CW: Death
Some people come into your life and stay steadfastly. My former paraprofessional was one of those rare people. She met me when I was just a preschooler, and from that moment on, she never stopped showing up.
She was there for the big things like school transitions, personal growth, and victories that felt hard-fought. For a decade, she was always there for me at school. She seldom missed work, and truly loved her job.
More than that, she was there for the quiet heartbreaks too. When my childhood dog Lowell passed away in 2021, she was one of the first people I called. She came over the very next day. We sat together and talked about all of the memories we had of Lowell. She remembered him like family because anything that mattered to me mattered to her.
I carry so many memories of her, each one stitched with warmth and care. We took countless trips to the library, where she helped me pick out books. She introduced me to latch hook rug kits and patiently showed me how to loop each strand until I had something beautiful to be proud of. She helped me with school projects, not just with glue and scissors, but with ideas and encouragement that made me feel capable.
Shopping was her favorite, much more than mine, but she could turn even a long afternoon of bargain hunting into something fun. I remember one time we were on our way to lunch when she suddenly gasped and said, “We forgot to check the clearance bins at Target.” That moment captured her joyful and spontaneous spirit, always excited by the thrill of a good deal.
She remembered the little things too, the ones that most people overlook. She knew my favorite food was mac and cheese and that Reese’s Cups were my favorite candy. It was not just thoughtful. It was intentional.
She paid attention to what made me feel comforted and loved, and she used those small details to remind me that I mattered. Her happiness was infectious. We shared countless moments where she made me feel seen, valued, and cherished.
That is who she was. She did not just support me in the classroom. She supported me in life. She knew when to push, when to listen, and when to simply sit beside me and let the silence speak. Her presence was grounding. Her kindness was effortless.
Even years after we stopped seeing each other every day, she never forgot the important moments. She remembered my birthday and made sure to reach out, even if it was just a quick message or a card that showed up.
When I turned 26, just a couple of weeks ago, she sent me a message on Facebook wanting to get together, even though she was really sick. She still reached out, trying to make plans, as if the day mattered more than her discomfort. It was one of those quiet gestures that meant everything: even when she was hurting, she didn’t let me feel forgotten.
At Christmas, she would check in to see how I was doing. When I got older, she would sometimes surprise me with a small gift that she picked out just for me. It was usually a pair of socks, a shirt, or some candy.
When I graduated from high school, she was so proud. She told me how far I had come and how she had always known that I was bright. Her pride was genuine, she had been cheering me on from the very beginning, and never stopped.
She believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself. Even now, I carry her voice with me. The one that said, “You’ve got this,” even when I did not feel like I did.
I will miss being able to call or text her when something happens. I will miss seeing her name pop up on my phone and inviting her over to visit. That simple connection, that steady presence, is something I will always long for.
Thank you for everything, Ms. Pam. You were more than a paraprofessional. You felt like family.