My Dear Auntie
Watching From Afar
My dear auntie, I want you to know how much you mean to me and how much you always will.
It’s been several weeks since you passed, and today I finally carved out the quiet space to watch your service. Through the marvels of technology, I was able to witness a moment I had carried so much guilt over missing.
I’ve never been someone deeply connected to church, yet I always understood why your faith was so strong.
You had a beautiful way of separating spirituality from institution. Your generosity was proof of that. You gave so freely — whether through scratch tickets tucked into cards or surprise FaceTime calls meant simply to brighten someone’s day. Even well into your 90s, you embraced your new iPhone because staying connected to the people you loved mattered to you. That kind of presence is rare.
Too Full of Life for That Place
I think often about the day you were officially diagnosed with dementia and moved to the other side of your care facility “to be with the cuckoos,” as you called them. Of course, those were your words, not mine.
But even then, you knew you were never meant for that place. You were far too alive, too magnetic, too full of energy to be confined by it. You had already witnessed Alzheimer’s slowly steal your sister — my grandmother — from us over an excruciating period of time, and I think part of you understood what was coming long before the rest of us did.
I was incredibly fortunate to grow up with all of my grandparents present in my life well into young adulthood. They each left this earth within a few years of one another while I was in my 20s. Some transitions came slowly, others suddenly. Experiencing both taught me powerful lessons about grief and gratitude — how heartbreak and appreciation can coexist in the same breath.
The Life of Every Party
You stepped into my life not only as a grandmotherly figure, but also as a true friend. You never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, or any excuse to celebrate joy.
I know my busy life and the miles between us kept me from visiting as often as I should have, but every visit felt special. We’d share a beer while you proudly walked me around, introducing me to everyone as if I were the guest of honor.
I still laugh thinking about the “New Year’s Eve” happy hour we attended together. You made sure I always had a drink in my hand and enough Mardi Gras beads and noisemakers to start my own parade. You were always the life of the party.
And yet, your life had not been easy. You experienced profound loss at a young age, though few people would have known it by the way you chose to live. You loved deeply. You laughed loudly. You made intentional living look effortless.
My Greatest Teacher
As a certified Life Coach and someone passionate about Transformational Coaching, I’ve spent years studying human growth, resilience, and healing. But truthfully, you were one of my greatest teachers. You embodied the kind of wisdom that no Personal Coach or Confidence Coach certification could fully teach. You showed me what it means to remain openhearted despite pain, to stay curious despite aging, and to keep loving despite loss. You welcomed my husband and even my beloved pup into your orbit as if they had always belonged there. When you could no longer drive, you still gave my mom money to buy toys for him because caring for others was simply who you were.
Carrying You With Me
When I learned of your passing, I was on my way to Costa Rica. I had hoped your service would take place after I returned, but life had other plans.
The guilt consumed me at first. Yet deep down, I knew you would have wanted me exactly where I was — living fully, exploring freely, and continuing to embrace life in my own unconventional way.
The day I taught my class at the Wild Essence Festival happened to be the day of your service, and somehow I felt you with me the entire time, cheering me on and reminding me, as always, to watch out for snakes.
A Little Italian and a Lot of Scabucci
It’s hard to believe we won’t be celebrating your birthday this September. But you can bet I’ll be raising a beer in your honor.
Every day that I continue studying Italian, I think of you and your wonderfully unique language — a little Italian and a whole lot of Scabucci. You passed down so many words and expressions, but the one I treasure most is “OOFAH,” the phrase you and my grandmother made famous.
Years later, when I visited our ancestral home in Avella, Italy, and heard it spoken there, I felt an instant connection to both of you.
Presence, Energy, and Magnetism
I hope you were able to hear the beautiful words your grandson Kevin shared during your service. He described you perfectly when he spoke of your presence, your energy, and especially your magnetism.
Magnetism — the ability to attract and charm people effortlessly.
But your magnetism came from something deeper. It came from your genuine presence. People wanted to be around you because you made them feel alive.
You always said how much you loved young people, and in many ways, I think it was because you refused to get old.
Refusing to Get Old
That lesson stays with me now more than ever.
It’s easy to let middle age wear us down — the aches, the stress, the exhaustion, the shifting seasons of our bodies and lives. Yet whenever I feel tempted to complain endlessly about it all, I think of you.
I think about your spirit, your humor, your resilience, and your refusal to surrender your joy.
You remind me that aging and growing older are not the same thing.
One happens automatically.
The other is a choice.
And perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons from elders like you: to remain engaged with life, to stay curious, to love people openly, and to continue choosing joy even when life gives us every reason not to.
Until We Meet Again
May you now be free from suffering.
May you be reunited with all those who went before you.
And may you forever remain the life of the great big party in the sky.
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