You Should Still Be Here, But Here I Am: A Birthday Love Letter to My Best Friend

It’s been five years since she died. Grief doesn’t end. It shapeshifts. And just when you think you’ve made peace with it, her birthday rolls around and knocks the wind out of you again.

She was beautiful—but not in the boring, predictable way. She had that kind of face that made people think she was sweet and innocent... right before she cracked a beer, cranked up some punk rock, and called you a “tool” with the most endearing smirk you’ve ever seen.

By day, she was the picture of professionalism—an executive administrative assistant who knew how to keep the world spinning. But when the sun went down? A bit of a hellion. And I mean that with love. She didn’t just walk the line between classy and chaotic—she would do Pee Wee’s big shoe dance with a glass of Caymus in one hand and a Camel Light in the other.

She was the kind of person who threw the best parties—not because they were fancy, but because they were fun. She’d spend all day making sure the food was perfect, the games were wild, and nobody ever felt like a wallflower. She wasn’t just the hostess with the mostest—she was Julie, the cruise director from The Love Boat, but with more sass, more snacks, and way fewer khaki shorts. The playlist? Fire. The snacks? Legendary. The vibe? Unmatched. If joy had a hype woman, it was her. And when the music hit just right? Oh, you knew it was time for the “swamp tard” dance to make its grand entrance. She’d bust out that ridiculous hillbilly groove with zero shame and maximum commitment—like it was her spiritual calling. Sandals flapping, arms flying, and all of us crying laughing because only she could make chaos look that good.

She was silly, and I loved that about her. She was also sharp as hell, had zero tolerance for bullshit, and could call you out while simultaneously handing you a plate of nachos. That, my friends, is talent. She was silly. She was strong. She was my bestie.

One time, she sent me a selfie from work. Totally deadpan face… with pickle slices stuck to her eyebrows and upper lip like a mustache. No explanation. No caption. Just pure, chaotic genius. That was so her.

She called me “honky” or “tool” more than she ever called me by name. And somehow, those ridiculous nicknames felt more like love than anything else I’d ever been called. Because she was my person. My chosen sister. The one I didn’t get by blood but got by cosmic design.

And even now—five years later—I can still hear her laugh echo in my memory. Still feel her presence in the quiet moments. Still catch myself thinking, “God, she would’ve loved this,” or “Man, she would’ve had a field day with this nonsense.”

Life without her? Lonely as hell.

Not because I don’t have other friends—I do. Good ones. Solid women. But it’s not the same. Through no fault of theirs, they just... exist in their own orbit. Meanwhile, she and I lived on the same damn planet. We shared gravity. We were friends for over 35 years. Hell, we lived together for the better part of over a decade—longer than some marriages survive. My husband and I even sold all our stuff, packed what was left into a Honda Civic, and drove from Jacksonville to Phoenix just to go live with her. That’s how tightly our lives were woven together. And now? There’s a hole where all of that used to be. A her-shaped space in the fabric of my life that nothing else quite patches.

But I still feel her.

I swear the algorithm is haunted. Music shows up at just the right time—songs we used to scream-sing together, or those deep cuts we’d play on loop while drinking beer until sunrise. It’s like she’s still DJing from beyond, sending me little reminders that I’m not as alone as I feel.

And then there are the things she’ll never get to do again—like making sure I had a party for my birthday when my husband forgot to plan something (because he always did), or drag me off the couch on a bad day and take me out for margaritas and green tea shots until the sadness got blurry around the edges. She’ll never draw something obscene on my drunk husband in Sharpie again—or let him draw something equally ridiculous on her in return. God, I miss the Sharpie wars. And the laughter that followed. And the fact that nobody laughed like she did.

I miss my human. I miss the normalcy of her being here. And I miss the chaos, too.

This year, I’ll probably end up at Sherwood’s—our bar. I’ll order a beer and a green tea shot, raise my glass, and queue up some Motörhead or Descendants. Because if anyone deserved a proper musical sendoff every year, it’s her.

If I’m lucky, a few others who loved her will be there too—because everybody loved her. She was just that kind of person. The kind who made you feel like the funniest, coolest, most interesting version of yourself, even if you were just halfway through your first drink and trying to remember the name of the song playing.

Maybe I’ll watch P.S., I Love You. She was a sucker for Gerard Butler and that movie, and honestly? It hurts in the kind of way I don’t want to stop feeling.

I wish River City Brewing was still around. That’s where we celebrated her 51st birthday, 5 years ago today—just six months before she died. It’s wild how you can have no idea a moment will be your last Big One with someone. That was it. That was the party. And then... it wasn’t.

So I’ll celebrate her this year the only way I know how: by doing all the things that feel like her. Things she would’ve laughed at, danced to, cheered for. I’ll toast her with whiskey or a beer—depending on the mood—and picture her throwing her head back and laughing that contagious Irish laugh of hers. And if I listen closely enough, I know I’ll hear it.

Grief is weird. It doesn’t follow a schedule or fade out neatly like a sad movie. It lingers. It shapeshifts. Some days it sits quietly in the corner, and other days it body-slams you in the toothpaste aisle because a song came on. But through it all, I carry her with me. In the music. In the memories. In the off-color jokes and the way I still expect her to text me on my birthday because my husband forgot again.

She was my sister in everything but blood. My chosen family. My hetero life-mate. My forever human.

And on her birthday—and every day that feels like her—I’ll keep showing up, doing things she’d laugh at, toasting her name, and living in a way that says, You mattered. You still do.

Shannon, I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t know where you are. But I feel your presence so often. And on your birthday, I celebrate the fact that this world once had the audacity to give me you. I love you. I’ll carry you forward. And yes—I’ll always keep the damn dinosaur and the yodeling pickle.

xo,

Jade

Me: heart wide open, tears flowing, typing my soul into a tribute.
Her (from the afterlife): “Okay, okay, don’t get weird. I'm dead, not gone, ya honky.”