Unfortunately, I learned very early that every life has an end. My grandparents were killed in an automobile accident when I was still in preschool. I was too young to fully grasp what death meant, but I understood enough to know that I wouldn’t see them again for a very long time. What I remember most vividly is how profoundly sad my mother was when my dad, my brother, and I boarded a plane to Long Island, where Grandma Boeke and my aunt and uncle would care for us for a week or so while my parents stayed behind in Chicago to try to sort things out.
That was my first encounter with loss—and since then, there have been times when I’ve had the gift of preparation. But more often than not, death arrives without warning. It doesn’t knock. It just takes.
This week was one of those unexpected moments. A good friend, a colleague, a woman who would have done anything for me—and I, for her—abruptly left us. There was no warning, no final conversation to soften the blow. Just absence. She was someone whose loyalty and love never needed explanation, whose quiet presence grounded me more than I realized—until now. And as the hours pass, it’s not just grief that weighs on me, but the ache of all the things left unsaid, the moments we never circled back to, the words I didn’t take the time to say.
She was more than my office assistant; she was, aside from my parents and children, the person I was closest to. I often called her my “work mom,” and that title was never an exaggeration. It captured the deep, steady care she showed me—and the unspoken way she looked out for me every single day.
For nearly ten years, she made me better at my job. She helped me stay organized, yes—but more than that, she helped me lead with clarity and grace. She anticipated needs before they were spoken, protected my time, and managed chaos with a calm that could steady anyone. She knew when to gently push, when to hold space, and when to simply listen. She was thoughtful, steadfast, and above all, a dear friend and an extraordinary human being.
Even in the best circumstances, nothing truly prepares you for the moment someone you love is gone. You might have the chance to say goodbye, to hold their hand, to speak the words that feel most important—but the silence that follows always feels heavier than expected. I wasn’t expecting closure when I went to see her in the hospital on Saturday morning, but when her husband told me she was in a prolonged state of unconsciousness with minimal or no awareness of surroundings, the finality of it struck me like a wave. The inability to say goodbye—to really say goodbye—left me hollow.
As I made calls to share the heartbreaking news with colleagues, I found myself overwhelmed by tears and a profound sense of sadness. I know those tears weren’t just about losing someone I loved—they were about everything left unfinished, unsaid, or undone. The pain of regret is sharp—and tragically, it cannot be corrected.
In the midst of this grief, I was reminded of a trio of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips I’ve never forgotten—ones that, remarkably, tell a story of loss, love, and quiet resilience through the eyes of a child. In the first, Calvin finds a dying raccoon and is comforted by his father as he begins to understand death. “I’m crying because out there he’s gone, but he’s not gone inside me,” Calvin says—words that feel especially true right now. When Calvin and Hobbes later visit the raccoon’s grave, Calvin says something quietly profound: “In a sad, awful, terrible way, I’m happy I met him... What a stupid world.” Finally, seeking comfort, Calvin leans on Hobbes and whispers, “But don’t you go anywhere.” Hobbes, like any true friend, simply replies, “Don’t worry.”
She was my Hobbes. And now that she’s gone, I don’t know who I will lean on.
Those moments, rendered in a handful of panels and a few words, hold the same emotional truth I’m grappling with now: that loss doesn’t just take someone from you—it reshapes your memories in shades of longing. But it also illuminates the love that was there, the presence that grounded you, and the grace that comes from having known someone truly good.
So if you are lucky enough to still have the people you love within reach, say what matters. Do what matters. Let your time together be free of the silence that regret so often feeds on. Because when the time comes—and it always does—you’ll want the comfort of knowing your love was known, your words were heard, and nothing truly meaningful was left behind.
