In Loving Memory
Beyond the Fairy Door
For my best friend, my soul sister, my Bic.
Some people come into our lives and become part of who we are.
Bic was that person for me.
She knew the words before I spoke them. She could read the silence in my eyes and understand the things I couldn’t explain to anyone else. There were parts of me I never had to translate for her. She simply knew.
We called each other Bic—a silly little name that became something sacred. It meant you’re my person. It meant I see you. It meant you never have to explain yourself here.
She was my best friend, but “best friend” never felt big enough. She was my soul sister, my safe place, and one of the greatest loves of my life.
Bic lived through more than anyone should ever have to endure. Her body fought battle after battle, but somehow those battles never took away the beautiful person inside of it. She could still laugh. Still love. Still find beauty. Still make other people feel seen.
There was so much more to her than illness.
She was funny. Fierce. Beautiful. Stubborn. Loving. Unforgettable.
But our friendship wasn't only about understanding each other's struggles. We used our voices together.
While Bic was here, we advocated side by side. We understood what it meant to live inside healthcare systems that didn't always see the whole person behind the illness, and we believed deeply in speaking up—not only for ourselves, but for the people who couldn't.
We shared our experiences. We raised awareness. We fought to make people listen.
There was something powerful about knowing that when one of us spoke, the other was standing beside her.
That part of our friendship didn't end when Bic died.
Losing her has left an absence I don’t think words will ever adequately describe. There are still moments when I instinctively want to tell her something, hear her voice, laugh with her, or have one more conversation where neither of us needed to explain a thing.
Grief has taught me that when someone becomes woven into your life deeply enough, losing them doesn't untangle them from you.
You simply learn to carry them differently.
So I carry Bic with me—in the way I love people, in the way I notice the person behind the illness, and in the work I do.
And I carry her into my advocacy.
We started that fight together, and I will keep fighting for both of us.
I will continue raising awareness, speaking about the things that are uncomfortable and difficult, fighting for people whose voices aren't being heard, and pushing for change within systems that too often fail the people who need them most.
I will advocate for her.
But I will also advocate with her.
Because even though she isn't physically standing beside me anymore, everything she taught me, everything we believed in, and every fight we took on together still comes with me.
Her voice is part of mine now.
Every time I use that voice to create awareness, challenge a system, or make another person feel a little less alone, a piece of Bic is still advocating too.
Her advocacy did not end with her life. It became part of her legacy.
And I promise to keep carrying it forward.
I like to imagine her somewhere her body can no longer limit her.
Wild and free.
Running barefoot beneath an endless sky. Growing like a wildflower wherever she pleases. Laughing without pain. Existing without appointments, treatments, hospitals, or another battle to fight.
Finally free.
Somewhere among the stars.
Beyond the fairy door.
This page is for you, Bic.
For every laugh.
Every secret.
Every conversation.
Every moment you understood me when no one else could.
Every time we spoke up together.
And for the kind of friendship that death could never erase.
I will miss you for the rest of my life.
I will love you for even longer.
And I will keep fighting—with your voice forever woven into mine.
Grow wild, Bic. You’re free now. 💜
Carla “Bic”
1982–2026
Forever loved. Forever carried. Forever part of the fight.