In Memory of...
You will be missed, but never forgotten.
There are some people you assume will always be there.
Not in a grand, dramatic way, just in the quiet, steady sense. The kind of person you expect to see pop up with a comment, a bit of feedback, a well-timed joke. The kind of presence that becomes part of the rhythm of your life without you ever really noticing when it happened.
And then, suddenly, they’re gone.
I lost a mentor and a friend this week. Even writing that sentence feels strange, too clean, too simple for something that feels anything but. There’s no easing into it, no preparation. Just the sharp realization that someone so full of life, won’t be there anymore.
She wasn’t the only mentor I’ve been fortunate enough to learn from. I’ve had the privilege of being surrounded by a large group of writers who give their time, their insight, and their honesty freely. But she was one of those people who stood out even within that circle, someone whose voice you recognized instantly, whose presence you felt the moment she joined a conversation.
She was a writer, first and always. The kind who didn’t just love words but understood them, how they worked, how they failed, how they could be pushed to become something better. And somehow, she had a way of seeing that potential in other people, too.
Like a lot of others, I was lucky enough to learn from her.
Her feedback wasn’t just helpful, it was transformative. She had a way of cutting straight to the heart of a piece, finding what worked and what didn’t, and somehow making you want to improve rather than feel discouraged. That’s a rare gift. It’s easy to critique. It’s much harder to lift someone up while doing it.
She did both.
But more than that, she brought energy into every space she stepped into. She had this constant spark, quick with a smile, quicker with a joke. The kind of laugh that made other people laugh, whether they knew the punchline or not. She didn’t just enjoy life, she pulled other people into that enjoyment with her.
And yes, she could be a bit of a troublemaker.
An instigator in the best sense of the word. One of many in our writing family, who nudged conversations off the safe path and into something more interesting. One who made sure things didn’t get too serious for too long. There was always a bit of mischief there, always something just under the surface that kept things fun.
That’s the part that’s hardest to wrap my head around, the absence of that energy. It leaves a quiet that feels… wrong.
Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t just come from losing someone, it comes from all the moments you expected to still have. The unwritten messages. The unwritten feedback. The conversations that now only exist in memory.
But alongside that loss, there’s something else.
Gratitude.
Because not everyone gets a circle like that. Not everyone gets mentors who take the time, who invest in them, who help them grow not just as a writer, but as a person. And within that circle, she was one of the bright points, the kind you don’t fully realize the weight of until it’s gone.
That kind of impact doesn’t disappear. It lingers in every sentence shaped a little more carefully, in every story pushed a little further, in every moment you hear their voice in the back of your mind saying, you can do better—now go prove it.
So that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep improving. I’ll keep passing along the same kind of encouragement and honesty that she, and others like her, gave so freely.
It won’t fill the space she left. Nothing will.
But it feels like the right way to honor it.
Please check out the books of a beloved friend and fellow author…