Blended Together

Welcome, kind and compassionate souls! I’m so glad you’re here.

This week marks the beginning of a new blog series titled “The Making of Me”. In this series, I’ll be opening up and sharing some of the personal experiences that shaped who I am today. Alongside these reflections, I’ll be offering practical tips and gentle encouragement for anyone navigating their own journey—whether you’re feeling a little lost, stuck in the same old rhythm and routine, or simply looking for a fresh perspective.

If any of that resonates, then you’re in the right place.

Before we dive in, grab a cozy blanket, a sweet treat, and settle into your favorite quiet spot. With the breeze picking up today, it’s the perfect time to reflect and recharge. Meanwhile, I hope your Easter weekend brought some kind of sweetness—whether that be candy, treats, or sweet moments of joy.

So, let’s begin, shall we?

Once upon a time, in the heartland of the Midwest, lies the state of Illinois—where vast farmlands stretch as far as the eye can see, towns line peaceful riverbeds, and a bustling city hugs the southwestern shore of Lake Michigan, one of nature’s greatest wonders.

It’s in the northeast corner of this landscape that my story begins. The place where I was born and raised, shaped by both movement and stillness, change and familiarity. At times, life was full of voices and shared moments, other times it was quiet and solitary. I was given the opportunity to live the best of both worlds. And no, I don’t quite mean the “Hannah Montana” version.

While my journey didn’t involve any musical moments or big relocations until college, there were similar shifts along the way—moments of movement that, though subtle, quietly opened my eyes and broadened my world in ways I wouldn’t come to understand until much later.

For instance, while most of my life was rooted on the west side of my hometown, there were brief stretches spent on the east side, where I lived with my dad. He had a little blue house on the corner—modest, with a couple of rooms, a basement that echoed with footsteps, and an attic that wasn’t complete yet full of mystery. Some of my fondest childhood memories are tucked into that house, the nearby park, and the surrounding neighborhood. But what made that time especially meaningful was the friendship I shared with the girl who lived across the street.

We were the same age and inseparable in spirit, even though we didn’t speak the same language—she spoke Spanish, I spoke English—it didn’t change our relationship. We still had fun, shared plenty of laughs, and simply enjoyed being in each other’s presence.

Then, there came the time that when my dad met my step-mom. At this time, we started frequenting her condo in a more traditional, affluent neighborhood with older homes nestled in a well-established area to the southeast. The fondest memories I have from that time were with my step-brothers friend. He had a house located across the parking lot. Often the three of us would hang out together, creating our own fun during those times. Eventually, when my dad and step-mom moved in together, it was to a quieter, affluent but newer neighborhood closer to my hometown. It didn’t have the same polished charm, but there was a comforting stillness and sense of adventure about it. It’s where they’ve remained over the years, which over time, has become a familiar backdrop to many more chapters of my story.

Each of those environments—whether it was the cozy blue house on the east side, the cozy condo, or the quiet streets of the newer neighborhood. They all shaped me in subtle but lasting ways. They taught me how to adapt, how to find comfort in unfamiliar spaces, and how to look for connection beyond surface appearances. I learned to find beauty in both polished and the simple. Each place carried its own rhythm, its own lessons, and its own kind of magic. And through it all, I carried a growing understanding that home wasn’t just about where you lived, but how you lived and who you shared it with.

It was just another contradiction and mixture of creation that shaped me. One where opposites blended into something uniquely my own. From the quiet comfort of familiar spaces to the spark of new surroundings, I learned how to embrace both ends of the spectrum. That contrast helped me see life in layers, where nothing is ever just one thing. It gave me the ability to hold space for complexity, to find balance in the in-between, and to appreciate that identity isn’t fixed—it’s formed over time, through every place, every person, every memory.

Just like my shifting locations and the contradictions within them, the same could be said about my family relationships. While all may have appeared calm and cool on the outside, the relationships within were confusing, sometimes conflicting and from time-to-time awkward. It was as if there were constant shifts beneath the surface—changes that I couldn’t always explain but could feel deeply. And just like the different places I had lived, the family structure was constantly evolving, often in ways that left me feeling uncertain about where I fit in.

When I was born, I stepped into the role of the baby—with three older siblings already paving the way. Not too long after, life added a new dynamic through marriage, and suddenly I was the only girl and baby of the family amongst four older brothers. Yet at the very same time, I was also an only child. It was this strange paradox of being surrounded by family but also feeling like I was navigating life on my own, switching between different roles depending on where I was and who I was with.

Growing up, I didn’t think twice about it. Blended families were normal for me, even if the outside world didn’t always understand it. Over time, I came to realize that family isn’t defined by bloodlines alone. it’s the people who show up for you, the ones who make you feel like you belong, the ones who love you unconditionally.

Whether they’re related yo you by blood or by choice, the love they offer is just as valid and important. We all have different stories, different kinds of families, but at the core, we all share the same desire for connection, for acceptance, and for love. And that, I’ve learned, is what truly makes us family.

By the time I was growing up, my three half-brothers weren’t actively involved in my life nor were they living with our dad anymore. While I’ve been told—and seen pictures—that they were around when I was a baby and toddler, I don’t have many memories from those early years. As time went on, the family dynamics shifted. Life pulled us in different directions. So by the time I was old enough to remember the connection between us had faded.

In many ways, that sense of distance became a quiet backdrop to my childhood. But while some relationships faded into the background, others became anchors of my everyday world. Living with my mom, life was always in motion. There was never a dull moment. She worked tirelessly, living paycheck to paycheck, always hustling to make sure everything ran smoothly for the both of us. In the mornings, I’d be dropped off at school early so she could head to work, and by the time the after school program ended, she’d pick me up, ready to tackle the next task. Despite her busy schedule, she always made sure I was involved in the things I loved—whether it was swimming, Girl Scouts, or attending summer camps. She never let her struggles show; she just made sure I was taken care of, first and foremost.

When we did have time together, it felt extra special. We’d drink chocolate milk, a simple but comforting tradition that meant more than just a drink. She’d make my favorite meals—comfort food that always reminded me of home. We’d settle in for a board game, enjoying each others company in those small, treasured moments.

On the other hand, weekends at my dad’s house were often filled with uncertainty. There were heated discussions of wanting me to stay the weekend, only to either have to work or too busy with other plans. This meant I’d have to spend much of the weekend alone in my room immersed in my own world with dolls or Beanie Babies to pass the time. While there wasn’t as much hustle and bustle, and the atmosphere was quieter, it was a stark contrast to that of the weekends I spent with my mom.

In the quiet of those weekends, I had a lot of time to think, to wonder what it might feel like to have more consistent sibling bonds. I didn’t realize it then, but a part of me longed for that connection—the kind that feels steady and shared. It wasn’t until a couple years before one of our brothers passed that the bonds with my half siblings began to grow again, slowly but meaningfully.

My brothers passing, as heartbreaking as it was, became the turning point that brought us closer. That’s when it began to feel like we were actually siblings not just long, lost relatives. Prior to that, the closest sibling relationship I had was with my step-brother. And even then, we only saw each other every other weekend, a few holidays, and the occasional vacations.

Even my connection with my step-brother, as close as we were in age, didn’t fully mirror the typical sibling experience. Since we only time time together every other weekend, life would shift again once Sunday evening rolled around. I’d return to my mom’s. where it was just the two of us, and I’d slip right back into my role as an only child. It was like living in two different worlds—one moment I would be a part of a strict, quiet yet crowded space, and the other, I would be in a comfortable, safe, and encouraging environment. That back-and-forth pattern became second nature, shaping how I learned to navigate relationships, space, and solitude.

But it just goes to show that families come in all shapes and sizes. Blood isn’t the only bond that defines love or belonging. Sometimes, the people who hold you the closest, who truly see you and stand by you, don’t share your last name or your genetics—and that doesn’t make them any less your family.

If your family looks different from what the world paints as “traditional,” you are not alone. And more importatnly, you are not lacking. You are not broken. You are not missing a piece.

The love you choose—the friendships that became lifelines, the mentors who became second parents, the people who show up when it matters most—that love is just as real. Just as valid. Just as powerful.

You are whole, even if your family looks different. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.

I’ve seen this truth play out in my own life.

I remember when one of my niece’s friends began living with a brother. There wasn’t some big announcement or a need for permission. One day, my step-mom simply told us that she had been “adopted into the family.” That was it—simple, matter-of-fact. No paperwork, no questions. Just love and inclusion.

She became a part of the mix, just like that.We gave her gifts, invited her to celebrations, included her in our traditions—just as we would with anyone else. Even when she returned home to her own family, she was still one of us.

Because family, at its core, is an all-inclusive word. It’s not about how long you’ve known someone—it’s about how they make you feel. How they show up. How they hold space for you when you need it most. That’s what matters. And that’s what lasts.

So if you’ve ever felt like the odd one out, if your family doesn’t look like ones in picture frames or holiday movies, if your connections have been built through chosen bonds rather than bloodlines—know this: you are not missing anything. You are whole. You are worthy of love, just as you are. Family isn’t about fitting into a mold—it’s about being met with understanding, warmth, and belonging, wherever that may come from. The people who love you well will make an effort to be in your life. They’ll express that love—whether through words. actions, or the simple reminder of how much your absence would be felt. That is what matters. And that is what lasts. Because the truth is, the people who show up and love you well—those are your people. And that is enough. Always.

As a signature of my blog, I’d like to end this post with a suggestion to “Pass on kindness.” There’s no time like the present to Inspire Those Who Inspire You. Acts of kindness, no matter how big or small, can have a direct, positive impact on someone else. Go out there today and change someone’s life for the better!

***These are my personal opinions and may not be those of my employer.***