Twice this week, I heard Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” And each time, without fail, I had to stop, sing, and half tear up. This song doesn’t just hit me—it cuts deep into my core. As a New Yorker, especially as a girl who grew up poor in the Bronx, it means a lot. The lyrics resonate with every battle I’ve faced, every twist in the road, every moment I had to stand tall when the odds weren’t in my favor.

It reminds me of my mom. She did everything her way, too. She never let the world tell her how things should be done, and in that same vein, neither have I. There’s something about this song that wraps around my memories of her—her resilience, her determination, her ability to laugh through it all.

The second time I heard it this week, I was sitting at the George Washington Cafe in Barbados, sipping my latte. The warm air, the sound of waves in the distance, all of it faded as soon as that opening note hit. I paused, put the cup down, and just let the song wash over me. The world stopped for a few minutes, and I was reminded once again of the journey that brought me here, in my own way.

It’s more than a song. For me, it’s a life mantra.