologizing, explaining, and understanding. Gabby is the most cut off from the group, texting her colleagues about the evening’s coverage at Panera. John and Thomas are at the brink of potentially arguing a few times. I’m the one who probably feels the most surreal. I happen to look over at Thomas while he is talking to John. He has his father’s eyes—the same eyes I somehow recognized on the Boutwell that day.

While it’s incredibly likely we will be together again in the future, this is the last of the “raising children” phase as childhood is officially over for these two wonderful grown-ups sitting in front of me today. I didn’t know that first mid-watch on the Boutwell when I read the name Messeder that it would be my name for 18 whole years (as old as I was at that time), or that it would be the name of my future children. I couldn’t have possibly predicted what was in store.

Today

August 31, 2017

Tonight I’m sad and having a little difficulty coming to the realization that my time as a mom, in the way I’ve known it, is over. I still have an important role, though I don’t know what it is yet. The uncertainty of the future stirs up a bit of anxiety. Life is uncertain. I want to use these experiences as reminders in my life that every moment counts. Some will shape the future and others will just be a blip in the passage of life, but every single moment has potential. I want to be present more and just enjoy what is.

The years with Gabby were nothing but a blessing. She has gone from a helpless little baby to a fully grown woman. I can’t help but think back to some of the younger days when she needed me—times when she was afraid of having bad dreams and I would dust her arms with “sweet dreams powder” before bed. She used to snuggle up next to me on the couch and often put her arms around me and tell me that she loved having a compact, portable mommy (for whatever that meant). I coached her soccer team, and while braiding her hair one day at home she said she imagined the other girls on her team would be jealous because she was getting her hair braided by the coach. She used to want to work at the VA with me and said she was going to buy a house next door and always live near me. Recently I came across an old Mother’s Day card from her where she told me to do nothing but relax and that if I needed anything, I should just look to my right and she would be there to do it for me. She always loved cats and McDonald’s. Those little trinkets the kids buy at school holiday fairs that say #1 Mom and similar sentiments mean more now than they did then.

When Gabby found out her dad and I were divorcing, she was so sweet. We went to Hubbard Park that day and sat on a picnic blanket. Once she settled down, she said she understood and had even kind of predicted it. She was 11. She’s taken after me with planning, organizing, and baking. She works hard but has a healthy balance of taking it easy when she feels stressed (I wish I had learned that a bit earlier on). She’s also incredibly intuitive. I’m so proud of her.

I put a lot of heart into honoring Gabby on her 18th birthday (On This Day) just over two months ago. I knew the coming weeks were going to fly by and I’d be here, in this very place where that idea from What to Expect When You’re Expecting said it would be—where the noise, chaos, laughter, and tears would be missed once the house quieted down and the car was packed for college.

Though we aren’t back to normal quite yet. I am still a stepmother of two more who haven’t left the nest. It’s a more complicated, undefined role. Daren & I’s story is equally as complex and full of what initially seemed like uneventful life experiences that shaped the circumstances that led us to where we are today. It’s just about time to shift gears and move on to the next stage.

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On this day

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

On this day 18 years ago I woke up with a pain that I had never felt before. The sky was sort of light already. I looked at the alarm clock by the bed and it was 4:45. I wasn’t used to getting up so early, so the time in comparison with the light sky seemed a little strange.

I got up to use the bathroom and I noticed something else that was weird. Sign number 2 that something was happening. My pulse started to quicken as I crawled back into bed. Should I wake up my husband? It was a Sunday, a rare day to sleep in. What if I’m wrong? I tossed and turned but couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Before John woke up I had a few more pains, but still I wasn’t sure. The next day was my due date. Could I be in labor? I already had a two-year old, but he was a planned c-section, so I never experienced any dramatic water breaking, mucus plugs, or labor pains. I had no idea what to expect. John was convinced it was labor. I wasn’t so sure. The pain wasn’t bad at all. Just different.

That afternoon we had plans with Ned and Crystal who were friends of ours that lived around the corner of the Coast Guard base we lived on. They had a one-year old son named Frankie. He was just a year younger than our son Tommy. We went on a picnic somewhere in Sandwich, MA. It was an absolutely beautiful sunny day. John wanted to tell them that I might be in labor, but I didn’t want to risk being wrong. They were going to be watching Tommy when it was time, so John dropped the ‘news’ in the middle of the picnic. They were enthusiastic and supportive. I had pains all day, but it was so mild I was skeptical that I could actually be in labor.

After the picnic we went back to Ned and Crystal’s house for dinner and stayed until just after dark. We walked back home and put Tommy to bed. I was in the shower when the pain started getting slightly worse. It also seemed to be coming more frequently and timed perfectly apart. I got out of the shower, went downstairs and asked John to start the timer. It was around 10pm and it was dark out. 5 minutes apart. John phoned the on-call service for my ob-gyn and they advised we go to the hospital. We called Ned and Crystal who were still awake and excitedly awaiting Thomas’ arrival.

Falmouth Hospital on a dark, warm, humid evening. I can practically smell it. I went into some check-in area and was already 4cm dilated. Wow! This was happening. We got into a room and settled in. Somehow it was too late for me to get an epidural. I wasn’t upset by this information and decided to use the Lamaze breathing techniques I learned instead. I started with the first of the four breaths. Hours passed. The nurses and John kept offering all kinds of things to do, but I felt so comfortable and focused on the breathing that I was pretty darned content. Every so often I would ask what time it was. Midnight passed and it was June 7, 1999. My due date. John and I speculated about the sex of the baby. For some reason the physicians were unable to read the sex on my sonograms. Two weeks before that we paid $40 to a little ultrasound place in Dartmouth that specialized in determining the baby’s gender. They told us it was a girl. I was pretty excited because I did want a boy and a girl. But my spirits dampened when we told people and we heard story after story about how these places were wrong. John was pretty convinced it was a girl. I was remaining my usual skeptical self.

All of a sudden the nurses said it was time to start pushing. The pain did worsen, but never past the point where I felt I needed to start that next level of breathing. How could it be time? Not that there is ever turning back once you are pregnant, but at the time of pushing you really feel like there is no turning back now. No breaks – nothing… you just have to do this whether you want to or not. I don’t remember too much of this experience, but I do remember noticing it was starting to get light out again and realizing I had been up for 24 hours. I had the medical team and my husband all around me. I never felt alone and I never felt like it was more than I can handle. I kept thinking it will get worse, but surprisingly I was told that one last push was needed and tada – a baby girl was born!

5:00am exactly on Monday, June 7, 1999. Gabrielle Catherine Messeder. We decided on the name months before. We picked two names – one for a boy and one for a girl. We chose Gabrielle because we both liked it and didn’t know anyone by that name. Catherine was after my mom.

The next few hours and days were a reasonable blur. I remember distinctly feeling so good right after giving birth that I wanted to get up and walk around. The nurses warned me not to. It was so different than when I had Tommy and was under anesthesia and in a ton of pain. I was alert and able to hold the baby. Tommy came to visit and meet his new sister. He was excited. I used the hospital phone and my little phonebook I brought with me to call my family and friends. Visitors poured in. A day later I packed up and went home with this new bundle of joy.

We started calling her Gabby almost right away. Tommy adjusted pretty quickly. I was used to diapers and baby things so child number two was an unexpected breeze. I remember when she was 3 or 4 days old I was changing her clothes upstairs in her room and I put a headband on her head. I was so excited to have girl clothes and pink things to doll her up in. The headband looked kind of silly. While I contemplated whether or not to leave it on, I heard the hustle and bustle of my crazy family coming in the door downstairs. It was my mom, grandmother, aunt Fran and Uncle Joey; who was visiting from Italy. I don’t remember if I kept the headband on or not, but I do remember bundling her up and gently carrying her downstairs. When I came around the corner and started walking down the stairs, it was almost as time stopped. I saw my family standing there with their bags and purses looking up at me. For some reason I said, “Here she is everyone – Miss America.” I teared up when I said that, and I had a vision of a day in the far, far future when she would be all grown up and walking down the stairs in a prom dress. My standstill moment was interrupted when the family broke out into Ooohs and Aaahs and everyone wanted to look at and hold her. Time went back to its normal pace and I welcomed my daughter to her small, loud, extended, Italian family.

Those first few weeks were a complete blur. I was prepared for the worst, but everything was mild and well functioning to say the least. I got more sleep than I thought I would. Tommy adjusted better than I imagined. Things were nowhere near as hectic during the day while I was home alone as I was told they would be. Almost immediately I put Gabby on my lap while I read books to Tommy at night before bed. He didn’t mind. I would put her baby tub in the bathtub with Tommy at bath time so they bathed together and they both adjusted just fine. I think the routine we kept got her sleeping regularly pretty quickly. Before I knew it the familiar signs of the beginnings of rolling over started to take place. Then it happened! Solid foods were introduced in what seemed like a flash. Suddenly she was sitting up on her own. Then leaning forward to slither like a navy seal to chase after Tommy. In what seems like a moment in memory she started to crawl, walk, talk, run, and play. We celebrated her first and second birthday on Cape Cod with our neighbors and their children. When Gabby was 2 ½, John got out of the Coast Guard, and we packed our bags to head for Connecticut.

Gabby’s 3rd birthday was in our newly owned condo. We had only just been there a few months. I remember it so distinctly. It was the first of many parties we had there, so it was the first time we moved the table a certain way and bought and prepared food in what would become the pattern for hosting similar events. That same year Tommy started kindergarten and I went back to work full time. It was the first time that Gabby would be watched by anyone other than me or her father. She and her brother had to go to daycare. A few weeks into kindergarten Tommy was invited to one of his new friend’s houses for a party. The boy’s name was Justin. When John called to RSVP, Justin’s mom said it was ok to bring the whole family over. New friends were born for all of us. Justin was just about 6 months younger than Tommy. And his little sister Sierra was 2. She was 6 months younger than Gabby. Within just a few months, their mom Sherrie started watching our kids and they no longer went to daycare. The kids all became good friends.

Everyone knows how time flies. Birthdays came and went. Our friends moved away. We had a plethora of different day care scenarios intermingled with John on shifts and staying home with the kids as often as possible.

I remember the day Gabby started kindergarten. It was just she and I at home that day. She was enrolled in the PM session. We waited inside all dressed up for the bus that afternoon. She was SO nervous. One of our cats “Snickers” was sitting on the desk by the front door. She was kissing him and talking to him, telling him it was ok – that he will be fine without her. My heart melted. Finally the kids started lining up outside at the bus stop at the corner. We walked out there and I met some of the moms. Gabby wouldn’t let go of my hand. She was shaking. When the bus came and everyone lined up, she just let go and bravely stood there on line with everyone else, shyly looking at me. Then the girl in front of her started he started talking to her, and continued to do so while she climbed on. I knew she would be ok. I stood on the curb as the bus pulled away. She found a seat in the back and waved to me out the window with a big smile on her face. My little girl was growing up and away from me.

Whenever I was home (rarely), I made it a habit to watch the kids get on the bus from the storm door of our condo. They would sit at a window on the bus and wave as it went by. Now that seems so symbolic.

I miss those days. Gabby never had a problem making friends or her teachers proud. She fit in wherever she went. She got great grades. She ate well. We lived in a neighborhood with a ton of kids. She and Tommy got to experience that life that most of the older generation experienced as kids, which nearly no children have now. They played outside daily with the neighbors. The condo was up against a pond and the woods, so it was a kid’s paradise. They and their friends learned to ride bikes one at a time. They ate snacks from each other’s houses, had sleepovers, played manhunt, played videogames inside one of our homes when it was raining or too cold. They dressed up, played with sticks and swords, caught frogs, told stories, and spent hours in the woods with the trees, insects, and plants. They couldn’t wait to go back outside after dinner and had to be called in at dark. In those days John worked evenings often. I would call them in, have them shower and read them a story. Like I said, I miss those days.

When Gabby was almost 9 years old we moved to Cheshire. The kids were naturally nervous and didn’t want to move. I remember when we bought the house. Before we moved in we went in to meet a contractor one evening who would be finishing off the basement, and spent a little time in the house measuring that day. I distinctly recall standing in the living room measuring, and looking at the stairs. I flashed back to that day when Gabby came home from the hospital in Cape Cod and I walked down the stairs with her, imagining one day she would be all dressed up for prom. Again, tears filled my eye. I tried to picture her walking down those stairs. It made me sad, but some how I had a foreboding that she wouldn’t be coming down those particular stairs.

We moved at the end of 3rd and 5th grade so we kept the kids in Naugatuck at their old school for the last few weeks. Before school started in Cheshire, there was a little welcome day for new students. Tommy was completely confident (at least he acted as if he was), but Gabby was really nervous. The day we went to Chapman Elementary School to meet her new teacher she was a wreck. I remember walking up the stairs with her. Like that first day of school she was holding my hand and shaking. When we got to the classroom she held on until the teacher said hi. At that point she let go and walked in front of me into the classroom. Again I knew she would be alright.

Less than two years after moving to the new house, I understood why I had that foreboding about the stairs and prom. John and I were parting ways. I had a few living arrangements before moving into the house I now live in with Daren. Nothing seemed right or fit that prom image I had for Gabby until we got here. I never told anyone this weird feeling I had with the prom and stairs, but when I saw the stairs in my house now; I knew these would be the ones. It made me sad though because her dad and I weren’t together. How would that work? How would he see her? How sad that both of her parents wouldn’t be looking at her fondly.

Braces, glasses, puberty. It was a whirlwind. Suddenly Gabby turned 13, then 14, 15, 16. I took her up to the DMV right after her 16th birthday. Again she was incredibly nervous. Her friend Grace was there too. I was a prop along with Grace’s mom as they stood on line nervously laughing and giggling together. She was going to be fine. She didn’t need me. She walked out with her permit and excitedly asked if we could practice right then! We drove up to Home Depot and switched places for the first time. I took a picture to capture what I knew would be a fleeting moment. This was the second child that I was to teach how to drive. Naturally it was much easier knowing what to do. Everything with her was easier since she was #2. We went through the same practice cycles I did with Tommy up until the last day before the test. And before I could blink she was driving at 16 and 4 months old.

All of a sudden it was time for college visits and SATs. That next summer she got a job and had her own money. Senior year appeared. Senior Day for Cross Country. The last banquet. The last fencing tournament. Everything started swirling so fast. College was chosen. Then sadly 3 ½ weeks ago was the day I was able to see my daughter walk down the stairs for her senior prom. Her dad and I are on really good terms and he came to the house to see her and take pictures. I never knew how it would work, but I knew it would. That day I practically dreaded since I brought her home from the hospital has already come and gone. She looked absolutely beautiful and was glowing from the inside out. Now tomorrow she officially becomes an adult.

As with my labor I was always waiting for it to get harder with her, more than I can handle. But it never did.

When Gabby was around 7 years I remember listening to a country song about how quickly a daughter grows up and leaves home. I was playing it loudly when I was alone with the kids at the condo one night. Gabby was dancing around when she listened to the words and said mommy that will never be me. I don’t want to grow up and move away from you. I told her she would and she didn’t believe me.

I was always waiting for those famous mom/teenage daughter “I hate you” fights to happen, but they never did. Every year that passed I thought – it’s one year closer to that possibly never happening, but knowing darned well it could. As with my labor, it never did get harder – but I couldn’t stop the process of her growing up either. It was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not.

On this day 18 years ago I was in labor with a little baby girl. I still remember exactly how it felt when she hiccupped in my belly. I can vividly recall watching my belly move on it’s own as Gabby moved around slowly in the little space my body created for her. I remember the smell of her skin after a bath and she was all swaddled and on my lap for a book with her brother. I remember wiping messy food from her pudgy fingers after a meal. That first day of kindergarten when she was telling Snickers he was going to be fine without her there. I remember the day she met Sierra back in 2002. They are still the bestest of friends. Lastly I can of course remember her very recent senior prom; coming down the stairs all dressed up to be taken out by her date. Tomorrow that little baby becomes an official adult. No longer protected by driving curfews or minor labor laws. She is released out into the adult pool with the rest of us.

She just came home from work and sat eating in the dining room, watching something on her phone as she often has done for the past year. Soon she will be in college and I’ll just have the ghost of this memory too. My heart is broken, but in the best way. I’m so proud of her.

Tonight 18 years later I’m going to sleep with a pain I’d never felt before. The last of my two babies is an adult. It’s nothing more than utterly and completely bittersweet.

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On the passage of time

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

It still hurts after 10 years. The same exact pain at times. The same heart-wrenching squeeze that comes in waves while I’m experiencing grief. It feels like my heart is being rung out.

The first time I felt this so strongly was around this time of year 11 years ago when my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. She died 10 years and 2 months ago. She was only 49. October 25th would have been her 60th birthday. My grandmother, who I was even closer with, passed away just 11 months later—also from lung cancer. She would have been 89 this year on November 21.

I miss them. Tonight, I’m especially missing them.

Them. Because they passed away so close together, we often refer to them as “them.” I don’t think about this often, but tonight I’m mourning and it’s on my mind. I was crying and having a hard time breathing in bed, so I got up and decided to pour it out—onto a keyboard instead of paper.

People who have lost someone close understand how grief can capture you by surprise. How it moves through your body. How, in those moments, it can feel like it will never let go.

They may also understand the strange comfort that can come when you feel the presence of the people you’ve lost. When I’m inconsolable, I feel them. Both of them. Always together, always comforting. I don’t know if it’s memory, energy, or something beyond what we understand—but I’m certain something about them helps me get through it.

Tonight I found myself thinking about who “we” are—the small group of people who still hold them together like this.

My brothers. My aunt. They understand immediately. I can tell them I had a dream, or that I’m having a hard night, and they just get it.

Then there’s John, my ex-husband. He was part of my life and my family when we were young, when my parents were still together. He knew them. He understood the dynamic—especially between my mom and grandmother. They were opposites. They annoyed each other, complained about each other, but loved each other deeply.

I remember one night soon after my grandmother passed. I was hysterically crying, and John said, “I bet when your mom saw grandma in the afterlife she said to her ‘So soon?’”— I stopped crying and started laughing. I still laugh about it today. It was exactly what she would have said.

I don’t talk to John much anymore, but I know if I needed to talk about them, he’d understand.

My father comes to mind too. He lives a bit in his own world, but he has moments where he reflects on them. Even though my parents were divorced, he’ll speak fondly of my mom and recall memories with my grandmother. Sometimes those conversations can shift in ways I don’t want them to, but the connection is still there.

My uncle. Maybe my kids, in a different way—but they didn’t fully know them like we did.

And that’s what hit me tonight.

How few people are left who truly knew them the way I did.

It made me think about time.

Thomas was supposed to come home this weekend. I had his room ready, stocked with his favorite foods. I was so excited. But work got in the way, and he couldn’t make it. I know I should just feel grateful he’s healthy and doing well—but I’m still sad.

Gabby is in her last year of high school. Soon she won’t be home every day either. Then there will be partners, new families, new traditions. Holidays will shift.

Up until now, I’ve had them for everything. Every holiday—big and small. I made a big deal out of all of it. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Halloween—especially fall. Baking, decorating, pumpkin picking.

And now I can feel that chapter starting to close.

I always knew this would happen. I understood it intellectually. But tonight, I feel it.

My grandmother used to tell me to enjoy this time. To relax and take it in. I didn’t fully understand then.

I do now.

And I’ll probably understand it even more deeply 20 years from now.

We think we understand things before we actually do. We don’t.

We grow older. Our kids grow up. People leave our lives in different ways. Nothing stays the same.

The things we take for granted won’t always be here.

The world is impermanent.

Why do we think we can hold onto anything?

Maybe the real wisdom is understanding that change is inevitable—and that sadness has a place alongside happiness.

And maybe peace comes when we stop fighting that.

Time has given me space between moments of grief, but it hasn’t erased it.

Time has given me older children, but I don’t love them any less—or feel their distance any easier.

Time has given me more understanding, but often only after the moment has passed.

And time will keep moving.

Maybe this is a little too deep for some. Tonight, I feel deep.

I’m sad that this chapter of raising my kids is shifting.

And mostly, I just really miss my mom and grandma.

So tonight, before I try to sleep, I’ll think of John’s comment—

“So soon?”

And I’ll let myself smile.

Peace.

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My Mom

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I wrote this story in October 2006 for my mother’s old boss Sean who was publishing some stories about my mom in the Homeless Voice in Hollywood, FL where she worked.

 

My Mom

By Esterina Messeder

 

Earliest Memory of My Mom

            The earliest memory I have of my mother dates back to when I was three or four years old. I could not have been any older because the memory I have is in a home that we moved out of when I was four. I remember waking up one early morning, and from my bedroom I heard my parents fighting in the kitchen. I heard a plate crack, more screaming, and then my father slamming the door on his way out to where I assume was work. Then I heard the sobs. I waited until I was sure that my father was not coming back in the house, and made my way to the kitchen. Evidence of the argument was left behind by glass on the floor, eggs splattered on the wall, and the kitchen sink running. My mother was sitting on the floor against the left leg of the table with her head in her lap, crying loudly. She did not hear me come in. While I can not recall the exact words that were exchanged, I remember the gist of the conversation. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she couldn’t stand my father. I asked her why she did not leave him (I had no concept of marriage or divorce), and she said that she never finished school and would not be able to take care of us kids on her own. I remember from that moment on I made a vow to myself to finish school and have the ability to take care of myself so I would not have to depend on a man.

 

Growing Years with Her

            Over the next 15 years or so if I had to sum up my perception of my mother in one word it would be depressed. The image of her standing in the kitchen washing dishes, hunched over, with a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, barefooted in a knee-length house dress is what comes to mind when I think of my childhood. I cannot say that there weren’t any happy times; I can distinctly remember a few. But only a few. She seemed so helpless against my father, so un-empowered, and so lonely. I could not help but NOT want to be like her when I grew up. I would fantasize about getting a job, getting her an apartment, and taking care of her so she would not have to depend on my father.

 

The Turning Point

            But on July 9, 1993 when I was 17 years old everything changed. It was my brother Frankie’s 13th birthday and he wanted McDonalds for dinner. My parents, Frankie, and I were outside eating dinner in the backyard as a family in the early evening. My father started an argument with me about how if my current boyfriend didn’t give me a ring by the end of the year; I would have to break up with him. I argued that I didn’t want to get married young and that I wanted to go to school and have a job first. Well it seemed like whenever I talked what I thought was sense, my father would get mad because I didn’t agree with him. Sometimes it was just yelling, but more often than not there was violence involved and I would get hit. This particular evening it was the latter. As usual the next few minutes would be a blur of trying to shield myself from blows, my mother yelling in the background, and my brother(s) pulling my father off of me. But this time it was different. Only my brother Frankie was there and he didn’t pull my father off of me… he disappeared into the house. My mother tried unsuccessfully to pull him away while I cowered on the floor and was being beaten with a chair. My father just threw my mother to the ground. Then we heard Frankie’s faint voice from in the house telling us calmly that he had just called the police.

This was a monumental moment. No one had ever called the police before. A male and female officer came to the house, and my mother and I were required to go down to the police station to write a report. As a female officer was asking what happened, my mom was being her usual self by defending my father. It was at this time that I think my mother’s perception of the world changed. This woman looked my mother straight in the eye and said “I don’t want to hear any bullshit, look at your daughter, he toked her”. My mother was silent and I could actually see in her the realization that she had been living with a monster. On the way home that night she said told me that she can’t believe she never realized until now that she is not in control, and she promised me that things would change.

 

The Aftermath

            After that night things did change. I had a restraining order against my father so he was afraid of coming near me. That silly piece of paper really helped me to feel a bit more secure. But still, I could not wait to leave my house. The fighting continued, but I could tell that my mother was stronger and not quite so naïve anymore. As the weeks went by and turned into months, it came closer and closer to the time that I would be graduating high school and having to make a decision about my future. One evening in April 1994, I was in the car with my parents on the way home from seeing an accountant who did our taxes. My father was arguing with me about something or another, and I asked to get out of the car. I was only a mile or two from my house when I walked home alone that night thinking about my future. There was no money for college, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and there was no way I could live home any longer. The logical solution was to join the military. When the thought first came to mind I pushed it away because I could not imagine leaving my mother alone with my father and with no other women in the house. But if I wanted my life to be different, if I wanted money to go to college some day and be able to get a decent job and experience so I could take care of myself and not depend on a man like my mother had to, I would need to take this risk and do something that no one in my family has done before… leave.

 

My Adult Years

            Every day that passed since Frankie’s 13th birthday I watched my mother grow stronger and stronger. She started to have confidence; she was standing up straighter, and smiling more.  When it came time for me to go to boot camp I knew she was sad, but she was so much stronger and happier than she had been just one year earlier. Over the next few years she really made some changes that I was so proud of. She lost some weight, she got dentures because she was so self conscious of her teeth, and most importantly she went back to school. She realized that even she could be happy and it became her mission in life to help others be happy.

But her real happiness did not come until just a few years ago when she picked up her life in the end of 2000 and spontaneously moved to Florida. I was sad to see her go, but I could hear such a difference in her voice. She was a new person. My mother got a job at a homeless shelter down in Florida. Though I never really understood what she was doing, I knew she was happy. She was no longer Cathy the mother, or Cathy the wife, she was Cathy – the person who is making a difference in the lives of people that could not otherwise help themselves. She had a reason to get up in the morning. She had confidence. And I can’t say it enough, but I know that she was a lot happier than she had ever been when she lived back home in New York.

Last summer in 2005 she came up to NY and CT where I live now to visit. While I was driving down to LaGuardia airport to pick her up, I was SO excited to see her. I was imagining her getting on the plane and being just as excited to see me. My husband was calling me every 15 minutes or so from home tracking her plane to let me know where it was in the sky. With every passing minute my anticipation grew. I was so nervous and excited. When her flight let off I watched all the passengers coming toward the baggage claim area. I was enthusiastically looking for her when a lady walked up to me and said “Esterina it’s so good to see you”… it was her! And she looked so different! So different. She was older, calmer, wiser, and far more beautiful than I ever remembered her. I almost didn’t believe this person in front of me was actually my mother. As we walked toward the baggage claim area and she was talking, her voice sounded the same and I realized how much she changed. I was in a complete daze. It took about 10 minutes or so for me to calm down from the excitement. I couldn’t wait to spend the weekend with her, and after she grabbed her suitcase we made our way out to the parking lot to my car. We were only walking a few minutes when she asked me to slow down. She was holding her side and told me that her shoulder hurt. At that moment my excitement disappeared. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach, but I could not put my finger on it.

Over the next few days my family and I had a wonderful visit with her. First she came back to CT with me, and then we drove her down to New York where we visited with my brothers. She told us stories about all that she was doing in Florida and Venezuela, and all the plans she had, and people she was helping. I didn’t understand most of it, but I was proud of her and the life that she made for herself. But her shoulder hurt, and she had a nasty smoker’s cough, despite the fact that she’d quit smoking a few years earlier. I pushed the thoughts of these odd health things out of my mind, and I made a vow to myself that we should have her come up to visit every year.

 

The Cancer

            It was the weekend when hurricane Wilma whipped into Florida last October. My husband, kids, and I were spending the weekend at my brother Frankie’s house carving pumpkins with our kids, and celebrating my brother Mario’s birthday a few days early. We ate, drank, and played the music loud. We never heard a phone ringing that evening. Mario went home on Saturday night and we all went to bed. Sunday morning Mario called really early to say that our grandmother had been calling us all night. I checked my messages, and sure enough she had. He said that my grandmother said something is wrong, and to please call my mother just to tell her we love her. Well, Mario called the homeless shelter where my mom was staying and talked to her boss Sean. Sean told him that the day before my mother went to the hospital and there was a mass on her lung. She got nervous, checked herself out of the hospital, and then got on the next flight out of Florida to Venezuela. After Mario called me to tell me the conversation he had with Sean, I hung up the phone and stood speechless in Frankie’s kitchen. The kids were running around, and my husband, Frankie, and Frankie’s girlfriend were all happily chatting away while making breakfast. When they realized that I had hung up the phone and was just standing there, all activity in the house seemed to come to a halt. They were all looking at me… waiting for me to say something, and I blurted out “Mom is dying of lung cancer”.

It was a stupid thing to say at the time because we had no idea what it was. There was just a mass on the lung. It could have been pneumonia. It could have been something else. It could have been a much more mild stage of cancer. But within the next few weeks after all different types of tests in the U.S. and Venezuela we learned that she did indeed have lung cancer. It was stage IV, small-cell lung cancer. These words meant nothing to me until I looked them up on the Internet and learned that the average life expectancy of someone with this type of cancer was only a few months. I was beside myself. I cried that whole first night, and made plans within in the next day or two to visit her by week’s end.

When I went down to Florida I got to see the life my mom had been living. I met all her friends, co-workers, and Sean. She was happy and surrounded by people who loved her. Though I would have liked her to be closer to the family at this crucial time, I saw that she was happy in Florida and thought there might be too many bad memories associated with staying in the New York area. The second day I was there we took a nap in the afternoon. My grandmother was also visiting and was ironing in the next room. My mother told me right after she woke up that she had a dream that my daughter was there with us, and there were 4 generations of women together in the same room.

I visited her quite a bit over the next few months and each time I learned a little bit more about her life. I learned about her experiences as a child growing up. I learned about her father (my grandfather) that I never knew. I learned about what she had been doing in Florida and the close relationship she developed with God. I got much closer to her with every visit, but each time I went down she looked more and more sick. The last time I visited in May, I took the kids down there with me on Mother’s Day weekend. I knew my grandmother and aunt were going to be there and I wanted to make her dream actually come true where there were four generations of women in the same room. I got to her apartment with the kids while she was out at the doctor. When she walked in she was so surprised! And so was I, but not in a good way. She had lost so much weight since the last time I’d seen her, and she had a cane. I acted normal, but inside I knew she wasn’t really getting better. Her right leg was in excruciating pain. The night before Mother’s Day we all went shopping and cooked a fabulous dinner. Everyone contributed a food item to the dinner. We pushed the dining room table to the middle of the room and sat around it for what would be our last big meal like this together (though we didn’t know it at the time). It was such a wonderful, relaxing evening. The next morning on Mother’s Day my mom had a hard time getting out of the bed. I took her to the emergency room where she was checked into the hospital. I didn’t know that when she walked into the ER that day with my kids and me, that it would be the last time she ever walked on her own again.

 

Last Trip back Home

            Well to make what could be a long story short, she’d spent a lot of time in the hospital over the next few months. Sometime in mid-July her oncologist told my aunt that there was nothing more that he could do. He expected her to last only a few more weeks without treatment. I think all of our hearts broke that day. I was afraid to call my mother. I didn’t know what to say, or how to act. I was secretly relieved every time I called and no one picked up the phone. My mother called my grandmother the next day and asked her if she could “come home”. It was what we all wanted. Sean worked really hard to make her wish come true (God Bless him). I had no idea how bad off she was. When I heard she was too weak to travel on a commercial flight, and that it was dangerous to move her, I have to say that I was shocked that she deteriorated so quickly. After a LOT of cajoling, an air ambulance flight for her to come up to New Jersey was finally scheduled. I was SO happy. But I was nervous for her. It was only a year after the last time she came up this way to us. I was just as happy, but for completely different reasons. Again I imagined her getting on the plane and being just as excited to see us. This was going to be the last time I would be this excited to see my mother.

There were a few good days before her body started to shut down. She had a few good meals and had a few good laughs with us. She got here not a moment too soon. In the last few days we kept vigil by her bedside in my grandmother’s apartment. There was a lot of time to think about her and her life. I feel sad that such a large portion of it was spent miserable, but I am proud of her for turning it around and helping other people. With hospice’s encouragement I talked to her a lot even when she couldn’t talk back. I was surprised with my children’s ease around her. My 9-year old son was holding her hand, talking to her and kissing her. In her last few days and hours I told her how proud I was of her. I told her how she’d shaped my life and taught me through her life that being able to take care of yourself and not depend on anyone else is important. I wondered what she was thinking, what she was remembering. Did she remember the bad times? The day I saw her crying in the kitchen when I was three or four years old? Was she remembering the people she’d helped? I wanted her to know that I learned so much from her. Even when she was lying there on her last day she was teaching me that life is too short to not enjoy it, to hold grudges, or spend too much time over thinking things. I only hope that she is as proud of me right now as I am of her.
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This picture resembles mostly how I remember my mom looking from my childhood.

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These 3 pictures were taken fourth of July weekend in the summer of 2005 before we found out she was sick. She did have cancer at this time. We just didn’t know it. It was the last carefree time we spent with her.

 

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She passed away right before midnight on August 6th 2006, but hospice didn’t arrive until after mid-night so the official date is listed as 8/7/06. We spread her ashes on what would have been her 50th birthday on October 25th that same year. We went to Steeplechase Pier in Brooklyn where she grew up and raised us kids until I was almost a teenager.

 

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