Living Like Loretta
Orchard Beach, 1952
To know me is to know how much I loved my grandma Loretta. I’ve spent my whole life wearing my love for her on my sleeve—wanting to be just like her, thinking she was the most beautiful, brave, creative, and fabulous person in the world. But what I didn’t realize until after she passed is that the very things I loved most about her… I had inherited.
Loretta was, quite frankly, iconic—and my role model for my entire life. She had this magical ability to turn even the smallest, most ordinary moments into something memorable. She made everything more beautiful, more exciting, and more meaningful just by being part of it. And for as long as her body could manage, she was a part of everything. She never let distance get in the way—there was no event too small to warrant Loretta hopping on a flight to Colorado, Texas, or even Italy to be there for me and my brother. Her presence in our lives was constant, and yet no amount of time with her ever felt like enough.
One of my earliest memories of Loretta—besides her dramatic flair and hilarious commentary—was her insistence that life should be an adventure. If I close my eyes, I can still hear her whispering, “Brookie… let’s go on an adventure.” For many years, that was kind of our catchphrase—used for everything from trying a new food to going to the doctor to taking the training wheels off my bike. With that one sentence, she taught me that anything and everything in life could be exciting if I let it. But more than that—she taught me I was never alone. With Loretta, every adventure was a shared one. She showed me how possible it was to seize life by the horns and be brave.
And she lived that way too. Fearlessly. Enthusiastically. A little stubbornly. She approached life head-on with an “I got this” attitude—even when she didn’t feel that way deep down. She always put others before herself, even when she was in pain. To be loved by Loretta was to feel like the most important person in the world.
She also passed down some of her signature Loretta-isms—many of which I’ve fully internalized. My favorites being, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend” and “Life is short—buy the shoes.” Yes, Loretta loved beautiful things. And yes, I do too (no shame). But those lessons meant more than just indulgence. To me, they were about choosing joy. Choosing presence. Finding beauty in the everyday and not putting off happiness for some uncertain future. Loretta believed in living life fully—surrounded by beauty, yes—but mostly surrounded by the people and things that made her feel alive and connected to her truest self. If she could chime in right now, I have no doubt she’d crack a joke about how they don’t actually check the balance of your bank account in heaven.
The last decade wasn’t easy for Loretta. She beat cancer multiple times and stared down heart disease with her signature “not today” attitude. And while her body eventually told a different story, I never stopped seeing her as the woman she truly was—not the version shaped by illness or age, but the one who taught me how to live with style, guts, and an unapologetic sense of self.
Now… here’s the part that’s hardest to write about, because I wish more than anything she had understood it while she was still here: Loretta never saw herself the way the rest of us did. For someone so glamorous and magnetic, she spent a lot of time focused on her imperfections. My whole life, I heard, “Brookie, I’m too fat,” or “Who’s that old lady in the mirror?” or “I look like hell.” Meanwhile, all I saw was perfection—everything I loved most in the world.
She had this little piece of pig art in her kitchen for as long as I can remember. It said, “Dear Lord, if you won’t make me thin, please make my friends fat.” Classic Loretta—funny, sarcastic, self-deprecating. But it was also a window into something deeper. Despite everything that made her so uniquely fabulous, she often fell short in her own eyes. And here’s the heartbreaking irony: I look just like her. I am just like her. And if I loved her that much—so unconditionally—how could I not offer that same love to myself?
I didn’t fully realize any of this until I was standing across from her in the hospital. She reached out, touched the dimple on my chin, then hers, winked, and said, “My girl.” And I felt it—like something inside me clicked. I was her girl. And without even realizing it, I had grown up to be just like the person I loved most.
That’s the final Loretta lesson—the one she never got to learn, but one I’ll carry for both of us: Life is too short to look at yourself through your own critical lens. Try to see yourself through the eyes of the people who love you. You might find that the very things you wish were different about yourself are the same things someone else wouldn’t change for the world.
I like to think the people we love don’t ever really leave us. They live on in us—in the stories we tell, the lessons they leave behind, and the way we choose to live. Loretta lives in me. In my dimpled chin. In the way I style a room. In the extra pair of shoes I definitely don’t need, but buy anyway. She’s there when I dive headfirst into something new without fear.
I hope I can keep choosing joy. Keep choosing bravery. Keep seeing the world through her creativity-tinted glasses. And I hope anyone who knew her—or even just hears about her—feels inspired to do the same.
Life is short—so buy the shoes. Take the trip. Order the extra martini. Plant your favorite flowers by the door every spring. Make every moment special, because you can. And most of all, try to love yourself the way Loretta loved the people around her—with everything she had, until the very end.
