Growing Up in Erie, PA…..because it’s okay to love Erie

I’m 38 now, living in Cincinnati with three kids, a career, and a to-do list that never ends. But every once in a while—usually when it snows or I smell lake water or overhear people talk about their love and obsession with Skyline Chili (in Erie, it’s usually Smiths) —I find myself thinking about Erie, Pennsylvania.

That’s where I grew up. Where I learned how to ride a bike, navigate friendship, and survive lake-effect snowstorms like a champ. It’s where I spent my childhood—cozy, chaotic, and full of frozen fingers and warm memories. Snow days were few and far between, but that’s what made Erie…Erie. Snow days were for the weak.

Let’s start at the beginning shall we?

Chestnut Hill Elementary

Where It All Started, and yet always overlooked

I started school at Chestnut Hill Elementary, a place that felt gigantic at the time but now, in memory, feels like a warm, familiar hug. I remember the hallway tiles, the smell of crayons and lunchboxes, and the way winter boots lined the hall like tiny snow-caked soldiers. It was where I learned how to read, do the hokey pokey, and negotiate for better playground equipment. It’s where everyone went to sled when the snow piled up the night before. Every snow day felt like a gift from the universe, although they were rare….like really rare, and every Valentine’s Day party felt like a red-and-pink explosion of sugar and glitter glue.

J.S. Wilson Middle School

The Awkward Years, am i right?

Then came J.S. Wilson—a whirlwind of braces, book covers, and figuring out where to sit in the cafeteria. Middle school in Erie meant bundling up in five layers to wait for the bus in the dark and peeling them all off in homeroom before you melted. It was hallway crushes, locker combos, and the kind of friendships that carried you through all the awkwardness. We passed notes on folded notebook paper, tried to act cool in our windbreakers, became pros at unlatching our overalls, and survived on vending machine snacks and inside jokes.

Mercyhurst Prep

Where Things Started to Make Sense

Mercyhurst Prep was where I really started to find myself. It was a place of traditions, uniforms, and values that stuck with me more than I realized at the time. I remember spirit weeks, early morning classes, and the way the lake looked in the fall—like something out of a movie. High school in Erie was rooted in community. I knew my classmates, my teachers knew my name, and there was something comforting about the predictability of it all (even when I swore I was ready to move away).

From what I remember…high school is weird.

You’re expected to start figuring out who you are while navigating group projects, cafeteria politics, and the sudden, confusing urge to reinvent yourself every semester. Some days you feel like you’ve got it all together. Other days you accidentally call your teacher “Mom” and trip up the stairs in front of everyone.

Spoiler alert: That’s all part of it.

Finding yourself in high school doesn’t usually happen in one magical moment. It happens in the little ones—joining a club you never thought you’d try, standing up for something (or someone), failing miserably at something and still showing up the next day.

It happens in quiet moments when you realize what makes you feel like yourself, and loud ones when you laugh until you cry with people who just get you.

If you’re still figuring out who you are—good. You’re doing it right. Growth isn’t supposed to be neat. It’s messy, cringey, and surprisingly beautiful.

You don’t have to have all the answers yet. You just have to stay open to becoming.

Now Living in Cincinnati

A city that revolves around Reds, Bengals, and Chili

Now, I live in Cincinnati (about 15 years now)—a very different city, with no lake, much less snow, and a whole lot more chili. I traded blizzards for Bengals games, but Erie will always be my first home. I can still hear the crunch of snow under boots in January and taste the Smith’s hot dogs from a summer cookout. I didn’t realize at the time how special it was to grow up in a town where people waved at you in grocery store aisles and you always saw someone you knew at the mall.

Erie gave me roots. It gave me the kind of childhood you don’t fully appreciate until you’re older—one full of snowmen, swing sets, Catholic school skirts, and Lake Erie sunsets.

And even though my kids are growing up in Ohio, I’ll always carry a little Erie with me. Especially when the skies are gray and I can smell a storm rolling in. That’s when I smile, knowing I’ve seen skies like that before—and I’ll always know where they lead.