The Ring on My Left Hand

I had a strange dream last night that my wedding ring fell apart.

Not broke. Fell apart. Pieces everywhere, and I couldn’t find all of them.

Normally that wouldn’t be particularly interesting.

Except my wedding ring is more than 100 years old.

It belonged to my great-great-grandmother.

When Nathan Barber and I got serious, I told him not to buy me an engagement ring. I wanted him to ask my Nana for our family heirloom.

There’s a whole family story attached to this little ring.

My great-great-grandmother was born into a financially stable family, but her father, a gambler, lost all of their money. After he died, her mother had to figure out how to make ends meet.

So she cooked.

She started her own catering business to support her family.

And somewhere along the way, while cooking for an affluent family in Mexico, her daughter met one of the sons.

They fell in love.

His family didn’t approve.

They chose each other anyway.

Family legend includes land, horses, Pancho Villa, a spectacular fight with a sister-in-law, and eventually leaving Mexico and starting over in America. 🇲🇽 🇺🇸

I can’t independently verify every detail passed down through five generations. That’s the nature of family lore.

But I know the ring is real.

I wear it every day.

And lying sick in bed this morning, thinking about that dream, I realized I’ve always thought of this ring as something I inherited from the women who came before me.

Maybe the more important inheritance isn’t the ring.

One woman suddenly needed to support her family, so she built a business.

Another stood up for what she believed in, even when it cost her everything.

The next pulled a Rosie the Riveter, working through World War II while her husband served in the Navy.

My grandmother survived a horrifically abusive marriage and pulled her family out of the wreckage.

My mother broke that same cycle, becoming an executive and, eventually, an extraordinarily successful entrepreneur.

I come from a long line of women who built, survived, started over, and refused to back down.

Strong women. Brave women. Bold women.

They took risks. They adapted. They made it work against all odds.

And generations later, here I am building a company, taking a risk that makes very little sense on paper some days, trying to create something that doesn’t exist yet.

Maybe grit isn’t something you discover when things get hard.

Maybe sometimes it’s something you’ve been carrying with you all along.

In my case, apparently, on my left hand. 💍