Ever since the New Year, resilience has been following me around. Showing up uninvited. Changing outfits. Making eye contact. Every time I notice it, I think, Okay… what are you trying to tell me? I don’t have the answer yet, but something’s clearly lining up. This doesn’t feel accidental. It feels like a tap on the shoulder I can’t keep ignoring. Dare I say—slightly annoying.

Lately, I’ve read three books about unimaginable struggle and relentless perseverance. Two are set during the Depression era—a time that now feels almost fictional, given how we lose our minds over a Wi-Fi outage. Hunger and poverty. Not plot devices. Just daily life. These are the books that make you close the cover, stare into space, and whisper, What the actual F? Not because they’re unbelievable, but because they’re true.

The third book lands differently, but hits just as hard. It’s a memoir about a woman who gave up everything to become a nun. That kind of choice doesn’t get easier just because it’s modern times; if anything, it’s harder. The road to joining isn’t easy, and the decision itself spans over decades. So when people say “it’s a calling,” believe them. There’s no other explanation.

These stories don’t comfort you. They confront you. They force an ugly comparison between then and now. Between resilience forged by survival and our modern tendency to lose our shit over minor inconveniences. Back then, hardship wasn’t a “season.” It wasn’t a bad week. It was life. Hunger and uncertainty were constants, not crises. And still, people got up and kept going. No quotes. No podcasts. No self-care checklists. Just grit, necessity, and the understanding that stopping wasn’t an option.

And closer to home, the children in my life keep offering their own quiet lessons in resilience. A little boy I mentor told me he got two things for Christmas: a football launcher and an omelet maker. He’s ten and has never once mentioned an interest in cooking, so I asked about it. He shrugged and said, “No, I don’t know how to cook. But it looks like I’m going to learn.” Meanwhile, his classmates received everything Apple under the tree. As he calmly added, “They don’t know how to use their brains.”

Then there’s my one-year-old grandson, who was so excited to put on his snowsuit that he fell and fractured his nose. The next day, he was happily dancing on top of the coffee table, looking like Rocky, wondering why everyone else thought that was a bad life decision.

So yeah, maybe resilience keeps tapping me on the shoulder as a reminder that it’s been carrying me the whole damn time. If these stories have taught me anything, it’s this: I was raised by and with resilience.

It’s in my blood.

And it’s time to remember who I am and what I’m made of.

Enjoy the Ride!

Book Recommendations: North River and Why Sinatra Matters, both by Pete Hamill, and A Change of Habit, by Sister Monica Clare.