I have spent a lot of time reflecting on where my sense of direction truly comes from. Not the kind that reacts to noise or urgency, but the kind that steadies me. The kind that reminds me who I am when the world gets loud.
That compass was shaped early by my grandmother, JoAnn.
Not Joanne.
JoANN.
The emphasis matters mostly because our family had a long-standing habit of saying it wrong, and it never failed to get under her skin. Calling it out now feels like respect wrapped in an inside joke. One she would absolutely appreciate.
JoAnn was my grandmother by title, but she was much more than that in practice.
During a time when my parents were not capable of fully parenting, she helped raise us. She stepped in alongside others, creating stability when it mattered most. She was present, consistent, and protective. She was one of the women who made sure we stayed together, safe, and grounded.
Because of that, she will always hold a maternal place in my life.
So, when I say Grandma Jo, I am talking about someone who helped raise me, shape me, and guide me during my most formative years.
What mattered most is that even in the middle of challenge, of dark times no child should endure once, let alone multiple times, my childhood was still spirited.
There were difficult truths. There was abandonment. There were moments of instability and things no child should have to make sense of too early. But alongside that, there was also opportunity, structure, and belief.
Because of Grandma Jo, I was allowed to explore discipline and joy at the same time.
I learned ballet.
I trained in synchronized swimming.
I always had art supplies to create anything I wanted; plastic eyeballs, pipe cleaners, poms, felt, plastic scissors you couldn’t cut flour with, Elmers's glue, etc., you 80s kids feel me?
I was classically trained in music: cello, violin, clarinet, and bass clarinet.
I learned how to read sheet music, how to write music, how to listen closely, and how to work within a group.
I played in orchestras. I made first chair. I learned what it meant to practice, to commit, and to show up prepared. I experienced success as a young child and as a teenager not because life was easy, but because someone made sure, I had access to things that expanded me rather than shrank me.
Those experiences taught me coordination, timing, discipline, collaboration, and confidence. They taught me how to hold my own while still being part of something larger. They gave me a sense of self that did not depend on chaos or circumstance.
That did not happen by accident.
From the very beginning, Grandma Jo surrounded me with art, music, creativity, technology, and innovation as if they were all part of the same language. There was never a separation between imagination and intelligence in her world. Creativity was not a luxury. It was a skill. Technology was not intimidating. It was a tool for expression and progress. Innovation was not reserved for others. It was something you participated in.
Curiosity was encouraged. Questions were welcomed.
Music lived alongside sketches. Ideas lived alongside experimentation. Art lived alongside logic. I learned early that creativity was not fragile and that innovation did not have to be cold. They could coexist. They could support one another. They could shape how you move through the world and how you treat the people in it.
Humility was woven into everything Grandma Jo taught me. Not humility as shrinking, but humility as awareness. Awareness of impact. Awareness of responsibility. Awareness that talent means very little if it disconnects you from others.
Inclusivity was never explained in our home. It was lived. Everyone belonged before they were understood. Everyone mattered before they proved anything.
Grandma Jo also charted the stars.
She believed that timing mattered. That people arrived into the world with rhythms and cycles unique to them. After I was born, she created my life’s star chart. Not as something to control or fear, but as a way to understand myself.
Every major milestone in my life has aligned with that chart.
Every. ONE.
It did not make life easier, but it made it clearer. It reminded me that moments matter just as much as milestones, and that paths are rarely linear.
My love of charcoal comes directly from Grandma Jo. That is where I get it honest from.
Charcoal taught me patience. It taught me restraint. It taught me that pressure matters, and that mistakes are part of the process. That sometimes the most powerful marks come from what you remove, not what you add. Playing with charcoal still feels like a direct line back to the hands that showed me how to create without fear.
As I grew older, another truth became clear to me. Everything comes back to energy.
Not in a vague or abstract way, but in a very real and lived one.
Energy exists beneath every action, every interaction, every creation. It is present before words are spoken. It is felt before decisions are made. You can sense it in rooms. You can feel it in conversations. You can watch it either expand or collapse communities in real time.
That awareness also shaped something else in me. Rapid self-reflection. The ability to look inward quickly and apply what I see without defensiveness, a constant prize at the end of my life’s rainbow. I have to admit that partially comes from Grandma Jo.
She never avoided reflection. She welcomed it. Noticing something about yourself was never treated as failure. It was treated as information.
That practice became instinct for me.
I have seen ideas fail not because they were bad, but because the energy behind them was extractive. I have seen opportunities stall because urgency replaced intention. I have also seen simple conversations turn into life-changing collaborations because the energy was rooted in care, generosity, and curiosity.
Because of that foundation, I move quickly when I recognize misalignment. I reflect. I adjust. I apply. Not to be perfect, but to be better. Not to protect ego, but to protect people.
Energy always keeps the score.
That belief ties directly back to Grandma Jo and to the stability she helped create when it mattered most.
Later in my teenage years, my mother returned to my life and played an important role as well. Her presence mattered. Her influence deserves its own space and its own reflection. That story is for another time.
If I can offer you one thing
If I can offer you one thing, it is this.
Pay attention to who made space for you when life felt unstable.
Pay attention to what they protected in you.
That is usually where your deepest values were formed.
You do not have to pretend the hard parts did not happen in order to honor the good that grew alongside them. Both can be true at the same time.
You are allowed to build a life that feels lighter than the one you were handed.
You are allowed to choose environments that nourish instead of drain.
You are allowed to move with intention, not urgency.
When you are unsure what matters most, return to this question.
Does this leave people better than I found them.
Grandma Jo helped raise me during a time when care mattered most. She was a mother to us in the ways she could be, alongside a few other women in our lives who also stepped in, supported us, and shaped us. Their stories deserve their own space, and I will tell them another time.
For now, I carry Grandma Jo with me into every room. Into every idea. Into every creative risk and every technological leap. Her influence lives in my love of art, my respect for innovation, my belief in energy, and my commitment to community.
What’s created with love shows.
Not loudly.
But unmistakably.
With love, Shills 💕
Disclaimer: AI generation was used to help create the scenes provided in this article, from stories I provided my agent, in-lieu of using real images of myself or Grandma Jo.