My mother Lynn was not a typical woman. Her life, her story—it was not a fairy tale or the kind of life that often gets the spotlight in our world. She was not a fan of big crowds and guarded her solitude fiercely. Because of this, most would never know the quiet kindnesses she bestowed upon everyone fortunate enough to be in her small, close-knit circle. Her life took her from one of the roughest neighborhoods in Detroit to becoming a top-level analyst in tech security. She worked harder than any person you’ve ever known. She spent so much of her life as a single mom struggling to make ends meet, but through immense effort she managed to build a sanctuary for herself in Utah—in a home that she loved.

After five decades of working 60+ hours a week, she finally made it to a well-deserved retirement in November, departing the industry as one of the oldest women still working in her field. She had plans to travel the world, spend time with her family, write, paint, and create beautiful art. She planned to volunteer for causes she cared deeply about. Tragically, she was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer less than a month later. The doctors told her she had less than a year to live, even with the most aggressive treatment. Determined to give herself as much time as possible, she started the prep process for chemo and had to make the unbearable phone calls to everyone in her life, informing them that her time was so limited.

She came down to Santa Cruz to spend time with her three sons a week later. Though she was in immense physical pain, we managed to squeeze out five days of some of the most beautiful conversations we’ve ever had. We talked about everything—her life, her dreams, the things she most wanted to still do. The goal was to sit down as a family, go over her end-of-life plan, and set up a trust for her belongings. Unfortunately, on the sixth day of her visit, cancer cells entered her brain and caused a major stroke and was rushed to the hospital. The next two weeks were the most difficult thing that any of us have ever had to go through. She was hospitalized for six days and then was mercifully released into hospice care, which we set up at a beautiful resort in Santa Cruz. She passed away eight days later, surrounded by her sons who loved her as much as any child ever loved a parent.

Picking up the pieces of this situation has been a struggle for all of us. This all just happened so fast, and we wanted to treasure every moment we had with her—even when she couldn’t speak back to us. During her final days, the most common words she was still able to say were “Thank you” and “I love you.” She was so grateful for the life she had, but we also know she was devastated at the thought of being a burden on anyone. Her doctor who gave her the news told me that for the first time in her career, my mom was apologizing to HER that she would become a burden and how hard it must be for her to have to make these calls. I told her, this was right in line with the Lynn we all knew and loved.

The costs of her care in the final days and the legal mess of probate we are now entering into are the last things any of us want to have to navigate. The bills, which we planned to cover between us, have piled up to over $15K and counting. It's beginning to become hard for us to manage on our own. We are trying to find the strength she instilled in us. We know she made such a difference in the lives of the people around her, and some of those people have urged us to create this fundraiser to help cover the costs. Any help that anyone can give will be a godsend, allowing us to spend less time worrying and more time remembering.

But for anyone unable to donate, there are some things I still want to share with you about my Mom. Her life was a template for how to be a truly decent person, and this world could surely use more role models like her.

My mom was not a typical woman. She broke down barriers and helped strangers. She traveled the world, worked overseas as an archaeologist, and created spreadsheet formulas that would befuddle even the most brilliant of accountants. She was not easy to understand—not because she was distant or insincere, but because her complexity was beyond what most could grasp. She did not seem to mind this fact.

An outrageous tipper and an Emmy-winning film producer, she would buy things she didn’t even want from salespeople because she got the feeling they could really use the bump in their commission. She quietly helped anyone who crossed her path and spoke up loudly for those whose voices were being stepped on. She was the last to sit down at any meal and the first to pick up the check.

She worked an almost inhuman number of hours per week and still somehow watched more films and read more books than should’ve been possible. She did not sleep enough, and she did not have regrets about that. She was plagued with constant worry for the people she loved, yet had so much faith and optimism in their future. She almost always knew more than you, but almost never made you feel like your opinion wasn’t valid. She made people feel seen. She saw the best in people—and the worst. She saw people. She cared about understanding the way the world worked. Her talents far exceeded what her humility might suggest. She probably did not give herself enough credit for the things she did.

She was my role model for how people should be treated and the value of keeping your side of the street clean. She was my north star in times of moral uncertainty, and she never allowed me to believe I was less than. She always gave more than she took.

Seventy years was not enough time. She still had more to teach this world… more to learn from it. Seventy years was not enough time, and yet it was more than any of us had a right to ask for. She was better than the world she came from—the lone flower growing through a crack in the asphalt, a bright light in a world too often cast in shadows. To say she will be missed is a criminal understatement. There is a Lynn-sized hole in the heart of the world. Let us hope we fill that void with the spirit of her kindness, the tenacity of her relentless search for understanding, and the acceptance for that which cannot be changed.

I am so lucky you were my Mom. We were all so lucky to even know you. This world was better with you in it. This world is better because you lived. I love you forever, Mom. To the moon and back again. We will never forget all that we learned from you. This world will always be a better place because of you.