This week, I joined a club that no one ever wants to join

This week, I lost my mom.

It’s a club that so many people are unfortunately a part of, and through my work I’ve had the privilege of helping families navigate loss during some of the hardest days of their lives. I’ve always considered it an honor to care for people in those moments. I just never imagined it would be my turn quite this soon.

My mom was a fighter in every sense of the word.

When I was born, I came into this world feet first with a prolapsed umbilical cord. If you know what that means, you know it wasn’t an easy delivery. She loved telling that story. Every time she did, she’d cry, hug me, and remind me just how grateful she was that we both made it through.

For the first few years of my life, she was a single mom. She worked incredibly hard to build a life for my brother and me, making sure we always had what we needed. When I was three, she met my dad, and a year later we became a family. A few years after that, my sister completed our family.

She became the matriarch of our family, creating a home that was always warm, welcoming, and unmistakably heimish. There was always room for another person at the table, another friend to care for, another reason to gather.

She was also the quintessential Jewish mom.

She loved you fiercely—but she also had a way of giving those classic backhanded compliments that somehow made you laugh. If she told me I looked really good, I’d usually ask, “Well… how did I look the last time?” because it almost always meant something. Looking back now, I’d give anything to hear one more of those comments.

She carried her children’s struggles as if they were her own. My divorce broke her heart because it mirrored so much of what she had gone through when I was a baby. I often tried to hide my own pain from her because I knew how deeply she felt mine. I didn’t want to add to what she was already carrying.

When I opened Mosaic Catering, I know it scared her. She understood financial struggles firsthand and worried about the risks I was taking. But she was also unbelievably proud. She came to events even when I wasn’t there, visited the café often, and never missed an opportunity to support me. Of course, every event was followed by a full critique—but it always came from a place of love and wanting to see me succeed.

The running joke was that she was the head of my HR department. If you got in trouble at work, people joked that you’d have to answer to my mom.

Even while working full-time, she somehow always made sure dinner was on the table. She cared for countless friends, volunteered in the community, and taught me that a home should always be open to others. Hospitality wasn’t just something she did—it was who she was.

She loved hosting a party. Looking back, I realize that’s probably where I got it from. The joy I find in bringing people together, feeding them, celebrating life’s milestones, and creating community started with watching her do exactly that.

But we’ll also keep telling her stories. We’ll watch old videos. We’ll laugh at her one-liners and remember the way she made everyone feel welcome. Because that’s what she would want.

In Jewish tradition, we often say, “May her memory be for a blessing.” I understand those words differently now. Her memory isn’t just something we’ll hold onto—it will continue to shape the way we love, gather, care for one another, and open our doors to others.

Thank you, Mom, for teaching me that family is built around the table, that community is something you create, and that love is most often shown through showing up.

May your memory always be for a blessing.