Lady Daevera
Her strength endured. The woman who taught me how to stand.
Daevera of the Iron Heart
A tribute to my Grandma Daisy — the woman who taught me strength before softness.
Some women leave softness behind them.
My Grandma Daisy left strength.
Not the polished kind. Not the kind people write pretty quotes about.
The real kind.
The kind that survives things. The kind that tells the truth even when it hurts. The kind that keeps showing up no matter what life looks like. Stories like hers are the reason I created Her Light.
My grandma came from Scotland. She had a fiery personality and a presence you felt the second she walked into a room.
She smoked cigars. She could drink with the best of them. She wasn’t delicate, quiet, or overly sentimental.
And if someone crossed a line, she’d let them know exactly where they stood.
She was tough.
But underneath all of that was one of the most caring women I’ve ever known.
When I was little, I moved in with my dad and stepmom around the age of six.
And while my home never really felt emotionally safe for me, my grandma tried to fill in the spaces where she could.
Not in loud ways.
Just in the ways that mattered.
She would buy me little things even though she barely had money herself. She lived with my uncle after his accident, helping take care of him while surviving on a fixed income.
But somehow, she always found ways to give to other people.
I remember one time she picked me and my friend up and bought us both brand new 10-speed bikes.
At the time, that felt huge.
Looking back now, I realize it probably cost her far more than she could comfortably afford.
But that’s who she was.
She gave even when she had very little herself.
One of the moments I remember most happened when I was 15.
My dad had given me up to the state of Michigan, and I was staying in a children’s shelter.
I didn’t know where my life was going or where home was supposed to be anymore.
And one day, my grandma came to visit me there.
She brought me McDonald’s and some change.
I still remember it so clearly.
Most people probably expected comfort in a moment like that. Reassurance. Someone telling you everything was going to be okay.
But my grandma wasn’t that kind of woman.
She looked me directly in the eyes and said:
“Honey, this time you need to be strong. Stand on your own two feet and take care of yourself, because nobody else is going to do it for you.”
At 15 years old, I understood exactly what she meant.
She wasn’t abandoning me emotionally.
She was preparing me.
Alot of my confidence was built during seasons like this.
Teaching me something she probably learned herself long before I was ever born.
From that moment on, I knew I had to believe in myself, because at the end of the day, I was the one who had to carry myself through life.
And honestly…
that lesson never left me.
Sometimes survival changes the way you learn to carry yourself through life.
Over the years, she always sent my children birthday cards with the same five-dollar money order inside.
Every single time.
And I knew what it probably took for her to do that.
I imagine my uncle driving her into town. Helping her walk inside. Picking out the card. Getting the money order.
It would have been a whole event for her.
And yet she still did it.
Every time.
I saved those cards.
I wrote her letters constantly over the years too. Updates about life, the kids, little stories, everything in between.
Writing has always been one of the many ways I process memory, growth and becoming.
Until eventually, time started passing faster.
The letters slowed down.
Life became busier.
And then one day, out of nowhere, my dad called me.
We barely had a relationship by that point, but before he even said the words… I already knew.
Grandma Daisy had passed away.
And deep down, I think my dad knew she would have wanted him to call me.
She would have been disappointed if he didn’t.
She was one of the strongest women I’ve ever known.
Bold. Assertive. Fierce.
The kind of woman who never watered herself down to make other people comfortable.
But her softer side?
That side was reserved for very few people.
And somehow, I was one of them.
Daevera of the Iron Heart
Some women leave behind comfort.
Some leave behind advice.
My Grandma Daisy left behind strength.
Not perfect strength.
Not polished strength.
Real strength.
The kind you carry with you long after they’re gone.
She taught me how to survive.
How to stand on my own feet.
How to keep going even when life became heavy.
And even now, I still carry her voice with me.
Some women don’t soften you.
They forge you.
— Kelly 🤍LifeWithCates
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