Family

Good morning my dudes. Apologies for not posting yesterday—I needed the sleep.

It's funny how family can be.

Family means different things to different people.

It can be your literal family. Or a group of inseparable friends. A partner. A best friend. A pet. Even someone you check in on once in a while.

If you’ve spent time in Malta, you’ll know—we take family seriously here. Sunday lunches, weddings, car meets, midweek dinners, parties, BBQs. We honk at people we know. We shout from balconies. We act like everyone’s our cousin. The concept of family is alive and well. We care about community.

There’s nothing better or worse than a hungover lunch with extended family. One minute you're being judged for your life choices. The next, you’re offered the last piece of rabbit like royalty. It’s chaotic comfort. A strange, familiar language we all somehow speak.

I love my family more than anything. They’re my support system. The first people I turn to when a problem feels too big.

They also exhaust me. In a good way. In a “roll my eyes, here we go again” way. You know that feeling when someone’s so nice it makes you squirm? Or when you pretend to be fine just to keep the peace? When someone keeps helping even when you didn’t ask for it? That’s love, too. Messy, overreaching, beautiful love.

Think about it. Who do you argue with the most? Probably the people you love the most.

We argue because we care. We want them to understand us. To see what we see. I’ve noticed it in my own life. I only argue with the people I care about. To the point of exhaustion. But what happens after an argument with family? In my case—usually nothing. A few days, weeks, maybe months of silence… and then?

“Don’t worry about it. We can’t agree on everything.”

And that’s the truth. We can’t always agree. But the fact that we even try? That’s love.

Sometimes we sacrifice too much for our families. We perform. We chase perfection. We want to make them proud, even when it costs us something. Because their opinion matters. And it goes both ways.

It’s the sacrifices we make that make people our family.

One of my fondest memories of my great-grandmother, Giovanna—one of my idols—is her roasting me at a family BBQ. I was 20. The conversation turned to who would make her daughter a great-grandmother. Names flew around. Then mine came up.

“Maybe Matt?” “How’s that going, Matt?” “Seeing anyone right now?”

The tension built. I could feel every eye on me. I looked around frantically. Then Giovanna, 95 and still sharp, dropped it perfectly:

“Matt? Hahahaha. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend yet.”

The whole family erupted in laughter. And me? I laughed the anxiety away. “Damn Giovanna, chill. But yeah, you’re right.”

And there it was. My best friend helping me out in an uncomfortable situation. She broke the tension with a joke. And I appreciated it more than I could say. I saw my own humor in her.

She passed away during the COVID lockdown. I was under a two-week isolation order, and I had promised myself I’d go visit her the moment I got out. She died three days before my release date. My first activity outside of lockdown was her funeral.

That hit hard. Still does. But I carry her with me. Through the humour, through the memory, through the moment she made me laugh when I needed it most. I will always carry her memory with me, like the memories I carry of other people who are gone. And as long as their memory is alive in me. Then so are they.

Family doesn’t have to mean blood. It’s whoever stays when you’re messy. The ones who stick around. The ones who give you a quiet nod when you need it. The ones who know your weird jokes and your bad moods and still want you around. That’s family, too.

So if you're lucky enough to have a seat at a table—even if the food's cold or the vibes are off—pull up a chair.

Say thank you.

Ask how their day was.

Listen. Pass the bread. Grab dessert.

These are the little things everyone keeps talking about.

Talk soon – matt

Miss you, gorgeous