People love talking about the moment a dream comes true. They don’t talk nearly enough about all the ordinary Tuesdays when nothing seems to be happening and you have to decide to believe in yourself anyway.

Growing a business from the ground up is no joke. It takes a certain person with a deep belief in themselves and what they’re building to keep going long enough to see it become something real. July is a month I truly felt the baseball gods rewarded me, as our Dodgers coach Dave Roberts would say.

One thing I’ve learned from watching the Dodgers is that consistency doesn’t always look exciting. Most of the work happens when no one is watching. You trust the process, turn the page, and show up again tomorrow.

The time period where you’re not seeing results but you keep going, keep showing up day after day and keep believing in yourself truly tests you in every way. And since starting Talk Dodgers to Me in 2024, I’m in it deep. You learn everything about yourself whether you want to or not. The good parts, the bad, what you’re good at, what you’re not - and only if you’re willing to accept that and continue adjusting, learning, unlearning, pivoting and rolling with the punches are you going to make it out alive. But the chance to thrive. The chance to bring something you believe in so deeply to life. To pour your whole heart and soul into something. To make a difference. To help people. To follow the fire I’ve felt since the day I booked that one-way ticket to LA. That’s why I keep going.

Not everyone can understand the hustle of an entrepreneur, the mental state you need to stay in, the constant need to be your own biggest cheerleader - and for me, I was truly hitting a breaking point. If I’m being honest, before this trip, I had been in one of the lowest places I’d ever been in. Not because I wanted to quit. Because I was tired. Tired of carrying a dream that depends on me showing up every single day. No one else can keep believing when things feel slow. Some days that responsibility feels incredibly meaningful. Other days, it feels incredibly heavy.

There were moments before I left where I caught myself wanting to escape it all for just a little while. I tried to replace my desire to walk the four blocks from my Santa Monica apartment to the beach for a piña colada at 1 p.m. with thoughts of my upcoming trip instead. I’d picture myself sitting on my mom’s deck in the mountains of New Jersey with the perfect summer breeze, nothing but the sound of birds chirping and the river flowing in the background. And when I hit snooze for the tenth time and had a harder time getting out of bed than ever before, I’d remind myself that in just a couple of days I’d be floating on the lake. I wanted to escape the endless to-do list in my head. The constant pressure of everything I needed to do to keep the podcast going. It felt like the list never ended.

I’ll admit it - I did walk to the beach one afternoon for a piña colada.

“Hi, Can I have a piña colada?” I asked the woman working at Perry’s.

“We’re out of frozen drinks today.”

“But… I see it right there.”

“It’s completely frozen. The machine isn’t working.”

After trying to plead my case a few more times, I gave up and started walking home. Somehow, I swear that was Nini saying to me “Meliss, you are stronger than this.”

It’s hard to type this without tears in my eyes.

The escaping wasn’t because I didn’t love what I was building. It was because I’d forgotten how to refill my own cup. Since losing my dad in 2005, baseball had been my escape. It’s one of the biggest reasons I started this podcast. But somewhere along the way, my escape became my job.

One of the hardest parts of the last three years has been not having my Nini. Nini was not just my aunt and god-mother but the person I would always call for advice. I don’t think there was anyone in my life who truly knew me the way she did. She saw everything I knew I was capable of, even before I did. She also was the one helping me start a podcast in the first place. And every time I reach for my phone to call her, that lump in my throat forms that I put off dealing with because I just have to keep going. And still... a part of me just doesn’t want to believe she’s gone.

I flew back to NJ the same time of year I have since Justin died. His birthday was July 1 and we’ve started a tradition of going to a Mets game every year in his honor. He would have been 43. Although this year the Mets sucked so bad, I don’t think Justin would have even wanted us to go. But just being with my family and honoring him, talking about him and missing him together is something I cherish.

Since Justin died and six months later, Nini died, none of us have been the same. We had all already been through so much loss, but these two unexpected deaths were too much to truly handle. It’s made me feel different from others in a way so much loss does to you. And the weight I carry of heartbreak is one I feel needs recharging by being around the ones who understand it, because they live with it, too. We are all carrying it in different ways, but I think the comfort of being around each other and being seen by each other is important for all of us. It’s an unspeakable bond we forever share.

I needed this trip more than I realized. And somehow… it gave me everything I didn’t know I needed.

I was sitting on my mom’s couch when my phone rang. It was Gwenn, my agent. I met her through my best friend Natalee who she has been working with for over 10 years. Gwenn is a die-hard Dodger fan and I took Natalee and Gwenn to a Dodger game last season where Gwenn learned about what I was doing. Months later she approached me to become MY agent, and I was thrilled.

“You’re going to the ESPYs.” Gwenn said.

I was speechless. It’s funny - or maybe not so funny - but I’ve had my life change in the blink of an eye so many times because of devastating news that it’s become hard to fully take in good news and believe it’s real. But this felt different. To me, this wasn’t just an invitation to the ESPYs. It was an opportunity to introduce myself and what I’m building on a much bigger stage. In that moment, nothing could have felt more meaningful.

I was supposed to be flying back to Los Angeles that day, but I quickly made arrangements to stay in the city. (Thank you, Uncle Richard and Kenji!) My sister flew back to LA solo with a set of my apartment keys so she could start creating my ESPYs outfit. We came up with an idea that would tell my story through what I wore, and I couldn’t imagine walking into my first ESPYs in a better way.

A lot of what I’m learning about entrepreneurship is that so many of the quotes I’ve heard over the years really are true, but it takes life and experience to understand why. “Trust the journey” they say. Sometimes I can’t believe I have a baseball podcast, but everything I’ve done up to this point makes it make sense. And the only way I’m going to understand it all is by continuing to keep going. And then there’s the advice I’ve heard for years: stop making the main thing your entire life. Live your life. Because sometimes, when you’re desperately trying to make something move an inch or hoping one deal will finally come through, what you really need isn’t to push harder. It’s to surrender to trust.

Watching the Dodgers has reinforced that lesson for me. They don’t panic after one loss. They don’t abandon their approach because things aren’t working for a week. They trust the process. They turn the page. They believe that if they keep showing up and doing the work, the results will come. And for my back-to-back champs, they do. I’ve tried to build my life the same way.

Maybe that’s what trusting the process really means. Not waiting for life to prove you’re on the right path, but believing you are even before you can see it.

Last year, I walked away from an opportunity because I was told I needed to prioritize work over family. After months of being told all the things I should change about myself, that was the moment I stopped second-guessing who I was and actually started to laugh.

These people didn’t get me. They never cared to. They wanted me to fit into their version of success. But instead of breaking me, it set me free.

“Baseball is family to me,” I said, and I walked away without a single regret.

Did it make the road harder? Yes. But I’ll never sacrifice my family, my values, my health, or the vision I’m building for money, status, or someone else’s definition of success.

Everything I do comes from my heart. It’s authentic through and through because I don’t know how to be anyone else but me, and I never want to. And if I have to choose between getting there faster or getting there as myself, I’ll choose myself every single time.

The funny thing is, I flew to New Jersey with nothing planned. I didn’t have a ticket to the ESPYs. I didn’t have a ticket to the Dodgers-Yankees game. I didn’t have an invitation to the Novak Djokovic premiere. I honestly just wanted to spend time with family. I had prepped social media posts for the podcast, thought I’d record one episode while I was away, but not kill myself over it, and if an opportunity happened to come along, that would be a bonus.

Instead, doors kept opening. One invitation after another. One conversation leading to another opportunity. And as exciting as those experiences were, that’s actually not what meant the most to me.

What meant the most was what they represented.

For years and years, far beyond this podcast you see me doing now, I’ve been betting on myself. Trying to understand myself and my purpose, because it feels so meaningful, that I’m here to help people.

This trip didn’t give me certainty. It gave me evidence. Evidence that the years of believing in myself weren’t wasted. Evidence that relationships matter. Evidence that consistency matters. Evidence that the seeds I’ve been planting are finally beginning to bloom.

It reminded me that hard work has a way of compounding quietly. Most of the time, we don’t notice it’s working because we’re too focused on how far we still have to go. Then one day, you look around and realize you’re standing inside moments you once only dreamed about.

I showed up to the ESPYs after a one-hour rain delay in the New York City heat, getting sweatier by the minute, somehow still feeling like the most beautiful version of myself. Not because I spent hours doing my own makeup. Not because I was getting my picture taken. But because I felt proud.

I felt proud to tell people what I was wearing. I felt proud to be there.

The the silver top was from my co-host Jaclyn’s clothing brand. My skirt was made by my sister, who busted her ass to find a sequin fabric to match the top and ship it across the country the next day hoping it would fit. When I FaceTimed her to try it on, my mom reached into her jewelry box and put on the necklace my dad had given me and a pair of her earrings.

I wore my heart on my sleeve, literally.

As I walked through a room full of stars, I wasn’t wearing a designer story. I was wearing mine. Every piece represented who I am and what I am building with Talk Dodgers to Me.

But more than that, it represented the people I carry with me every day - the ones who helped build me and never stopped believing in me.

And maybe that’s why this trip felt so different.

For the first time, I wasn’t chasing opportunities. I was chasing what I needed: my family. Love. Comfort.

Grief changes over time. And what you need through your grief changes, too. And if you pay attention, you’ll understand what kind of support you need. This time, it made me long for the love and comfort my heart was used to getting from the ones I lost. It made me long to be around the ones who understand. Who feel the invisible shield I now wear of the depth of loss I feel every day.

Not because the pain is new, but because it’s shared. Because there’s something healing about sitting with the people who know every version of your story. The people who remember your dad without needing an explanation. The people who can laugh about Justin one minute and cry about him the next. The people who can bring up Nini over dinner without wondering if it’s “too sad” to talk about. The people who understand that remembering someone isn’t reopening a wound. It’s how we keep loving them and keep their memory alive.

And what recharges me now is different than it was 5 years ago, 10 years ago. And I have to keep remembering to help myself, too. My one week trip turned into three incredible refueling weeks. I got my time sitting on the deck. I got my time floating on the lake. Morning walks with my mom. Dinners with my cousins. I got my favorite turkey sandwich and visited my favorite coffee shop. I introduced my best friend from high-school to my best friend from LA. It seemed like the moment I stopped thinking about everything I have to do for the podcast, I finally got a reminder of why I’m doing it all in the first place.

Along the way, I learned that I can’t keep doing this just for them. They may have been the reason I started this podcast, and I truly believe they’ve been with me every step of the way, especially during that first year. But the strength to keep going has to come from me.

Because I deserve to make my dreams come true. I deserve to become the person I’ve always believed I could be. I deserve to fulfill the potential I’ve felt so deeply within myself.

And I owe it to you, too.

To show up as the best version of myself for the people who choose to spend part of their week with me, who cheer me on, who have made Talk Dodgers to Me so much more than a baseball podcast.

Thank you July, for bringing me back to me. For giving me a moment to appreciate what I’ve done so far and recharge me to keep going. And thank you my loyal amazing Talk Dodgers to Me listeners, your love and support means more to me that you’ll ever know.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you need that pina colada, know that this time, this feeling isn’t forever. Take on the Dodgers mindset like I do, one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time, keep turning the page, trust the process, but most importantly, trust yourself. Because the only person who can change your life is you.

You got this. I got this. We all got this.

Love,

Melissa

Baseball has always been my connection with my dad. It was going to his games growing up. It was the 3 TVs in our basement so he could watch every game at once. It was family and friends coming over to watch sports and my dad taking center stage yelling obscenities at the TV. It was my dad calling into the FAN radio station to talk about the Phillies who he loved so much. It was playing catch in the backyard. I couldn’t believe anyone could throw the ball as high as he did. However, I strayed from baseball when he died. I was so mad at him. He lost his battle with addiction in 2005 when I was 16.

My mom had been a stay at home mom my whole life, but had no choice but to take over my dad’s business when he died. She was in the fashion industry before I was born and now thrust into taking over a moving company. It was a rocky road for her at first. Moving the conversation from “Rob’s widow” to “Cindy the CEO” was no small feat, but watching her do that truly changed the lens I view life through. She made the company her own, instilling who she is and her values to create a culture she truly believed in. I had lived in my imagination so much growing up, but watching her do this made me believe the dreams I had been dreaming could really come true.

I booked a one way flight to LA when I was 22. I didn't know yet what I wanted to do, but I knew there was something for me to find. I set my sights on Hollywood because I wanted to be around people like me: dreamers. Moving to a city where I didn’t know anyone and was across the country from my family was not always easy. I was still dealing with grief and all the emotions navigating life without my dad.

I went to my first Dodger game and laid my eyes on Clayton Kershaw who was the starting pitcher. Everyone seemed to be talking about him and how incredible he was. He also seemed to be sparking life into this team, along with the Dodgers new ownership group. I went home and googled everything about him and the team. I started learning about the Dodgers organization, how they treat the players and all they do on and off the field. I tuned into every game after that and before I knew it, I could tell you everything from their pre-game routines to their kids names. I was hooked.

Dodger games started becoming a regular thing for me and what I would spend every dollar I had on. It was really connecting me with this new city I called home. However, for some reason, it was always hard to find people to go with me. None of my friends

were really into baseball, so I would always drag someone along and make friends with fellow Dodger fans at the stadium. Going up to strangers in the street or grocery store

wearing Dodger hats was a normal occurrence, but my overly enthused energy seemed to confuse people who wore that hat but didn’t actually follow the team.

Watching baseball always calmed me. I loved listening to the broadcasters, that’s where I learned all my info about the players, and you never know what could happen with one pitch or one hit. It was exciting and I absolutely loved it. I’ll never forget sitting on my couch one day hearing myself yell the same things my dad used to yell at the TV. The tears welling up in my eyes turned to laughter and I felt my dad again after years of holding so much anger inside. Baseball brought me back to him.

I come from a family who loves all different teams. My grandparents were die-hard Phillies fans, which was passed down to my dad, Uncle Ray and Uncle Gerry. However, my grandmother was known for having a huge crush on Aaron Judge. We did all live in New Jersey after all, where Yankee fans are everywhere. My Uncle John and Aunt Theresa are big Mets fans as they were young when the Mets went on a crazy run in the mid ‘80s and have supported the team ever since. Their kids, my cousins, are big Mets fans, too. My Aunt Susan and cousins who moved to Northern California are in enemy territory aka Giants fans. And on my mom’s side are Yankee fans. Then here I am, the sole Dodger fan. I come from a family of baseball fans, but no matter the team, baseball has always connected us with each other and our family members who have passed.

On Valentine’s Day in 2023, my cousin Justin died at 39 years old. I idolized him growing up, and even though he battled cancer for seven years, I never believed something so bad could happen to someone so good. I tend to see the world through rose colored glasses, and my optimism in life, in people and my Dodger team has helped me get through hard times. I loved talking baseball with Justin and after losing him, it’s really the only thing I felt comfortable talking about.

I escaped into baseball. When I felt that lump in my throat forming, I turned on Dodger highlights. Chris Taylors walk off home run to win the Wildcard game in 2021 was one I watched on repeat. And when I felt I had to come out of my bubble and go out into the

world, I hid behind my Dodger hat wanting to avoid any conversation that might bring me to tears. Just six months after losing Justin, I was dealt another unimaginable loss, my aunt, godmother and one of the closest people in my life died. She was my first call when Justin died, and as she usually did, she stayed on the other end of the phone just listening to me cry, “I know, Woob,” was all she had to say. I was her “blue eyed Woobie” and she was my Nini.

Nini had been helping me prepare to start a podcast for months. We talked on the phone as I was across the country, zoomed, and texted our ideas to each other on a regular basis. Since I had started a life coaching business in 2021, the podcast was going to lean toward self help and deep conversations. When she unexpectedly died, I escaped into baseball again. Dodgers highlights seemed to be the only thing to make me happy. And again, my uniform of jeans, a tee shirt and a Dodger hat allowed me to move the conversation to baseball with anyone who would listen.

The feedback I got from people hearing me was mostly shock that I could out-talk any guy in a sports bar, but I actually wasn’t thrilled by how surprising it was that a girl would like baseball. I wanted to find more like me. I went home and snagged the handle Talk Dodgers to Me on Instagram. And after I bought a ticket and went to a Women in Sports event at Dodger Stadium, it was decided. I was doing this.

In the seven months since starting the podcast, it seems like all my worlds have come together. 13 years in LA, countless jobs, understanding my purpose, navigating life with such heavy grief and figuring out how to move forward all seemed to lead me here. Not only have I been able to meet new friends and start to build a beautiful Dodger community, but when I think about how much I wish my dad could see this, or Justin, or Nini, I just know they are watching from above cheering me on. I get to share them with my listeners, and not only allow their memories to live on, but allow people listening to share their stories and connect with me in that way. Because for me, it’s always been bigger than baseball. And what I’m learning is that it’s the same for most baseball fans, too.

As I’m writing this, my Dodgers are one win away from a World Series championship and now everyone seems to want to Talk Dodgers to Me.

Grief feels like a broken heart.

I am currently in different stages of grief with different loved ones. It simultaneously feels normal to grieve my dad on this day marking 19 years since he died, yet overwhelming and unfair to now be grieving my aunt Nini, and cousin Justin, who unexpectedly died last year. Two of my favorite people and two who did not deserve what life handed them. It’s been horribly tough to navigate, to even accept let alone feel. I guess I’m learning from that 16-year-old me who lost her dad and has had to figure out life ever since. Being an adult in my thirties going through grief is very different from being in high school where my biggest worries were homework, friends and cheerleading.

I called my sister yesterday to ask why we focus so much on the day our dad died.

“Maybe we should start celebrating his birthdays?” I said. “Why do we focus on the anniversary of his death?”

The anniversary, Father’s Day and his birthday are all around the same time so I guess it really doesn’t matter when it is, it’s just that we do. It feels important to take time to honor him, to talk about him. To talk about all the people we’ve lost. It’s a heartbreak that will never be filled, so we do what we can to acknowledge it. 

I don’t know why society is still so uncomfortable talking about death. It’s something we all inevitably go through. But it’s never the person experiencing grief who is uncomfortable. It’s everyone else. I think this is the only circumstance I tend to agree with the phrase “Ignorance is bliss.” If that is you, you are so lucky. You are so lucky to not know this feeling. For those who do, I see you. I really do. And for those who don’t know what to say, I implore you to ask about the person who died. I can’t tell you how much it means to me when someone asks. It makes me feel like you want to know me more - you want to know this person who was so important to me and shaped who I am. What matters to me is allowing their legacy to live on, so when you ask, that’s what you are allowing me to do.

So much of how I think about life is like baseball, and I am channeling the baseball mentality more than ever since losing Nini and Justin. When those big waves come, I have to calm myself down somehow. So, like the typical baseball player response when asked about his approach, I have to remind myself to take it one day at a time. One hour at a time. Lately, one minute at a time.

As my thoughts and feelings change on this day from year to year, today I’m thinking about how proud I am to be instilled with my dads strong values. I read letters he gave me. I touch his handwriting on the yellow lined paper he liked to write on and just want to feel as close to him as possible. However, there was a time I refused to allow him to know I even read the letters. I was so mad at him that I threw some out. Oh how I wish I still had them. One weekend when my parents had separated and it was my dad’s day to take us to dinner, we went to Phil’s Pizza, a restaurant down the street where everyone knew him. He had a lot of places like that. My sister and I sat across from him as I tried my hardest not to look at him and answer his questions as short as possible.

"Missy, did you get my letters?” He asked. He was the only person in my life to ever call me that.

“No.” I said. Arms crossed and with as much attitude as possible.

“Yes, she did!” Sam yelled out. “She has them in her desk drawer!”

“SAM!” I kicked her under the table.

I wish I kept more of those letters, but the ones I have say everything I need to hear, and I find something new sticks out to me every June 11 when I choose to take them out. They are my most precious possessions. He wrote in one of the birthday cards as neatly as possible, “Strive to be your best whether it is cheerleading, homework, housework, always give it your all and believe me that is the key to being a success. Even when you are confronted with something that you may not feel like doing, do it and give it your all and I guarantee you will feel a lot better about the outcome but most important you will feel better about yourself.”

Since starting a podcast about baseball recently, I’ve been thinking about my dad more than ever. He is why I am such a sports fan, after all. As I read his words, I realize how much my values, his values, are my moral compass. I have been embodying those words more than ever. I am my father’s daughter in so many ways. Stubborn? Yes. Driven? Definitely. Passionate? The most.

My life since he died has been a journey of discovering myself, my purpose, and a long road of healing I had to be ready to open myself up to. Even on the days I felt lost or confused, I’ve always known I am that person he wanted me to be who puts her all into everything she does.

And as June 11 comes each year, and I sit and write like I am now, it allows me to pause and reflect on where I am. I can’t help but think my dad is guiding me along in his own way. I feel a sense of calm I didn’t expect. And the reason for that is simple, I’m doing the things I’ve been wanting to do.

What came with losing Nini and Justin last year was not giving a f*** about what anyone thinks. Have more fun. Do the things I love. And be the person I was meant to be. I had been talking the talk for awhile, but something shifted in me to start walking the walk.

I had been talking about starting a podcast for years - I had no idea it would be a baseball podcast I started with, but that’s what was presenting itself to me and I ran with it. That sense of calm came with finally doing things for me. But it’s not just for me, because everything I do feels bigger than me.

Since I was little, I’ve always felt there was purpose and meaning for my life that I had to find. That is what allows me to not care so much about the outcome but to keep focused on the baseball “one day at a time” mentality. And this feels like the start to a new journey but instead of worrying about what’s to come, I am just excited to see what will happen next.

Even with a heart broken over and over and over again, I feel lucky to have known such deep love. So on the days it feels too hard to bear, I know that how deep I feel, is how deep I was loved.

In loving memory of my dad, Robert Augustine Myer.

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