Honor Guard 2026 : Happy 49th Birthday, But Forever 21

Today would have been your 49th birthday, B — but in my heart, you are forever 21. I can still see your gorgeous natural blonde locks, those stunning blue eyes, and that smile that could light up an entire room.

I remember the exact day you marched into my freshman homeroom at Minnechaug Regional High School — this beautiful new girl from California, full of energy and confidence. We ended up in the same class because both of our last names started with “W.” I remember watching you from across the room and thinking, Why on earth would this cool, athletic, popular girl want to be friends with me? I was angry, unpopular, and carrying a chip on my shoulder the size of a boulder. But you were relentless.

You kept showing up — in the hallways, at lunch, calling me after school (back when we memorized phone numbers by heart). I resisted for weeks, convinced your kindness couldn’t be real. But eventually, you broke through. If I’m honest, I remember thinking, This friendship probably won’t work, but I’ll give it a shot.

And then it did.

In fact, it changed my life.

You were my first true friend — the first person who saw me, really saw me, and loved me anyway. I think back to our endless hours playing Spite and Malice and War (and the fierce trash talk that came with it), drinking Arizona Iced Tea, and eating Cool Ranch Doritos like they were a food group.

I still smile when I remember that tiny, secret joy I felt when you also got thrown out of Minnechaug and ended up at the same alternative high school as me. I knew we’d been through different storms, but somehow we ended up in the same place again — two misfits who understood each other in a world that often didn’t.

I can still hear you singing Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” while we stood — literally — under a bridge in Maine, laughing at how poetic we thought we were. You brought life to a soul that was on life support. You gave me hope that friendship could be safe, that laughter could be healing, and that I wasn’t as unlovable as I once believed.

That’s why this week always feels heavy and tender all at once. It’s a time when I celebrate your life — the beauty, the brilliance, and yes, even the chaos of it — while remembering that your story didn’t end the way it should have. You were my best friend, my mirror, and my first teacher in both love and loss.

This is my birthday gift to you: six days of remembering who you were, what you taught me, and what I hope the world might learn from your life.

If you are out there somewhere — wherever souls like yours go — and by some chance you’re reading this, I just want you to know that I love you, as fiercely and tenderly as I always have. I miss you to the depths of my fourteen-year-old heart, and I will not stop honoring your life — and your death — until no more souls are lost to suicide.