Often, I return to the day she was born. I remember holding her tiny body, flushed and crying, thinking that it was the greatest moment of my life—the beginning of everything. Decades later, holding her hand as she left this world felt like another kind of profound privilege: the chance to accompany her from first breath to last, circling back to the tenderness where it all began. “I brought my daughter into the world,” I whispered, “and I took her out of it.” It wasn’t meant to be tragic. It was meant to be complete—a full circle of devotion from start to finish. Deborah lived vibrantly and purposefully. She died peacefully and courageously. And in the space between those two points, she poured everything she had into her family, her cause, and the countless people she helped without ever meeting them. I will spend the rest of my life honoring her work, protecting her children, amplifying her message, reminding others to trust their bodies, to fight for themselves, and to live boldly even when life is cruel. Deborah taught me that the value of a life isn’t measured in years but in impact, in bravery, in the people you uplift, in the love you spread. And by those measures, her life—though heartbreakingly short—was immeasurably vast.
