Her Story,
in her own words

Daughter

I grew up in the Philadelphia suburbs, in a home that was Jewish in the traditional, cultural sense—not particularly religious, but rooted. The culture mattered. It still does. The food, the gatherings, the sense of belonging to something older than yourself, the way family and history sat in the room even when no one named them. My parents were Selma and Charlie. I have beautiful memories of childhood, and a beautiful relationship with my father. He and I were very close. My mother loved my father deeply and made much of her life about him. My relationship with her was more complicated—intriguing, I would call it. When they were younger, people used to tell me my mother looked like Elizabeth Taylor and my father looked like Kirk Douglas, that they were like a celebrity couple. I did not know what that meant then, but I heard it often enough that it became part of how I imagined them in the world. I absorbed my mother’s way of loving—the devotion in it, and the habit of locating yourself through someone else. Over the years I have had to ask how much of that inheritance I want to carry, and how much I need to reshape. My connection to where I came from is real, but it is also my own version now. I do not experience it exactly the way I was taught. I look at my upbringing with tenderness, and also with questions. Losing my father left feelings that did not resolve neatly: things missed, things I wish had happened, and conversations I could only continue within myself.

Sister

My sister Jodi has been one of the great continuities of my life. We share many things, but our love of animals is among the deepest. There is a particular comfort in being known by someone who remembers where you began—someone who understands parts of you that require no explanation.

A life built around love

I made much of my adult life about my husband and my children. That was the time I lived in, and it was genuinely who I was. My marriage has been a big part of my life—the many things I have been through, the choices I made, and what I am still integrating into who I am today. Marriage, like a life, contains questions that do not offer simple answers. What do we hold onto? What do we release? When is loyalty love, and when must we remember ourselves? I can honor the woman who chose to remain a wife while still asking what she needed, what she knew, and what she set aside.

The years I found my game

In my thirties, I found tennis—and with it, another part of myself. I led teams. I competed. I formed friendships built on effort, nerve, and showing up. On the court I was not defined only by the roles I held at home. I was capable, strategic, responsible to others, and fully engaged in something that belonged to me.

Those years gave me leadership, competition, friendship, and an identity beyond wife and mother. I found my game—and recognized myself in it.

The constant

Animals have always made sense to me. They ask for attention, consistency, and care, but never performance. The love Jodi and I share for them is woven through our lives. Their company returns me to what is immediate and true: a look, a routine, a trust earned slowly.

Letting go is not forgetting

Grief can leave a conversation unfinished. There are things I wish had been different, especially around my father’s loss, and parts of the past I once wanted to rearrange. I am learning that letting go does not mean saying it did not matter. It means allowing love and disappointment, gratitude and regret, to exist without asking one to erase the other.

What now?

I am naturally to myself. I do not need to belong everywhere, and I no longer apologize for that. I connect deeply with people I appreciate, and solitude gives me room to hear my own mind. I am also a real homebody, and I am terrified to fly—the older I get, the more that fear settles in. There are places I would love to see, but I am learning to be honest about both the longing and the limit. At seventy, I am learning myself again: what I am, what I love, what I actually like, what belongs to me, and where all these years might take me next.