Building Something Together: Big Feelings in Early Summer
How community can hold us when everything changes.
Summer is upon us. The Solstice has come and gone. The kids are on school break. The ice cream truck is out in full force. Oakdale summer camp starts next week. We’ve had our first summer heat wave. The changing of the seasons is undeniable.
And with change comes feelings, big ones. My daughter’s awards ceremony and concert was last week, and on Friday she said goodbye to her second grade class. She had a great year with Ms. Marois and Ms. Sweet at M.C. Smith, and this was the first year that I’ve heard her clearly express her sadness about the same group of people never gathering in the same place again.
Cliffy also had his moving up ceremony at his daycare. He’ll be there for the summer, but a few of his friends have already gone. He’s less able to communicate with us about feeling their loss, but it’s evident in his behavior, in how long daycare drop-offs have become.
It’s a strange thing to watch your children become aware of time – of endings. To watch them discover the same ache you once felt, that everything eventually scatters. I want to tell them that it gets easier to say goodbye. But I would be lying. As parents, Ron and I both try to stay present for them, to create space for their feelings and help them make sense of them. But I’m feeling it too. These last couple of weeks I’ve felt broken open. Not in a bad way necessarily, but in a way that has forced me to slow down and look inward, to be with my own feelings first before I try to hold space for my kids.
For my part, some of what I’m feeling is secondary, feeling the feelings of my children. Some of what I’m feeling is grief, coming up on the three year anniversary of my stepdad, Don’s, death. Some of what I’m feeling is worry about Hudson, about the future of our local leadership after a Democratic primary last week. A spike in local overdose deaths. A war that feels never-ending abroad. A Cancer New Moon. There is enough here for my feelings to be firing on all cylinders.
But luckily I have an antidote for these moments. A tried and true strategy for staying with myself in the hardest of moments. And that’s leaning into my local community. It’s been a good week for it too. I was on a panel for Oral History Summer School with some of our community’s leaders in the Youth Department: Mayor Kamal Johnson, Interim Youth Department Director Calvin Lewis, Youth Department Program Director Jahmeeka Hughes, Youth Commissioner Maija Reed, and me.
We spoke to a cohort of people from across the country (and beyond) who were there to learn the practice, methodology, and ethics of oral history — how to record, interpret, and archive personal stories for the sake of preserving memory. I loved hearing about our youth and our community’s youth services from the people on the front lines. Mayor Johnson, Calvin, and I were all Hudson Youth Center alumni, speaking about our experience as kids there, what it meant to us to have Oakdale feel like it was ours, to have adults investing in us.
Mayor Johnson and I reflected on how special it is to have our daughters in different roles in camp at the same time: his daughter a counselor (my daughter’s favorite) and my daughter a camper. We heard from Maija Reed, an expert in child development and long-time local who raised her kids here. And from Jahmeeka Hughes, whose passion for working with young kids brought tears to my eyes, and made me so grateful that Poppy has had three years with her at camp. It was such a special experience to co-narrate the value of our youth in Hudson to a room of people who don’t know our history, our community. And it was even more special to realize after hearing us out, how much they cared. It gave me a taste of what’s possible in this community if we are willing to listen, to hear each other out.
I felt cracked open by this experience. I was interviewed the next day for Oral History Summer School, a one-on-one, where I was invited to reflect on my life. This will be added to a local archive called the Community Library of Voice and Sound, A Hudson Area Audio Archive by Oral History Summer School. I’ve listened to many of these interviews as a way to get to know this community, and I was so honored to be invited to give testimony myself.
I went straight from this interview to what was the honor of a lifetime: I was the commencement speaker for the 142nd Hudson High School graduation. I graduated from Hudson High two decades ago, and the more time that passes the more I realize how important and special my education at Hudson was. And to be asked this year, when I’m in the midst of leaning into this community, attempting to bridge where we’ve been to where we’re going, was beyond gratifying and humbling.
And, I’ll admit, I was very nervous! I’ve given speeches to rooms of many different sizes, between academia and leadership in tech. I’m not usually that flappable when it comes to public speaking. But this was definitely my most meaningful speaking engagement. I really wanted to do right by these kids. So midday on graduation day, I drove to the high school and I asked if I could go into the auditorium to see where I’d be giving my speech.
When I got into the big, empty auditorium, it smelled faintly of a scent that I remembered, a trace of floor wax. The AC was cranked up to prepare for the swarm of bodies that would be there that night, and I remembered that same shiver I felt doing summer theater there as a kid. Everything in me relaxed. My body remembered this place so well. I’ve stood on this stage countless times throughout my life, from a four-year-old when I was cast in a community theater rendition of Wizard of Oz to giving the salutatorian speech at my own high school graduation. My feet were back under me.
That evening, when I stepped up to the podium following two of the most impressive speeches by high schoolers that I could imagine receiving, most of what I felt was love. Love for this community. For the graduates on the stage, especially the three I had worked with at The Spark. For my family and friends in the audience who had come to support me. For The Spark team in the front row who snuck in a noise maker to go nuts for our Spark graduates. For my ancestors who stood on this stage decades ago, my mom, my grandma, my great-grandparents, waiting for their names to be called. For everyone who has come before us in that space and everyone who will come after us too. I felt like part of something bigger. That’s a feeling that I’ve been chasing my entire life, and right there I felt it.
Today I want to share my commencement speech with you here. You can watch it here too, on the livestream (my speech starts at 42:30). Thank you for being here with me, for reading my words, and for contributing to that feeling of being part of something bigger. I’m so grateful.
Good evening, everyone.
I can’t tell you how honored I am to be back in the Hudson High School auditorium tonight, speaking to the Class of 2025.
Nineteen years ago, I sat right where you are now — in an uncomfortable polyester gown, wondering if my shoes looked weird, feeling that strange mix of nerves and excitement about what might come next.
Back then, I was sure I was leaving Hudson for good. I couldn’t get out of here fast enough. And yet… here I am.
I graduated from Hudson High in 2006 — the same school my mom graduated from, and my grandma, and my great-grandparents. And my children have entered the Hudson City School District too.
So yes, that’s five generations of Bluehawks. We bleed blue and gold
I played volleyball and basketball and ran track. I was in just about every club that existed — and started a couple that didn’t. I had a few of the same teachers some of you have now. Principal Reardon, for example, was my gym teacher back in the day. I think that makes us both ancient.
But when I think back on my time at Hudson High, the first thing that comes to mind isn’t the clubs or the games.
One of the most defining moments of my high school experience didn’t happen in a classroom — or even on school grounds. It happened at the polls.
When I was a junior, the school budget was voted down — not once, but twice. And suddenly, everything I held dear at that time was on the chopping block. Sports. Art. Music. After school programs. Everything that made school feel full and alive — set to be cut to save the district money.
I've been thinking about that moment a lot lately. Because last month, I was afraid we might see it happen again. I started hearing the same things I heard back then:
That the Hudson City School District budget is too high.
That the cost per student was too much.
That the school needed to be run more efficiently.
But underneath all those arguments, the message felt familiar — and honestly, kind of devastating: That our kids aren’t worth the investment. It left a mark on me.
Because what I learned that year was that the world we had built for ourselves as students — the friendships, the teams, the sense of belonging — could disappear with the mood of the voters.
Those significant cuts to our school experience going into my senior year was a defining moment in my life. But not because of the cuts themselves. Because of what happened next.
This community refused to let it end there.
Teachers, parents, neighbors said: not on our watch. They created a booster club. My uncle Pat Maloy led it. My mom, Lisa Dolan, was one of the most active members.
They made flyers. Knocked on doors. Called everyone they could think of. They reached out to alumni, to business owners, to city officials. They held car washes and spaghetti dinners. They stood outside Walmart with donation buckets. They worked the phones after work.
And in just a matter of months, they raised a quarter of a million dollars.
That money restored everything that had been cut. Everything that had been stripped away was brought back, one by one, because the people of Hudson refused to let their kids be treated as less than.
They didn’t wait for permission. They didn’t ask for credit. They just did what needed to be done — because they believed we were worth it.
At the time, I knew it was a big deal. But I don’t think I fully understood it until much later.
That was one of the most powerful acts of collective care I’ve ever witnessed.
And it shaped me — not just as a student, but as a person. It taught me that when things fall apart, you don’t have to go it alone. You look around, you link arms, and you figure it out together.
I ended up writing about that experience for my college admission essays. Some of you just went through that process yourselves, trying to explain who you are and why you matter in 650 words or less. That story became part of my “why.”
I left Hudson and went on to college in Rochester, where I studied cognitive science. Then to Iowa, where I earned a PhD in psychology and studied how we learn and remember. I became fascinated by the ways our bodies hold knowledge — even when our minds forget.
And through it all, I carried the lesson I learned right here in Hudson: That community isn’t an extra. It’s everything. I took that with me to Vanderbilt in Nashville, where I worked in a research lab with patients with amnesia.
And in my third year at Vanderbilt, I got a grant that allowed me to work remotely for a year. So I packed up my life — and my partner and baby — and came home to Hudson. Just for a year, I thought. But the moment I got here, I knew I couldn’t leave again.
This place had changed — in big ways. But my body remembered that feeling. That feeling of being in community. Of being known. Of being held. Of people having your back, even if you hadn’t seen them in a decade. I wanted my daughter to grow up like that too.
So we stayed. That was eight years ago. My husband Ron, our daughter Poppy, and me. And since then, we’ve added one more Hudson kid to the mix, my son Cliffy.
And now, I run The Spark of Hudson — a place where people come together to learn, connect, co-work, create, share meals, host events, throw reptile-themed birthday parties (thank you, Poppy), and imagine new ways to live in community with each other.
And we have a youth apprenticeship program, where I was lucky enough to work with three of tonight’s outstanding graduates — Brisa, Moriah, and Ayesha. I am so proud to know the three of you.
And I also started writing again, on a blog — a lot — about this city, about memory, about the people and places that shape us.
I’ve written about Oakdale, where my kids now swim at the same summer camp I went to.
About raising children in community — how the hardest, most beautiful things in life were never meant to be done alone.
And about loss. About change. About what it means to stay. And what it means to come back.
And what I’ve learned — and am still learning — is this:
In a world that keeps telling you to hustle harder, be more independent, build your own brand — I want to tell you something different:
Don’t go it alone.
Build your community.
Show up for people, and let them show up for you.
Learn how to ask for help. Learn how to receive it. Learn how to give it too.
Take care of your people. Let yourself be taken care of.
Because it’s not weakness to rely on each other.
It’s how we survive.
And more than that — it’s how we live.
So when things get hard — and they will — I hope you remember where you come from. I hope you remember that people did show up for you. Maybe not perfectly, but meaningfully.
And I hope you keep choosing to show up for others again and again.
Because there will always be people who underestimate kids from Hudson. Who say the schools aren’t worth funding. That you aren’t worth investing in.
But they’ll always be wrong. And you can show them that. Not just by being here, but by building something that lasts.
By taking care of each other. By creating the kind of community that raised you. That’s what it means to carry something forward.
Not just the story – but the spirit. The Bluehawk spirit.
Congratulations, Class of 2025. You’re part of something bigger. Now go build it — together.
I’m keeping the spirit of remembering going this week with a Gravestone Preservation workshop at The Spark on Thursday at 6pm – you can sign up here.
Monday, July 7th is my birthday, so I’m allowing next week’s posts to come a couple of days behind schedule. I’m going to send a short personal reflection to All My Dead and Living Things’ paid subscribers on my birthday to reflect on where I’ve been this year.
If you’re feeling anything like I am — tender about this time of change, sensitive to the hard things out there right now — I hope that you make some space for yourself to feel. The more I lean into my feelings, the more clear-eyed I get about what to do next. Happy Summer.