This one is tough. I don’t process sickness or death well; usually, I avoid it. My default is to retreat into statistics—telling myself it is inevitable that bad things happen to good people far too young. Perhaps writing this will help me embrace the pain of losing someone close to me who is one of those statistics, but also so much more.

We all have people who leave a massive impact on our lives. They may not be part of your active friend group or your day-to-day circle anymore, but at some point, they had an outsized influence on who you became. You might sense it in the back of your mind at the time, but often it’s only through reflection that you realize the true scale of that impact.

Gwen is one of those people for me and my family. She runs an at-home daycare that both of my children attended from age one until they were four. For all intents and purposes, she was their second mother. During those formative years, they spent more of their waking hours with her than they did with us. Even after they outgrew daycare, we stayed friends, visiting her and her family every year or two. As the kids have grown older, those visits have become less frequent, but the closeness hasn’t diminished. It isn’t even a question.

Life is funny in the way small, seemingly insignificant circumstances bring us together. When we were first looking for childcare over a decade ago, we weren’t impressed by the corporate “factories”—places with 40 kids, the legal minimum of adults, and shiny paint. They were tidy and functional, but they were missing something. We didn’t have a name for it then, but through Gwen, we learned what it was. Soul. Love. Family.

We stumbled across her through a friend who lived down the street from her. They didn’t really know her personally, but they had heard good things. We asked for an introduction and went to meet her a couple of days later.

At first impression, I almost ran. She lived with her husband and three kids in a two-story building where they rented one floor. Their living space was about 700 square feet. Every morning, the house was reconfigured to accommodate five daycare children. Boxes, toys, and supplies were piled from floor to ceiling. I was genuinely scared my kids would end up buried under the sheer amount of “stuff” everywhere. It was the total opposite of the shiny factories.

I told my wife I couldn’t leave our children there. To make matters more intimidating, the daycare was 100% French-speaking. My wife is bilingual, but I struggle with languages. However, we were out of options, so we decided to go ahead.

To this day, it remains one of the best decisions we have ever made.

It was a choice made by chance and circumstance—not weighed or overthought—but a leap of faith. She had an open spot; we had a need.

The best way to describe Gwen’s relationship with my kids is unconditional love. They were her own children to her. In fact, they likely had a better childhood between those ages than they would have if my wife or I had stayed home. Each day was an adventure. Gwen took them to the outdoors, to organized playgroups, trips to the farm, or the waterpark. One day they were even raising tadpoles in her house to watch them become frogs. They were socialized and learned how to navigate the world, but more importantly, they learned about love. Gwen, her husband, and her own children became an extension of our family.

When we were struggling as new parents with no family in town, Gwen was our rock. She led us through the emergencies of early parenthood. Not only did she help our children take their first steps, she helped us take ours as parents.

Now, Gwen has been diagnosed with inoperable Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. We all like to think our “life ticket” has another 30 or 40 years on it. Gwen just received the ticket no one wants, and her ticket says “soon.” She is only in her early 60s. No one deserves a shorter ticket, and it isn’t our place to judge whose ticket should be longer, but when it involves someone who has been an “almost mother” to over a hundred children, it is incredibly hard to hear.

How do I thank someone for an immeasurable impact? How do you say goodbye? As I type this, it’s hard to see the screen through watery eyes. I am not an outwardly emotional guy.  I was taught to internalize. I struggle with what to say in these moments. But Gwen’s presence in our lives is easily one of the ten most important things that ever happened to me. All I can say is “thank you” to whatever deity or universal force put her in our path.

This is a reminder to all of us that we don’t know when our time will run out. No one escapes this life alive. It is a reminder to hug the people who matter, to not take them for granted, and to thank them as you go. We need to take stock of who is important and not let too much time pass without being together. We should celebrate for no reason at all. Take a tally of who is close to your heart and make time to just be with them. Someday, that opportunity will be gone.

Gwen did what she loved. There was no “retirement” in her plans because she intended to run her daycare until her body gave out. Some might look at her illness and say she is missing out on her golden years, but I don’t believe that for a second. When I think of Gwen, I think of how fantastic her life is. She was doing exactly what she was meant to do. She had a heart bursting with love, and she shared it with five lucky kids every single year.

There is a lesson here: if you love what you are doing, never stop. If you don’t, find an exit plan so you can find your “thing.” Piling up more dollars is insignificant; you don’t win at life through a bank account. People are what matter. Let them in—they may surprise you. If they do, thank them and give them a hug.

My other takeaway is to stop making assumptions about the future. I am guilty of planning as if I have 30 years left, which lets me off the hook and allows me to put off until tomorrow what I should do today. If I want change, I should pursue it now. 

In the end, it is a reminder that our best-laid plans are often laughable compared to what life actually has in store. Tomorrow is not promised, and we all need to remember that.

Gwen has “enough.” Looking back at my first impression of her home, I realize I was judging her by appearances. I may be well-off financially, but I will never be as rich in life as Gwen is. Anyone would be lucky to touch as many souls as deeply as she has.

We often get hung up on what we “should” do or who we want to be. It doesn’t matter if your choices fit a traditional mold of “giving back.” What matters is filling your own heart. If your heart is full, you have won.

Gwen won. She found her “one thing,” and no bigger impact has ever been made than the love she gave. She is a superhero to her kids and their families.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for being part of my family’s life.