Blood Doesn’t Run Thicker

During my last summer before starting college, I was told that I’m in the time of my life where I get to have the experience of creating a family from the friends I meet there. When hearing that I thought to myself I already live like that. It’s how I was raised. I have what feels like a million aunts, and uncles, and a majority of them have no relation to me. They were all just friends of my mom. She knew that family was more than blood at a young age. She kept her friends close to her, some whom she knew since kindergarten, others she met in high school or on her post-graduation adventures. So, I grew up with a lot of people who my mom met on her journey and I grew up with an insane amount of love.

 When my mom died, these people not so much came together, but swarmed together from all over the country for her services. They held each other, and they were there to hold me. These people were her family, they watched her grow up, and they were by her side to watch me grow up. Soon after my mom died I jumped around from house to house a lot before moving to California with relatives. One of those times I tried to stay with immediate relatives of my mom, but ultimately it was the family my mom had created for us, and my own friends that made me feel at home.

Before I made my venture out west I ended up living with two of my mom’s friends Denise and Marilu. I stayed with Denise for a little over a month and with Marilu for two months. I grew up seeing them almost every weekend if not every day. We celebrated milestones together, birthdays, and holidays. Being with them made sense and wasn’t weird for me. I did end up living with my relatives for just over a year out in California but ultimately left. Not because I didn’t love living there or living with them it just felt kind of wrong. 

A friend of my mom’s, also named Denise who I call “Very Nessie” took me in with her family. I grew up with her as my aunt, her husband as my uncle, and her kids as my cousins. It took me by surprise when I found out my mom and she weren’t actually related at the bright age of five. Moving in with them wasn’t scary and it wasn’t hard, it was a natural fit. They were and always have been family. Staying with my mom’s friends and being around them feels like a way of being with her. It helps all of us grieve her in a way where we don’t have to do it alone. When I think about it, the word “friend” isn’t the right word to describe the women who took me in. To my mom, they were more like her sisters.

While I found a great amount of comfort in the family my mom created for us I also found so much of that in the friends I made. I grew up with a friend named Rachael. I met her in the first grade and we went through the first few years of grammar school together before I transferred, eventually reconnecting in eighth grade. Her family helped me a lot with my grieving whether they know it or not. Rachael was actually sitting next to me holding my hand a few hours after my mom died. Every time I go home I spend a lot of my time at their house to which her mom says “my house, is your house” and makes sure I remember the code for the backdoor. Her family has made sure I know they see me as one of their own and has lifted me up without even knowing I was falling down. Saying that Rachael is my best friend isn’t wrong, it's just the understatement of the century. 

When you look up the definition of family, they all come to the conclusion that it’s a group of people from the same bloodline or related to one other by marriage or adoption. I think that’s a load of bull. Family isn’t DNA or the people you were born to, and it doesn’t have to be limited to the people you live with. The people who take care of you, have your back, who can make you smile on the worst day of your life, welcome you with open arms, and love you unconditionally are your true family. Don’t settle for anything less.

Strike Out,

Written by: Alicia De Lise

Edited by: Jane Dodge

Graphic by: Olivia Leggett