Rooted and Rising: A Weekend of Chaos, Cousins, and Choosing Family
I grew up in one of those families—the kind that’s not just big, but big. Loud. Loving. Always overlapping. The kind where “relatives” didn’t just mean second cousins and great-uncles; it meant a daily rotation of people barging through the door like they lived there. (Because they basically did.)
Our roots? Planted in a small Italian village and stretched across the ocean to a tight-knit neighborhood in northeast Ohio. What grew from that journey wasn’t just a family tree—it was a forest. Wild. Tangled. Absolutely unshakable.
I wasn’t just raised by two parents. I was raised by everyone. Aunts, uncles, great-aunties, second cousins once removed—people who didn’t knock before coming in and never, ever left without feeding you. Sunday dinners were the main event. The house would rumble as the tribe rolled in—giant pots of sauce in backseats, trays of chicken parm balanced like trophies, and desserts so abundant they deserved their own zip code.
The men headed to the garage. The aunties stormed the kitchen. And us kids? We ran wild in a sea of noise and love, stuffed with sugar and slipped secret $10 bills like we were part of a covert operation. It was chaos. It was magic. It was everything.
Among the cousins, I was one of only two girls. Just the two of us in a pack of boys, three years apart, bonded by blood and meatballs and the knowledge that we’d be each other’s person for life. And we are. Different cities, different lives—but always choosing each other. We get it now: the real inheritance isn’t the recipe card. It’s the way we gather. The way we show up.
This weekend, we traveled together to honor a quiet giant of our family. And somewhere between the tears and laughter and third round of leftovers, I realized: this is the legacy. Not just the sauce (though yes, pass it, please), but the connection. The showing up.
Three days. Three generations. One house. Nine months old to eighty-three. Target runs. Toddlers tackling teenagers. Storytelling that somehow always ends in hysterics. My kids rarely asked for screens. They didn’t need theme parks. They had cousins. They had chaos. They had love.
There was a moment that etched itself into my heart: as we stepped into the venue for the Celebration of Life, my kids spotted their cousin—the one they FaceTime with every week—and in an instant, they took off. Arms wide, voices squealing, pure joy spilling out as they collided in a full-speed embrace like a scene straight out of a feel-good movie. They’re 4, 5, and 7. That kind of love? You don’t teach it. You grow it. That’s what happens when family is rooted deep and shows up again and again.
And then there were my older cousins.
Growing up, they were the mischief-makers—the ones who dared us to eat weird stuff, invented ridiculous games, and always ended up with a kid on their shoulders and another clinging to their leg. Kings of harmless chaos. They were fun in human form.
Their legacy lives on now as they and their grown children pass down the memories of our childhood. I watched one cousin pour whipped cream directly into my child’s face, no explanation. Just joy. I watched another crawl on a bar floor pretending to eat crayons, just to get a belly laugh from a toddler. No shame. No hesitation. Just love. Loud, silly, undignified love.
Because here’s the thing: kids don’t remember posed pictures. They remember the whipped cream. The weird games. The laughter. The fact that you got on the floor for them—literally and figuratively.
This weekend reminded me of something I don’t say enough: I felt strong. I felt like I was doing it right—for once. As a mom. As a woman. As a keeper of the flame. The chaos wasn’t overwhelming; it was ours. And it felt like joy.
This wasn’t just a family gathering. It was a handoff.
We are the aunties now.
And you know what? We’re crushing it.
On the plane ride home, somewhere between overtired and overwhelmed, I got a text from my cousin, who in many ways is more like a sister:
“We have to continue our family. Love is the bind.”
I teared up.
“We’re the next generation of aunties,” I replied.
And the response?
“We need to be. If not us, then who?”
That’s it. That’s the legacy.
Not just the food. Not just the Sundays. But the commitment—to each other, to the mess, to the magic.
So here’s to the aunties who came before us.
Here’s to the ones we’re becoming.
Imperfect. Hilarious. Deeply rooted. Always showing up.
Because that’s what family is.
And that’s what I want my kids to know:
You’re never too far from home—
Not when your roots run this deep.
