I didn’t know Rachel very well, though she was one of the most important people in my dear friend Erika’s life. A year ago I certainly did not know what to make of her death, other than the obvious: that it was an awful tragedy. Worse, a terribly ironic tragedy. It seems clear, from what little I did know of Rachel, that her time spent alone on the banks of the Mississippi were a personal celebration of life, an expression of her sense of her own vitality. Perhaps it was a foolhardy expression, and I know, in the end, it was also a profound betrayal of the people that loved her the most. But I don’t think I was alone in admiring the sense of personal freedom—of ease in the world—that it represented. That she should have to pay for her sense of ease with her life seemed, and still seems, an unnecessarily cruel and horrifying fate.
Sometimes I find it very hard to reconcile myself to this life, to keep up the fight in the face of so much darkness. For me, it’s hardest to understand how so much human life can be lost so easily—on the painfully intimate level, such as the loss of the Rachel, and on the global level. Who would not be afraid? But on this sad anniversary, at this dark time of year, I try to take heart from how Rachel rejected fear. She would not want us to give up, despite the darkness. She would want us to treasure every minute and go forward, facing our fears.
-Rachel #2
