The 40-Year Friend

On Losing a Best Friend and Finding Her Legacy

This morning, Google Photos ambushed me.

It wasn’t a polite notification. It was a full-screen takeover: a video, set to music, of my best friend Tracie. There she was, head thrown back laughing. Tracie dancing at a bar in Nicaragua. Tracie, vibrant, loud, and alive.

I wasn’t prepared. As the music played, the tears came instantly. Because this wasn’t just an algorithm doing its job. It was a conversation.

Just four days ago, on Saturday, I was texting Andrea. We are the remaining two “Three Musketeers.” We were talking about Tracie’s ashes. I’ve been carrying them in a simple pendant, but it never felt quite right, too small, too quiet for a spirit as loud as hers. Andrea offered to take that pendant and craft it into something new. She is incredibly creative, a few years ago she turned the promise rings my husband Cade and I wore, into amazing necklaces, so I knew she was the only one I could trust to reshape this.

We were, in our own quiet way, trying to re-forge our grief. And right in the middle of that thought, Tracie showed up on my phone. A “hello” from the past, interrupting the present.

The Three Musketeers in our natural habitat. Andrea, me, and Tracie—wild, loud, and bonded by that invincible teenage feeling.

I met her in junior high. Tracie, Andrea, and I were a chaotic trio. Think The Three Stooges meets The Three Musketeers. We were wild, full of laughter, and bonded by that invincible feeling only teenagers possess.

Tracie was the first person I came out to. I was a nervous wreck, barely able to get the words past my teeth. She just laughed that signature raspy laugh, put a steady hand on my shoulder, and said, “I already knew that, honey. And honestly? I’m so glad we got this out of the way. Now, let’s focus on how fabulous we’re going to be.”

That was Tracie. Unshakable. Unbothered.

She was effortless. One Halloween, she decided I had to be Madonna. I made a terrible Madonna. She found this hilarious, doubling over, shaking with amusement at my attempt. She was cool and fearless, and she made me feel like I could be, too.

She was my rock. But as the years went on, the roles had to reverse.

Unshakable and unbothered. She was the friend who taught me that being “fabulous” wasn’t just a choice, it was a requirement.

The second-to-last time I saw her was on her own “open road adventure”, a visit to me and Cade in Nicaragua. I was so excited to share our world with her. But the Tracie who stepped off the plane wasn’t the invincible friend I grew up with. She was still physically there, but she was fading. She was struggling with a heavy mix of prescriptions and alcohol, breaking down multiple times a day.

It broke my heart. I tried to hold on to the memory of the girl who could face down anyone in a bar, while the woman standing in front of me was losing her way. It was the last time I really saw her before one final, brief visit a year before she died.

Tracie during her visit to us in Nicaragua. Even in the midst of her struggle, there were moments of light and connection.

Fast forward to this Halloween, almost four years after she’s been gone. I dressed up as Sia. I went all out, the face-covering wig, the dress, the performance. As I was getting ready, fixing that synthetic hair, I was hit with a sudden, sharp wish: I just want to send a picture to Tracie.

I know she would have loved it. She would have laughed that raspy laugh.

And in that moment, looking at myself in the mirror, I understood her legacy. The Google video, the ashes, the Sia wig, it’s all the same conversation. Her legacy isn’t just the strength I leaned on; it’s the joy she embodied. It’s the “fabulous” she demanded we be.

Loving her meant loving both the invincible friend and the struggling one. Honoring her means carrying all of it. It means choosing to wear the silly wig, to live fearlessly, and to not let the pain stop the party.

Grief isn’t an end. It’s a reminder to show up. And clearly, she’s not done reminding me yet.

-R. Michael