Lesslee Dort

When I was a child, my older brother would sometimes ask – aka, tell – me to make him a sandwich. And my mother, shaped by a time when traditional roles were more firmly drawn, would reinforce the request.

As a schoolgirl, I didn’t have the language for what I felt. I only knew something felt slightly off. It wasn’t anger. It was more of a quiet, internal tilt – something I couldn’t name, but could feel didn’t sit comfortably within me.

Years later, when we were both young adults visiting home, my brother once again “asked” me to make him a sandwich. Only this time, I heard it differently. Or maybe I heard myself more clearly.

Regrettably, I responded harshly. “I’m not your dedicated sandwich maker. Make your own sandwich.” These were the words of a young woman trying to carve out her equal place in the world – not a thoughtful, compassionate, or kind reply. I hadn’t yet learned how to live with intention.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No raised voices. No lingering conflict. But something shifted. And what surprised me most – what saddened me a bit – was that he never asked me again.

At the time, I took that as a kind of resolution. A boundary set. A statement made. Case closed. But, life has a way of circling us back to moments we thought we understood. As we grow and learn, we begin to see our past through wiser, clearer lenses. We gain understanding – and vocabulary – we didn’t possess as

children.

I was coming of age at a time when women were more openly claiming space, voice, and equality. Rightly so. That mattered. It still matters. But I can see now how outside influences, cultural shifts, and my own evolving identity all met at that moment at the kitchen counter.

Looking back, I see that exchange through a softer, more generous lens. I honestly believe my brother wasn’t trying to assert anything negative over me. If anything, he may have been reaching backward – grasping for a shared memory, a familiar rhythm, a simple way of saying, “This is us. This is home.”

Our age difference didn’t allow for as much overlap as we might have liked. We didn’t grow up side-by-side in the same way some siblings do. So perhaps a simple sandwich became a stand-in for a relationship – a small ritual that connected us.

We all have conversations we would redo. Moments where we might ask more questions, seek to better understand another’s motivations, or leave space for curiosity instead of rushing to a conclusion.

Oddly, making sandwiches has been a theme throughout my life. Last week, I made one for a friend; nothing elaborate, just something I knew she’d enjoy. And as I wrapped it up, I realized I wasn’t just making lunch. I was offering love in the most ordinary, human way. There is something deeply satisfying in it – the planning, the layering, the small creative choices. The way flavors come together. The quiet triumph of constructing a sandwich that holds, where the first bite doesn’t send everything sliding out the back. It’s both art and care.

It feeds something in me that values nurturing, creativity, and even a bit of resourcefulness in minimizing food

waste.

Somewhere along the way, what once felt like obligation became a love language. If you know me at all, you know I have a soft spot for Winnie-the-Pooh. There’s a gentle wisdom in Pooh’s way of moving through the world that I’ve always admired.

In A Walk in the Wood: Meditations on Mindfulness with a Bear Named Pooh, there’s a chapter titled “Sandwich of the Day.” In it, the simple act of making a sandwich becomes something more – a symbol of how to live mindfully and with intention.

Each day can begin with intention and end with reflection. Those are the two slices of bread. Everything in between – all the doing, the striving, the showing up – is the filling. A good sandwich, like a good life, depends on balance. Too much of any one ingredient can overwhelm the whole. Not enough, and something feels missing.

So, we adjust. We taste. We learn. Maybe that’s what I was doing all along – learning how to balance voice with understanding, independence with connection, truth with tenderness.

If I could revisit that kitchen moment now, I’m not sure I’d change the words as much as I’d change the awareness I brought to them. Because life isn’t made up of grand turning points as often as we think. It’s built from small, ordinary exchanges: requests made, responses given, meanings assumed. And over time, we come to

see that what mattered wasn’t just what was said, but what was meant, what was missed, and what was quietly carried forward.

Maybe that’s the real work of a lifetime – learning to reinterpret the past with a little more grace, a little more curiosity, and a much more generous heart.

How will you make your next sandwich?