"YOU'VE GOT A FRIEND IN ME"

March is Women’s History Month, and to celebrate, I’m doing something a little different.

This week I’ll be sharing three special posts—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—honoring women who have made a lasting impression on me.

After this series, with a bit of the “luck of the Irish,” we’ll return to our regular Tuesday schedule on St. Patrick’s Day.

Thank you for your continued support.

03.11.2026

I first met Helen in my late twenties, when I was still discovering who I was and what I valued.

Helen, then in her mid-fifties, was the mother of the man I was dating. To me, she embodied everything I didn’t appreciate about her generation—a stay-at-home mom with a routine as predictable as the sunrise.

Mondays were for laundry, Tuesdays for ironing, Wednesdays for her hair appointment, Thursdays for chores, and Fridays for grocery shopping. Her afternoons belonged to soap operas, which concluded just in time for her to prepare a classic meat-and-potatoes dinner for her husband and son. On weekends, Helen and her husband attended their social club. She appeared genuinely content, almost as if she had won life’s lottery.

I, on the other hand, was a working woman and viewed her life as a relic from another era. I struggled to understand her choices, and I judged her more than I should have. My respect for her was obligatory—rooted in her role in my life, not because I admired her.

At the time, I didn’t yet understand something that is so obvious now: Helen hadn’t been offered the same range of choices I had. Opportunities I took for granted—education, careers, independence—were not available to women like Helen. What I mistook for complacency was, in fact, adaptation. She had made the very best of the options she had been given, and she did so without bitterness or regret.

Helen offered me a quiet, unwavering kindness—one I only truly recognized long after we were no longer in touch. Just as I couldn’t relate to her world, she couldn’t comprehend mine, but she rarely commented. When she did, I sometimes corrected her abruptly—impatiently, maybe even unkindly. She never reacted or retaliated. Her grace and patience remained constant, even in the face of my snarky attitude.

After her son and I went our separate ways, Helen and I lost touch. He eventually married and started a family, fulfilling his mother’s long-held dream of becoming a grandmother. I was sincerely grateful she had that experience.

Over time, I began sending her cards for her birthday, the holidays, and Mother’s Day. Whether I was motivated by guilt or by a desire to ask forgiveness for my behavior, I’m not sure. What I did know was that I wanted her to understand that I had matured—that our differences weren’t as vast as I once believed—and that I appreciated her kindness and restraint.

We exchanged cards for years. Helen always responded with a simple note, thanking me for remembering her. The truth was, I was the grateful one. Her kindness had exceeded anything I deserved; she had been far more gracious to me than I had been to her.

When she passed away, her husband having gone before her, I attended the calling hours. Her son and his family were there. The first thing he said to me was how much Helen cherished the cards I sent and how deeply they had touched her. He thanked me, but I told him I was the one who owed the gratitude.

Helen had given me the opportunity to know her, to learn from her, and to witness a quiet life lived with intention, grace, and dignity.

More important, she taught me that love is patient—willing to wait for us to accept it, no matter how long it takes.

Helen and her husband, John