The thing about Liz

I was 19 when we met. I’ll never forget the moment. She was a new waitress at a microbrewery that I was working at for the summer in Seattle. I think it’s fair to say she blasted into the place from the start—long blonde hair, sassy New York attitude, a confident smile—and made a life long impact. She was older than I was and I was in awe. We were instant friends.

I had never really thought about why I was so starstruck. She always stood out in mind as such a powerful and unique person. In thinking about her now, though, I see what was so unique about Liz.

She was truly authentic; fearlessly herself.

She was fearless in other ways too, but it was the ability to be and show herself (for better or for worse) that I admire most, what made her a real artist, and is such a huge accomplishment in life. She wasn’t afraid to fail, or take risks or work hard, or be the fool—or if she was, she didn’t let it stop her; courageous in the hardest way.

Liz was also a connector, a builder, a maker. She took action, she made things happen. She was incredibly warm and she made life exciting. She was always doing things that you had heard were off-limits. She said things no one else ever said and she laughed about them. She was honest and funny and bold and she possessed a certain kind of freedom. That summer, as we worked together serving beer, dancing, talking, staying up too late, I was drawn to how true she was, how real.

When I got a better job at Cafe Sport at Pike Place market through my friend Shannon, I got Liz a job there too, and the three of us worked together cementing our friendship into the kind of thing that doesn’t disappear just because distance and time separates you.

There’s a feeling that I’ve always had about Liz, the magic she brought into the room and the way she made life seem: everything is possible.

You will be missed.