Don't Let the Bastards Win.

I have a love-hate relationship with any movie that can make me cry. I love that ‘catharsis’ of recognition, when something resonates so deeply, you feel so 'not alone in this experience of life'. I hate it because I cry ugly. Like, red-nosed, blotchy-faced 'don’t look at me’ levels of unattractive.

But every now and then, a story hits you with a hard-hitting truth: building something real will cost you everything and still won’t promise a payoff. But for some reason, you try to build it anyway.

So when I sat down to watch Nonnas on Netflix with the Balkan Storm, I figured I was in for a sweet little documentary, some light comfort food vibes, maybe even a few regional cooking tips. I did not expect to see shadows of my own damn life in a movie about grandmas and gravy.

The film follows Joe Scaravella (played by Vince Vaughn), a Staten Island guy who, after losing his mother and grandmother, decides to open a restaurant. But not just any restaurant- this one would be staffed by grandmothers from around the world, each one cooking traditional dishes passed down through generations, served straight from the soul.

It’s a wild idea. And it nearly doesn’t work.

Joe pours in his savings. He struggles to market the concept. He navigates the bedlam of clashing cultures, conflicting palates, and strong-willed matriarchs with zero interest in being managed. He doesn’t have a blueprint or a backup plan, just this gut instinct that what he’s doing matters. That people need this.

And that’s where it got me.

Because I’m smack-dab in the middle of building something too. Something messy and fragile and more important to me than anything I’ve ever done. I’ve got no long-term investors or a ‘how-to’ guide (thank you, ChatGPT, for teaching me how to code a website, literally building the plane as I’m flying it). Just a voice in my head that won’t shut up and a vision I can’t shake.

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While I’m trying to hold the line for my family, I’ve been pouring everything I have into this project, one I believe in more than anything I’ve ever created before. So much so that even my Type-A ‘get shit done’ husband has voiced some mild concern. (It’s fine, really. I think.)

But the truth is, I’m out here every day trying to make something out of thin air, praying it sticks before the energy runs out.

And that’s what Nonnas shows so well, the tension happening in the back of the house. The financial stress. The emotional weight. The exhaustion of believing in something long before the world around you catches up.

There’s even a Staten Island local who actively told people not to go to Joe’s restaurant. Just out there trash-talking the place, undercutting his efforts, dismissing the vision before it had a chance to exist.

Because there’s always someone like that, isn't there? Always someone saying you’re too late in life, or you’re ‘weird’ or underqualified. Always someone getting in the way, who’d rather watch you fail than admit you’re building something they don’t understand.

Sometimes it’s a bitter bystander with too much time and too little vision. Sometimes it’s a frenemy who pokes holes in your dream and tells you it’s 'concern'. And sometimes, perhaps worst of all, it’s you.

And that’s where the real battle is, isn’t it? Whether or not you let those voices, real or imagined, decide the outcome.

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There’s this moment when Joe, desperate and running on fumes, shows up at the New York Times office with a bag of food. He’s not even sure the critic is going to read the letter, let alone taste what he brought.

When he hears nothing, he figures it’s over. He is tapped out- no more money to fuel his dream. So he throws a party to use up what’s left in the kitchen, one last hurrah before closing the doors and calling it quits. But behind the scenes, something was already happening for Joe. A review had gone to print. And the next morning, there was a line out the door.

That was fifteen years ago. Enoteca Maria is still open and run by grandmothers from every corner of the world. Still thriving, still feeding people like family, all because someone refused to quit on something that felt right.

And God knows I needed that reminder.

Because if someone told me I had to fail 28 times before I hit the thing that changes my life, I’d ask if I could knock out five by tomorrow. That’s where I am now: iterating, refining, learning what doesn’t work, even when it’s uncomfortable for me. Especially when it’s uncomfortable for me.

I have no idea how this story ends for us yet. I can’t even talk publicly about half of what we’re up against in so many areas of life. What I can say is that I’ve never fought harder for something that no on else can see yet. I never believed this deeply in something without knowing if it’ll ever really take off.

But this thing right here has a pulse, which means everything to me. ‘Cause I never expected it to get this far already. So I keep working, keep betting on what this could be, even when it hurts like hell.

Because sometimes, the life you’re building won’t show a breakthrough until right after you thought you’d lost.

My husband says it all the time:

Don’t let the bastards win.

I don’t plan to.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.