Beauty Queens and Grass Stains

Families are ecosystems. Ours had two dazzling species and one sturdy houseplant. Jazzy, the middle child, did beauty pageants with the confidence of a lighthouse—sequins, smile, spin, trophy. Jory, the youngest, was athletic and ferocious in that glorious, skinned-knee way. If you needed a goal or a relay leg, you called Jory. If you needed a wave that could be seen from space, you called Jazzy.

And me? I was the observer, the one with glasses, the girl who could list everyone’s secret wishes by lunch. My talents weren’t exactly stage-ready unless the stage needed a dramaturg who knew where the exits were.

Mom lived for the polish—but not because she was shallow. She loved the shine of a shopping mall, yes, but mostly because she loved the shine on Jazzy’s face after a pageant win, or the glow on Jory’s face when new cleats hit the field. She lived for us. Making sure her girls were provided for, well-dressed, never overlooked—that was her mission. She’d pin Jazzy’s pageant number with a steady hand, or sit through Jory’s endless practices with snacks in her purse.

Her love wasn’t about glitz; it was about ensuring her daughters always felt prepared, presentable, and taken care of. That was her way of saying, “I see you. You matter.”

Dad loved the wild. He wasn’t one to be known as a verbal communicator but he was a pleasure to be around. His love for our Lord and Gods creation was a direct reflection of who he was as a person. Spending time with him in “our place” was food for the soul. That has stuck with me throughout life.

It took me longer to realize my shield was something different—language. I couldn’t flip or pirouette, but I could translate the heartbeats in the room.

Here’s the trick about siblings: you think you’re competing for the same applause, but you’re actually building different stages. Jazzy taught me that presentation is power; sometimes you need to look like you believe it before you do. Jory taught me that effort is visible—and more contagious than perfection. I taught them that words can carry water, especially when the people you love are too tired to cry.

We still wear our armors. Jazzy can command a room with a glance. Jory treats every to-do list like a sprint start. And me? I write it down. Because someone has to remember how we got here—and what we carried for each other along the way.