It’s hard to believe I'm even writing this.

Michelle Marmion—our gentle, giggling, loving Shell—was pure light. She was the kind of person who made you feel like you belonged the second you walked into a room. If you were standing off to the side, she’d find you, pull you in, and make sure you had a drink in your hand and a smile on your face.

Anyone that knew her, knew that she was a girls’ girl through and through. The friend who cheered the loudest, stayed up the latest, loved a good bar stool, and a good laugh. But Shell wasn’t just the fun—she was heart, too.

She was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, and a friend. And when she wasn't dedicating her time to her family, she was a teacher. One that spent decades inspiring kids.

I recently saw a quote that said "teaching is greatest act of optimism"..and what was Shell if not optimistic? She had such a stubborn faith in people. Had this ability to embrace the hard days and the setbacks because she knew growth was hiding inside the struggle. These days, so many have stopped seeing potential. So many have stopped believing in a better future if the present isn’t perfect.

Shell never wavered.

She was the aunt who took us in as her own, who watched us grow up, who gave us a shoulder to cry on or an ear to vent to. She was the mom who never missed a game, the friend whose door was always open. She was the one who made us all laugh and taught us how to create something beautiful from what others might consider scraps.

That never changed. Not even the cancer came a few years ago.

In Shell-like fashion, she faced it the way she faced everything: head-on, with that crooked grin, that bald head, and a joke ready to break the tension. We all thought she had it beat. At least, enough to where we felt like we could breathe again.

And then, last week, she got sick. Really sick. Her daughters brought her into the hospital, probably thinking they'd all be home again in a few days. Maybe with some antibiotics or some new medication.

They never left the hospital though.

And in a matter of days, she was gone.

It still doesn’t feel real.

Our family is in shambles. We are devastated and angry and numb all at the same time. And her daughters—the two girls that made up her whole world—are now standing in the middle of that heartbreak. They’ve lost their mom, their biggest fan, their best friend, their steady place in the world. On top of the grief, they’re facing all the practical, unglamorous realities that come when someone you love passes: funeral costs, afterlife arrangements, endless paperwork.

That’s why we’re here.

We’re raising money so Shell's girls can breathe. So they can mourn without worrying about how to pay for the service, the cremation, the dozens of expenses that arrive when your heart is already shattered.

If you knew Michelle, you already know what she’d say about all this. She’d roll her eyes at the fuss. She’d tell us to pour a drink, tell a story, and take care of each other. So let’s do exactly that. Give if you can. Share a memory—something funny, something small, something only she would do. We’re collecting every single one for her girls, so they’ll always have those pieces of her to hold onto.

Shell made friends everywhere she went. Let’s show her daughters just how big her circle really is.

Thank you for loving her. Thank you for loving them. And if you can, raise a glass tonight to a woman who believed in the best of people—and proved it, every single day.