When I learned that Sara had a career in the optical industry, it made perfect sense. She noticed everything. Her eye for detail extended beyond lenses and frames. She had a gift for truly seeing people—their hidden strengths, their fears, their untapped potential. That was one of her superpowers. The other, it turned out, was grit—something she didn’t fully realize she had until she came face to face with her own mortality.

A Bond Formed by the Sea

Sara was my aunt’s sister. We lived thousands of miles apart and rarely saw each other until a family beach vacation eight years ago changed everything. Both of us arrived without our spouses, giving us a rare opportunity to spend time together. We talked about everything under the sun while watching it rise and set, walking for miles, setting the dinner table for 10, and snacking on copious quantities of sheet cake, courtesy of my uncle—cake we swore we didn’t want but found ourselves inhaling anyway.

One morning, as we walked along the beach, a wave soaked my compression socks. I wanted nothing more than to get them off, but the sharp, crushed-shell surface made it nearly impossible to balance myself without cutting my feet. So Sara helped. It became a comedy routine, leading to the kind of laughter that makes you snort and feel eight years old again.

We kept in touch after that trip. Some of the photos I took at the beach—including ones of Sara communing with nature—became part of a greeting card line a friend and I started called Cardsisters. The tagline was: Women friends are sisters at heart. Over the years, that sentiment came to mean more to me than I ever imagined.

Sara loved to draw and was happiest around animals and being outside. She was always in motion, running, exercising, yoga–a poster child for healthy living. Unless a sweet treat presented itself and whispered, “You know you want this.”

Moving Closer to Family, Dreaming of More Time

By the time the pandemic hit, my husband and I, now empty nesters, had decided to move to Florida to be closer to family. Sara and her husband were making the same move, arriving in the same area a month before us. They had purchased a house with plenty of outdoor space for their three dogs and offered us a place to stay while we figured out our next step.

It was a generous offer that we took them up on, and a blissful time.

After several months, we found a house of our own, though it was farther away than we had hoped—an hour’s drive. At least it wasn’t halfway across the country, like before. We had high hopes for a bright future with extended family nearby, including my aunt, uncle, and cousins.

But life had other plans.

Multiple medical crises arose within the family, with Sara facing the worst of them. Surgeries, cancer, long recoveries—so much that she joked there was a big black “X” over her front door.

Amidst it all, she lost two of her three beloved dogs.

Still, we all found ways to celebrate family birthdays and holidays, share meals, and enjoy small adventures. When she loved something she ate, she declared it killer, and it became my mission to find those killer foods that brought her joy—shrimp and grits topping the list.

Ringing the Bell

My husband and I were there on the final day of her chemotherapy when she rang the bell—a tradition celebrating treatment completion, and a patient’s resilience and hope. It was one of the most moving experiences of my life. When I completed radiation therapy for my own cancer, I was by myself and said no to the bell ceremony. I didn‘t understand then the psychological importance of celebrating milestones to your health … or allowing myself to feel emotion. With Sara, I not only wanted to be there, but to wrap her in a bubble—one filled with endless servings of shrimp and grits.

As her hair began to grow again, so too did our optimism. But it was short-lived. Around six months later, the cancer returned.

Sara decided against further treatment. She told me not with tears or anger, but with quiet acceptance. She had chosen to receive hospice care at home, stay as active as she could, and vowed never to return to a hospital. “Once you’re in,” she said, “it’s very hard to get out.”

Embracing the time she had left and with the steady presence of her husband, Sara focused on family and friends. She always asked about my grown sons, my work, and when my long-awaited children’s book would finally be published. My wish was for her to live long enough to hold it in her hands.

The Death Doula

When she could no longer join her husband on morning walks, we talked on the phone, their new puppy curled up on her lap. When breathing became difficult, she’d say, “Now, you talk.”

During a time of my own medical uncertainty, she left me a message saying, “Don’t be afraid.” I hadn’t told her I was. But she knew. She always knew.

To help navigate her final months, she worked with a death doula—something I hadn’t known existed. I only knew about birth doulas, who of course assist at the beginning of life. The doula recommended a beautiful book that helped me understand what was happening to Sara, what to expect, and what to consider.

When someone dies, what you miss most are often the experiences you didn’t get to have. I felt this after my father passed nearly 30 years ago. His death left so much unresolved. With Sara, we had talked all along. There was little left unsaid.

One morning, when she had grown too weak to speak or have visitors, I was at home. I closed my eyes and whispered as if she could hear, “Please come see me before you go. I need a sign. I just want to know you’ll be okay.”

A couple of hours later as I worked at my desk, a bird landed on a tree branch right outside my window. It moved closer than I had ever seen a bird, right up to the glass, and looked straight at me for what felt like minutes. It was light gray, with a beautiful beak. I wanted to tell my husband about it, but was afraid any movement would scare the bird away. Instead, I smiled and called out Sara’s nickname: “Pokey!” The bird lingered a moment longer, then flew off.

Sara died that day.

Lasting Love

I miss our morning calls the most—talking about all the little big things.

I’ve been fortunate. Sara is the first close friend I ever lost. Her friendship taught me how to trust—that I could give and receive support and be loved for who I truly am. I could speak my mind, even when we didn’t agree, and we’d be okay.

So many of us hold back, especially with new friendships—afraid of rejection, of loss, of embarrassment. After all, how do you move forward knowing that everyone and everything is temporary? Perhaps the answer is more simple than it seems. Allow someone to have a permanent place in your heart. When you do, your ability to feel and love more deeply grows exponentially.

And, like Sara, your chances of seeing more clearly what is right in front of you can change lives, including your own.