Marianne, Mary Ann, Marion, and Barbara

Imperfect alliteration—because perfection isn't the point.

Well, this week was overwhelming. I stayed up late and woke up early nearly every day, trying to fit everything in. I had every intention of writing about a nutrition topic, but when I finally sat down to do it, the following vignettes poured out of me instead. There’s nothing like a stress-filled week to send you spiraling into reflection, wondering why you do it all in the first place. So, no recipe this time. No nutrition commentary. Just some self-reflection.

I will be traveling for the remainder of the month and taking a break from my newsletter, which will return to your inbox on May 10th. I tell myself that the people I love expect my newsletter each week. Even if that’s not true, and many of you probably wouldn’t notice if I stopped writing, the story I tell myself is that this matters to someone. I know my writing needs work, and I often publish messy drafts. But what keeps me motivated is the idea, even if fiction, that these weekly newsletters help someone. The idea I am helping makes me prioritize it even when I have many other things to do.

Marianne

Have you ever been in a rush, stuck in a line that moves slower than your day allows—your body buzzing with frustration, the urge to scream rising with every passing second? That’s what writing used to feel like for me. My thoughts would sprint ahead, far outpacing my hand. I’d start neatly in the upper-left corner of the page, just as English grammar demands. Still, somehow, my sentences would wander, zigzagging right to left or landing on an entirely different page in my notebook. The vivid words pulsing through my head would vanish, leaving behind scattered remnants of half-formed thoughts.

School was always hard for me. I was painfully shy and struggled with several learning disabilities. My claim to fame? Failing fourth-grade English because, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t spell my name correctly. Oliva. That sneaky second “i” always managed to slip off the page. Teachers often assumed I was lazy or unmotivated. But the truth was the opposite. I was giving 100%, only to land in the bottom 1% of my class.

My dad, Peter, was a prolific writer. Brilliant and driven, he was the valedictorian of his high school class at the age of sixteen. But more importantly, he was endlessly patient and kind. He read with me often, attended school meetings, volunteered with the PTO, and always made time to chat with teachers and fellow parents. He died on June 4th, 1999, just as I was finishing second grade.

When he died, our entire school community grieved. Teachers, parents, and classmates surrounded our family with love and support. One of those people was Maryanne, my teacher the year of his death.

The following year, no longer my teacher, Maryanne offered to tutor me every Wednesday after school, knowing how much I struggled to keep up with my work. But tutoring with her never felt like a punishment. While other kids headed to playdates or after-school clubs, I packed up my books and walked from third grade back to my second-grade classroom. I’d settle into her office chair, help myself to a piece of candy from her secret drawer, and wait for her to finish bus duty before we headed to her home.

The purpose was tutoring, but what I received was a love for learning. She let me walk around her kitchen table while I spelled words aloud. She introduced me to audiobooks before they were widely accepted in schools. When I couldn’t get my thoughts down fast enough, she let me talk through my ideas while she jotted them down for me.

Looking back, I now recognize that my struggle was the result of ADHD and dyslexia, a maddening combination. At the time, though, it felt like a prison. My mind was alive with ideas I couldn’t express, trapped behind a wall of misspelled words and messy margins. Maryanne saw that. When frustration took over, she didn’t push harder—she let me paint, draw, or jump in her pool.

Mary Ann

“She isn’t dumb, you fucking asshole. Read her test scores.”

With that, my mom pulled my neuropsychological test results from her bag and slammed them onto my ninth-grade English teacher’s desk. Then she grabbed my arm, and we walked out.

I was failing almost every class and was constantly told something was wrong with me. Unsurprisingly, my mom yelling at my teacher didn’t win me any popularity points or change the trajectory of my grades that year. But something shifted in me. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone was in my corner. At that moment, I started wondering if the red marks covering my papers weren’t evidence of stupidity. Perhaps I was just a different kind of thinker.

That tension between being “different” and “dumb” has followed me most of my life. But in that moment, a new question formed: What if I could do more than they thought I could?

My mom, Mary Ann, is five feet tall, maybe 5’2” in high heels. She might be small, but her Jersey girl spirit and sharp tongue could stop traffic. She is fiery and passionate and defends her own like a lioness.

My mom is a special education teacher who specializes in helping children struggling in traditional classrooms. She has an incredible gift for empathy, seeing through underperformance to the root of a student’s need. She’s also wildly creative, making every moment a chance to learn (or make art). For example, she set up a crafting table for kids and adults at my wedding, an activity that people still talk about years later.

If you asked my mom, she would say that raising a child with learning disabilities is very different from being present at school. Home life can be complicated for everyone, but it becomes even more challenging for single parents. My mom was drowning in the demands of motherhood, suddenly tasked with raising three children on her own. There were times when she lost her temper. She couldn’t afford to buy my first car or pay my college tuition. Yet, she gave me something even more precious: confidence in myself. She made me feel intelligent, even when I struggled to spell my name. When you doubt your abilities, having someone who believes in you is an invaluable gift.

Dancing with my mom at my wedding, July 29th, 2023

Barbara

I want to include Barbara here, even though her name doesn’t start with an M.

Barbara Corkey, PhD, serves as an Emeritus Professor of Medicine and Biochemistry at Boston University and is recognized nationally as a leading figure in metabolic research. Throughout her extraordinary 50-year career, she broke barriers in science during a time when women were often underrepresented. Barbara is celebrated not only for her scientific acumen and insatiable curiosity but also for her sharp wit, love of painting, and joy in cooking.

About five years ago, I met Barbara at a meeting to develop a program for individuals with metabolic disorders. She spoke with clarity and conviction, envisioning a hospital-based clinic that addressed the whole person through food, movement, behavioral health, and medical care.

After the meeting, she asked me to stay behind.
“You asked very good questions,” she said. “What do you do?”

“I teach cooking classes,” I replied. “I’m a dietitian working in the teaching kitchen.”

She nodded. “For now. But you’re a researcher.”

I must’ve looked confused.

“Researchers are creative, curious people who see endless questions waiting to be answered,” she explained.

“Yeah,” I shrugged, “but I think you have to be smart to be a researcher.”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “A lot of people can run an analysis. Only certain people can think of the questions. You can think of the questions. That’s a skill.”

Barbara was right, I am a researcher. Most of my work today centers on research, and I’ve recently started a PhD to hone those skills further. Barbara helped me recognize that my unique perspective is not a limitation, but an asset. It makes me a valuable member of a team.

While I’ll never be the one to run complex statistics (a task I often outsource to my husband), I excel at crafting innovative interventions, troubleshooting study designs, and interpreting results in meaningful and usually unconventional ways.

Barbara taught me that curiosity and creativity are skills, just like being good at math or spelling. And the thing about skills is that you don’t have to be good at all of them. You need to have one and then build teams to complement the rest.

Marion

Last week, my friend Leslie called and said, “I’m coming to New York. What are you doing Friday night?”

I replied, “Honestly, I’m a little tired. I was in California for work last week, and I don’t think I’m up for—”

She cut in before I could finish: “You’d better find some energy—Marion Nestle invited me over for tea, and I want you to come with me.”

Marion Nestle. Hosting tea. I was invited. Pinch me.

If you’re unfamiliar with Marion Nestle, PhD, start with the latest piece in the NY Times, then dive into her biography. The article, subtitled “At 88, a Nutritionist Meets Her Moment,” offers a powerful look at her journey from molecular biologist to educator, advocate, and acclaimed author. Marion published her groundbreaking bestseller Food Politics at 65 and has spent decades learning, writing, and tirelessly championing better food policy.

As you can imagine, being invited into Marion Nestle's home (the nutrition icon) is no small honor. I would have been thrilled just to meet her, but what unfolded was nothing short of transformative.

When Marion opened the door to her New York City apartment, Leslie and I entered a space overflowing with books, artifacts, and the unmistakable warmth of someone devoted to learning. She led us to her porch—an unexpected oasis in the urban landscape—lush with fruit trees, herbs, and flowering plants, all sustained by a sophisticated irrigation system she operates from her iPad.

From there, we moved into the kitchen, where she brewed tea with quiet ease. We curled up on the couch while she settled into the armchair beside us. Our conversation drifted effortlessly from gardening to the best eats in NYC to exciting projects she’s currently working on.

And then came the moment. I could ask the great Marion Nestle anything. I thought I’d dive into the recent changes to the Texas food assistance programs or ask for her untold thoughts on that chaos around RFK Jr.

But what tumbled out instead was, “Has writing always been easy for you?”

She smiled. “No. I cried over the edits on my first manuscript.” She spoke about the vulnerability of writing, the years of practice, and how even her most recent book was edited by five different people, each with their unique take and very little overlapping feedback.

“There are an infinite number of edits,” she said. “So instead of feeling criticized, feel grateful. How lucky am I to receive other perspectives and be given the chance to improve my work?”

Her response was profound, at least for me. If there are infinite possible edits, chasing perfection is a road to nowhere. This shifts the narrative from striving for perfection to embracing feedback as a pathway to clarity and growth.

Leslie and I stayed enchanted on Marion’s couch until after midnight. Marion walked us to the door. She hugged Leslie, turned to me, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Keep writing. Don’t stop.”