Remembering Kate

My niece Kate. After I typed those words, I had to sit for long minutes, struggling with how to write on. Struggling not to cry. Kate died a year ago today, on September 18th of 2025, two days after her 36th birthday. Ever since, I have been trying and failing to write a piece for her memorial book. I want my words to be beautiful and eloquent and worthy of her, but therein lies the problem. How do you offer an authentic tribute to someone you loved so much and barely knew? I want to tell you all about her, but I can’t. 

You change someone’s diapers and you think you’ll know them forever. Kate was my twin sister’s first child, my namesake, and from the moment I first held her when she was just a few hours old, I was crazy in love with her. Everything about her captivated me, but especially those gorgeous dark eyes. She’d gaze at me so solemnly, so cooly from behind that pacifier, assessing and analyzing my worthiness to be her aunt. Then, like the sun breaking through clouds, she’d gift me with a crooked, gummy smile that looked just like her mama’s. I was finishing up my college degree and planning a wedding the year she was born, and I cut a lot of classes to hang out with her baby self and my sister. I am so grateful for every precious moment of that time. 

Kate wasn’t quite a year old when I married and moved a thousand miles away. She grew up in the days before pictures could be sent instantly and effortlessly via phone, so my sister mailed me batches of photos as often as she could. I treasured every single one, no matter how blurry or imperfect. When I sorted through these photos after Kate’s death, I realized I had long since memorized all of them. There were no surprises, no moments of discovery, no “Oh, I forgot about this one!” This was one of so many heartbreaks in the early days after she died. It drove home the realization that I wouldn’t be able to make new memories with her. Ever. 

The most bitter words in the English language are, “I thought I’d have more time.” I thought I’d have all the time in the world to get to know Kate as an adult, to see her house and bring her a housewarming plant, to treat her to lunch at her favorite restaurant, to visit the museum where she was a curator and have her give me a personal, guided tour. That last one breaks me. I love small local museums, I love the everyday, intimate history of a region and its people, and I love research into ancestry. Kate loved these things, too, but I didn’t know that until after she died. 

In recent years, my visits to Michigan have been constrained by the needs of my son. I'm not just mom, I’m caregiver. His disability, his chronic illness, and his intolerance of stress and change have all kept me pretty much tied to my folks’ farm where he feels safe and secure. Kate was in her professional working years, lived over an hour away, and had two beloved pups that needed her time and care. When Kate died, we hadn’t spent meaningful time together in years. Occasionally, when visits and work schedules aligned, we would manage to connect, but I can’t remember the last time we talked. Really talked. We left everything unsaid. I can’t wrap words around the heartache of that. 

“That’s no one's fault,” you’re thinking. “No reason to feel guilty. Totally understandable.” 

I have trotted out these excuses and rationalizations because they’re easy, and I want you to think well of me before I get really real. To get to the heart of this piece and the reason I’m writing it, I have to walk into the shadows. 

When we humans go through the wringer, we want to tell our cautionary tales. We want to warn others, in the hopes that they won’t suffer as we have. If you’re looking for reasons to be positive about our species, I think this is a fine example to point to. Inside each of us is a motivational speaker in a high school auditorium saying, “Don’t make the same mistake I did, kids!” I think it’s beautiful, and it reminds me how much I love people. 

Now obviously, I can’t prevent you from suffering the loss of someone you love; we all pay that piper eventually. But I believe in accepting radical responsibility for the events of my life.  I believe if I experience it, I agreed to it, energetically and vibrationally. I believe in soul contracts exquisitely designed to expand our capacity to love, that we’re never done learning, and that we cannot get it wrong. Most of all, I believe we are all divine souls having human adventures, and when this experience is over, we will return to love, every last one of us. 

If you have survived awful things, the paragraph I just wrote may anger you. If you hold beliefs that don’t align with mine, you may feel uncomfortable. I am hoping we don’t need to have complete accord to continue our conversation. That hope is the light breaking through the darkest of my regrets, and the heart of the reason I’m writing this piece. 

You see, Kate and I had different world views. I won’t say we had different politics because I insist on being apolitical. I cannot name one topic more boring or disheartening, and I refuse to “be informed” or participate. Like my beloved mother-in-law, I am “politically disgusted,” and that opinion is bipartisan (with credit to my brother-in-law for this description). I vote. Beyond that, the subject is a hard “NO.” I have my reasons, and it is oh, so tempting to share, to explain, to justify, to at least attempt to protect myself from the criticism my stance may trigger. Doing so, however, would only dilute what I truly need to say. 

Kate and I tangled over our differing world views in recent years. My sister and I have had similar skirmishes, which is a watered-down description of what passed between us. My sister is lethal in an argument. I have loved her since she and I were a single cell, and I will love her when the last breath leaves my body. Absolutely everything in this life is either more fun or more bearable if we’re together. But I will run full tilt in the opposite direction to avoid engaging her in battle. Full-coward sprint. The genetic gods saw to it that Kate inherited this terrifying trait from her mama. And so. 

Defensiveness is easy to justify, especially to ourselves. We get hurt, we put up walls. If you’re anything like me, you even revel a little bit in the drama of your guardedness. As the years went by, I fell into habitual patterns of thought where Kate was concerned. I focused on where we were different. I became so miserly with my love and gave my judgement so freely. Of all the things I’ve ever shared in writing, this shames me the most. 

I could have spent that time knowing and delighting in the funny, brilliant, thoughtful young woman that was Kate. I could have known, first hand, that brie cheese was her favorite food or that her favorite pattern was polka dots. I take responsibility for the fact that I didn’t know these things and so much more. I allowed the distance, the drift, the disconnect. I was her elder, and I should have been more brave. More generous with my love. 

Notice there is not a single “but” or “because” in the preceding paragraph. 

These uncomfortable truths have left me grappling with grief that is complicated by a great deal of guilt and regret. In the days right after Kate’s death, I struggled with whether or not I was even “qualified” to grieve for her. I was her aunt, for pity’s sake, and it seemed as if every single person who showed up to mourn her knew her better than I did. I felt like the worst sort of fraud.  

It wasn’t until I was helping my sister settle Kate’s things into storage that I was able to feel my own loss. When I opened the bags that had been brought from her closet, with all her pretty clothes still on the hangers, I recognized her scent. I remembered so-happy-to-see-you hugs. I remembered kissing her soft cheek. I remembered laughing until my face hurt at her lightning-fast wit, and the way those dark eyes would snap with humor and intelligence. I knew her. I loved her. I am so grateful for the task that fell to me that morning, because it was a gift from the Divine. I feel loss like a wound in my body – I think many of us do – and that moment started healing the rawest edges. 

In an interview, Stephen Colbert once said, “What punishments of God are not gifts?” Yes. Pain, I have learned, never shows up without a gift in its hands. I find myself saying that with ever greater frequency as my life unfolds. In the days immediately following Kate’s death, I started a list of “Gifts from Kate” in the notebook that never leaves my side. Some of my favorite items: 

• Kate’s death enabled me to see that love can trump the most righteous self-righteousness, every time, if you let it. If you humble yourself to it. If you make love your top priority. 

• Kate’s death allowed my sister and her family to experience so much love, from so many dear people. The day of Kate’s funeral, I watched my sister, brother-in-law, nephews and nieces be lifted up and held with such tender care by the vast community surrounding their family. I watched my sister absorb the impact of her daughter’s life and her passage from it, and I saw her comforted. It was such a beautiful fall day, and the air was golden with love. It was the holiest event I’ve ever witnessed. 

• Kate’s death gave me back my sister.  

Here’s what I wonder: what if we approached this thing called polarization differently? What if, instead of boundaries, impeccably-informed arguments, and iron-clad defenses, we focused on looking first, always, for where we agree, where we are alike, where we resonate? What if I had defined my relationship with Kate by all the things we had in common instead of the few things we didn’t? I spent the last years of Kate’s life seeing her through the grimy, stingy, little window of “difference,” and this is a mistake I cannot undo or rectify. 

Loss purifies love. It changes the way we look at things, without our deliberate effort or even our consent. In the days after Kate died, I heard stories that celebrated her beautiful soul right alongside stories that called out her faults, foibles and idiosyncrasies with tenderness, nostalgia and laughter. What I’m wondering is, why can’t we see each other this way while we’re alive? With compassion, humor, and understanding rather than contempt? The quality of our relationships is determined by how we habitually think of each other. Habits are choices. Outside circumstances are irrelevant. Choosing habitual love creates one reality. Choosing habitual disdain creates another. 

Learning to see the world from this viewpoint is, for me, the greatest of Kate’s gifts. 

So now, I am left with excavation. I printed all the articles Kate wrote for her local newspaper about doings and exhibits at her museum, and I am reading them one at a time, savoring them. I ask my sister questions about her every chance I get, and the answers comfort her and fascinate me. I have gotten to know Kate’s brilliant and tricksy dog, Finnegan, and can infer from him so much about her patience, dedication and determination. So many people would have given up on him, but she adored him. I ask for her assistance with my young and hard-headed Chuskamute, and I swear she’s walking beside us every single day while we sort out whether the big dog is the one holding the leash or the one trying to eat it. I have not yet worked up the courage to read all the tributes written in her memorial book, but I think now that I’ve finally managed to write my own, I’ll be able to. 

And I remind myself that I did know Kate. I knew she was as kind as she was intelligent. One of my favorite memories is of her thoughtfulness at my wedding reception a few years ago. She slid in and out of the crowd all day, snapping photos, and took one of my all-time favorite pictures: my sister holding our newborn nephew as my dear aunt kissed his tiny head. I’ll share it with this piece in her book. She also kept putting fresh bottles of water in my husband’s hand without asking or commenting, because she had noticed his legs were swelling. Nor did she ask before she just as matter-of-factly set ice packs on his elevated legs at the end of that long, long, happy day. She was like a ninja – slide in, do the kind thing, slide out before you could thank her. Since her death, I have learned this was a trait of hers. She noticed when people were hurting and she helped, however she could. 

I have learned so much about Kate since she died. My favorites: She loved the colors pink and green (So do I!); she baked like an angel (So do I!); she loved bougie skin care and face treatments (So do I!); and she drove like a bat outta hell (*sigh* I always want to deny this, but...). 

I can’t get time back. Not a one of us can. Nor am I capable of living with long-term misery (another subject for another time), so as I work to resolve and learn and heal from the loss of my niece, I am humbled by her soul’s service to mine. I have imagined the conversation we had in the life between lives, where we agreed to experience this soul contract together. It’s on my short list of things to write about. Before I was a caregiver and author I was an English teacher, and I have been imagining soul contracts written out like the lesson plans I took such satisfaction in creating. 

Another thing I’ve known about my niece her entire life is that she loved the romantic drama of living as much as her Aunt Kathy does. At her memorial service, I talked to her in my head all day and felt her presence so clearly. I asked her for support when I read her obituary aloud for the people who had gathered. I asked her to help me read it with warmth and control, as a last service to her. I observed the grief of our big, tight, extended family and the grief of so many people I’d never seen before in my life, and I am so glad she was there, seeing how treasured she was. How valuable, beloved, and irreplaceable.  

In my opinion, you can’t really call it “Heaven” unless there’s popcorn, specifically popcorn popped in bacon grease. So that’s how I imagined Kate that day: kicked back in comfy jammies, munching crack popcorn and snuggled up with a dog or two, enjoying the show. I imagine her delighting in the depth of appreciation so many people have for her. Yes, “have,” because I don’t believe our relationships end at death. They just suffer a sea-change. 

Believing that, it is only fitting that I address the conclusion of this piece straight to you, my beautiful Kate. If I could hold your face in my hands one more time and look into your eyes, here are the things I would say: You’re the first baby I ever fell in love with. I loved both you and Cody so much, I was terrified I couldn’t love my own Jesse in like measure. You can see in this piece my pride in you, my delight in you, and my regret. I want to thank you for everything I’ve learned in the last year, and for your participation in my soul’s journey. I don’t know why we humans are such hard learners (if you’ve got an inside scoop on that now, I’m all ears) but if pain is our greatest teacher, losing you has been one of the deepest reckonings of my life. I will keep listening for you when I’m struggling with Jinu for leash supremacy, and I’ll keep taking you along on adventures – wasn’t it fun, shopping for your mom’s care package? I felt you with me in every single shop as I contentedly browsed. As you know, I finished reading the tributes in your memorial book as I wrote this final paragraph, and oh, honey. I hope you reread them occasionally, because what a difference you made, what a legacy of love and caring you created in 36 years, two days. Memories of you are blessings. I love you. I love you, so very much.