The Woman I Always Wanted to Become

The Legacy I Didn't Realize I Was Already Living

A Long Read ☕️

Every once in a while, a story asks to be told in its own time. This is one of those stories.  If you have a cup of coffee or tea nearby, I’d love for you to settle in for a few minutes while I introduce you to someone who changed my life forever.

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There are certain sounds that never really leave you.

For me, one of them is the sound of my grandmother’s old six-string guitar.

Even now, I can close my eyes and hear her fingers gently picking a few notes before settling into the familiar chord progression she always seemed to play. Then her rich, velvety voice would begin to fill the room, and before long she’d look over at me with that warm smile I can still see so clearly and say, “Honey... let’s play some music.”

I’d slide onto the piano bench while she picked up her guitar. Before long my mother would join us, and the three of us would sing together. Mom always carried the melody. Grandma’s beautiful, deep voice settled naturally into the low harmony, and somewhere in between I found my place, weaving the tenor line around them. We weren’t performing for anyone. We were simply three women who loved each other, making music because it brought us joy.

Music was only one of the gifts my grandmother gave me, although I didn’t understand that until much later.

When I was growing up, I remember thinking something I rarely said out loud. If there was ever anyone I wanted to be like when I grew up, it was my grandmother.

At the time, I couldn’t have explained why.

I simply knew there was something about the way she moved through the world that drew me in. She noticed beauty where other people hurried past it. She celebrated ordinary moments as though they mattered. She encouraged people without trying to change them. Somehow, even as a child, I recognized that kind of person was rare.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t admiring what she did nearly as much as I was admiring who she was.

Some of my earliest memories of her are filled with movement. We’d gather around the kitchen table talking while she showed me another creative idea. We’d spread out paper and pencils, or I’d wander over to the piano while she reached for her guitar. Like so many homes in the 1970s, her little house was decorated in warm browns, avocado greens, and harvest gold. I honestly couldn’t tell you much about the furniture anymore. What I remember is how alive the house felt. There always seemed to be something we were making, something we were learning, or something we were talking about together.

As a little girl, our conversations already felt profound. We talked about books and music and art and whatever fascinating idea had captured my imagination that week. Grandma was an artist herself, and she somehow always knew exactly how to encourage every creative spark she saw in me. She bought me my first drawing books. She celebrated every new song I learned on the piano. Whatever I proudly carried over to show her became worthy of her full attention.

She never acted as though I needed to become extraordinary before I deserved to be celebrated.

It has taken me nearly sixty years to understand how unusual that really was.

She didn’t spend our time together trying to shape me into who she thought I should become. She seemed genuinely interested in discovering who I already was. She asked questions—not because she was testing me, but because she truly wanted to hear what I thought. Even as a little girl, I never had the feeling that my ideas were too small or too childish to deserve her attention.

Long before I had accomplished anything worth talking about, someone had already decided I was worth listening to.

Children carry gifts like that for the rest of their lives.

I certainly did.

One of my favorite things Grandma used to say always made me smile.

“There isn’t any generation gap between Deronda and me.”

At the time, I simply loved hearing her say it. Today I think I finally understand what she meant.

She genuinely enjoyed being with me.

Not because I was her granddaughter.

Because she enjoyed me.

That is a gift beyond measure.

When I was thirteen, life gave me another gift I didn’t fully appreciate until years later.

For the first and only time while I was growing up, I lived only a couple of blocks from my grandparents. It doesn’t sound like much, but those two little blocks opened the door to one of the richest seasons of my childhood.

Around that time my mother began cleaning houses to help provide extra income for our family. She had always wanted to be a stay-at-home mother and had never worked outside our home since I was born, but sometimes life asks us to do what needs to be done. Since I was homeschooling by then and old enough to be responsible, I packed up my schoolbooks each morning and walked to my grandparents’ house.

Schoolwork always came first.

I’d spread my books across the kitchen table while Grandma went about her day. If I needed help, my grandparents were always nearby. Once the lessons were finished, though, the day became ours.

We created.

My aunt had recently become an elementary school teacher, and like so many new teachers, she didn’t have money to buy all the beautiful bulletin board decorations that filled classrooms. Grandma didn’t see that as a problem.

She saw an opportunity.

Before long, the two of us had become our own little design team.

Every holiday became another excuse to spread giant sheets of poster board across the table and begin dreaming. We always started the same way.

“What should we make this time?”

“What would make the children smile?”

Then we’d begin sketching, erasing, laughing, passing ideas back and forth until little by little they took shape.

Somewhere in the middle of those afternoons, we created the happiest Thanksgiving turkey I have ever seen.

I honestly don’t know what became of that turkey. I’m sure he disappeared into the trash decades ago after Thanksgiving had come and gone.

But I can still see him.

He had the biggest grin, the silliest feathers, and somehow seemed to have a personality all his own.

As I started writing this article, another memory suddenly came rushing back.

We made the cutest little Indian too—that’s what everyone called them back then. He had this sweet little face that almost reminded me of a Precious Moments character, and somewhere along the way we decided he should be pulling back a tiny bow and arrow aimed directly at our smiling turkey.

I’m laughing as I write this because I had completely forgotten about him until these memories started finding their way home.

Those bulletin boards probably lasted one school season.

The joy of creating them has lasted a lifetime.

People often asked my aunt where she found such wonderful classroom decorations, never realizing they had been imagined by a grandmother and her granddaughter sitting around a kitchen table with nothing more than poster board, markers, scissors, and time.

Looking back now, I realize Grandma wasn’t simply teaching me how to draw.

She was inviting me into the joy of creating something that would brighten someone else’s day.

That was simply who she was.

And somehow, through all of those afternoons, she always made me feel as though my being there was a gift to her.

The truth is, I felt exactly the opposite.

That same spirit found its way into music.

For one precious season of my life, Grandma, my uncle, and I played together in church nearly every service. Grandma with her faithful six-string guitar. My uncle on the steel guitar. Me at the piano.

We never really rehearsed.

In our family, everyone played by ear. We simply played.

Those Sunday mornings have become some of my favorite memories because they weren’t about performing. They were about sharing something we all loved together. I wasn’t simply watching the grown-ups make music anymore. Grandma welcomed me right into it. We each had our place, and together we created something none of us could have made alone. Looking back now, I realize she had been doing that all along. Whether we were making music, creating bulletin boards, or talking around the kitchen table, she always had a way of making me feel that what I brought mattered.

Looking back, I don’t think our relationship ever really changed.

It simply grew alongside both of us.

The little girl who loved sitting around Grandma’s kitchen table eventually became a grown woman sitting across from her in the living room, but somehow it always felt like the same conversation. The questions became deeper. Life became more complicated. We both had more stories to tell. But underneath it all, we were still simply enjoying each other’s company as much as we always had.

By then, Grandma had moved into a little place of her own. Gone were the avocado greens and harvest golds. She had finally been able to decorate exactly the way she wanted, surrounding herself with rich burgundies, forest greens, and warm earth tones. The whole house felt cozy from the moment you stepped inside.

This time, there really were two recliners.

One for her.

One for me.

I don’t think we ever officially claimed them, but somehow we always ended up in the same chairs every time I came to visit. Those recliners became our place. We talked about God, about people, about the unexpected twists life sometimes takes, and about the kind of women we hoped to become.

I honestly can’t remember ever feeling judged by my grandmother.

Not once.

She had this remarkable ability to ask thoughtful questions and then genuinely listen. She never hurried me toward an answer. She rarely rushed in with advice. More often than not, she’d simply ask another question or affirm something I’d said, almost as though she trusted that if I kept thinking, I’d eventually discover the answer myself.

I didn’t understand it then, but she wasn’t trying to tell me what to think.

She was helping me discover what I thought.

That is a very different kind of conversation.

Sometimes we’d become so wrapped up talking that we’d suddenly look at the clock and realize we’d completely forgotten lunch.

Grandma’s solution was wonderfully practical.

Out came a frozen pizza.

Of course, it never stayed a frozen pizza for very long.

She had her own collection of toppings that she’d scatter across it without measuring a thing. A little extra cheese. A handful of this. A pinch of that. By the time it came out of the oven, it tasted nothing like the pizza that had gone in.

To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever had a frozen pizza that tasted as good as Grandma’s.

She had a way of improving almost everything she touched.

People. Conversations. Even frozen pizza.

She cooked the same way she lived. Not by recipes. By instinct.

Her chicken and clam chowder soup was legendary in our family, and one afternoon it suddenly occurred to me that if I didn’t write it down, one day it would disappear forever. Grandma never measured anything. She simply cooked.

So I grabbed a notebook.

“How much of that?” I’d ask.

“Oh... just enough,” she’d answer with a smile.

That wasn’t nearly as helpful as she thought it was.

So I watched every movement of her hands, scribbling down every handful, every sprinkle, every ingredient before she moved on to the next one.

At the time, I thought I was preserving a recipe.

Now I think I was preserving a little piece of her.

When she passed away, I remember telling people that I had lost my biggest cheerleader.

At the time, I thought that was the greatest loss.

Looking back now, I understand it a little differently.

I didn’t just lose the person who cheered me on.

I lost the woman who had spent a lifetime believing in me, encouraging me, and helping me discover the person God had created me to be.

The beautiful thing is that she did it so well that the gift never left.

Even now, all these years later, I still carry it with me.

As I think back over those years, I don’t believe what I remember most is one particular conversation, one special meal, or even one song we played together.

What I remember is how I felt every time I walked back out her front door.

I always left feeling a little more like myself than when I had walked in.

At the time, I never stopped to think about why.

I simply knew there was nowhere else I’d rather spend an afternoon.

Even then, I knew what we shared was something unusual.

I loved all of my family dearly, and I have wonderful memories with so many of them. But Grandma and I seemed to meet one another in a different place. Before I ever knew the phrase kindred spirits, I think that’s exactly what we were.

We were simply at home with each other.

It has taken me nearly sixty years to understand what she was giving me all along.

She wasn’t trying to create another version of herself.

She was paying loving attention to who God had already created me to be, and little by little, I grew into that person.

Looking back now, I think that may be one of the greatest gifts one human being can ever give another.

A few weeks ago, I was listening to someone talk about following in their grandmother’s footsteps. They were describing how, years later, they had suddenly realized they were doing many of the same things their grandmother had once loved to do.

As I listened, a memory surfaced that I hadn’t thought about in years.

When I was learning to play the piano, I didn’t just play hymns or songs from lesson books.

I played songs my grandmother had written.

The memory made me smile because, over the past several months, I’ve written the first songs of my own life. For a moment, I simply sat there, amazed by the realization that, without ever planning to, I had begun walking along a path she had walked long before me.

That one memory opened a door I hadn’t expected.

As I sat there thinking, one memory after another began finding its place. The afternoons around the kitchen table creating bulletin boards that made children smile. The music we shared in church. The endless conversations that somehow made us forget to eat lunch. The notebook filled with her soup recipe because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing it someday. Even that goofy Thanksgiving turkey came wandering back into my mind.

And then something became beautifully clear.

For years, I’ve often wondered why I seem to be drawn back to the same things over and over again. Whether I was coaching speakers, interviewing guests, writing essays, or sitting across the table from someone over a cup of coffee, I’ve always found myself asking questions instead of rushing to give answers. I’ve always loved hearing people’s stories. I’ve always wanted to encourage them, celebrate them, and somehow leave them feeling just a little more hopeful than when we first met.

I always assumed that was simply my personality.

It never occurred to me that someone had modeled it for me so faithfully that it had become part of who I am.

Maybe my love of stories didn’t begin with me.

Maybe my habit of asking thoughtful questions didn’t begin with me.

Maybe my desire to celebrate people, to notice the gifts they carry, and to encourage them to become more fully themselves didn’t begin with me either.

It has taken me nearly sixty years to understand that my grandmother wasn’t simply shaping my childhood.

She was shaping my future.

As all of those memories settled into place, something else suddenly made perfect sense.

For months, I’ve been creating something called Joy Story Hour.

Until that moment, I thought I was building something entirely new.

What I finally understood was that I wasn’t creating a new idea at all.

I was trying to recreate a feeling.

Not her house.

Not the frozen pizzas with all of her special toppings.

Not even the sound of that old six-string guitar.

I was trying to recreate what happened inside those moments.

The feeling of being welcomed exactly as you are.

The freedom to speak without wondering whether you’ll be judged.

The joy of being listened to with genuine curiosity.

The encouragement to become a little more fully yourself before you walk back out the door.

When I first began dreaming about Joy Story Hour, I couldn’t explain why it mattered so much to me.

Now I can.

Without ever setting out to do it, I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to create the kind of space my grandmother created so naturally. Not simply a room where people gather, but a room where people feel safe enough to wonder out loud. A room where thoughtful questions matter more than quick answers. A room where creativity is celebrated, where encouragement comes easily, and where every person knows their story matters because they matter.

When I was a little girl, I thought I wanted to grow up to be like my grandmother.

It has taken me almost sixty years to understand that she never wanted me to become another version of her.

She wanted me to become fully Deronda.

She believed in me.

She celebrated me.

She encouraged me.

She helped me discover the person God had already created me to be.

Looking back now, I think that’s one of the greatest gifts one human being can ever give another.

I don’t know if I’ll ever create a room that feels quite as warm as hers did.

I don’t know if I’ll ever encourage people as naturally as she did.

And I certainly don’t imagine I’ll ever stop missing her.

But I do know this.

Every time women gather to share their stories, listen with compassion, laugh together, encourage one another, and walk away feeling a little more like themselves than when they arrived, I see a little glimpse of the woman I admired so deeply.

Not because I’ve become her.

But because the love she poured into my life continues to overflow into the lives of others.

That is her legacy.

And I can’t think of a more beautiful way to honor the woman I always wanted to become.

Looking back now, I don’t think my grandmother’s greatest gift was the music she wrote, the art she created, or even the countless conversations we shared.

Her greatest gift was making one little girl believe she mattered.

I’ve been living from that gift ever since.

The Joy Ambassador | Architect of Joy

Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be noticed.

If This Story Spoke to Your Heart...

Perhaps, as you were reading, someone came to mind—someone who believed in you, encouraged you, or helped you become a little more yourself. I’d genuinely love to hear about them. Feel free to reply to this post or send me a message and tell me their story. And if you’d like to learn more about Joy Story Hour, just let me know. I’d be honored to share more.

I’d love to save you a chair. ❤️