I used to think hardship revealed the worst in people.
Then I watched someone I loved face hers.
We met the old-fashioned way.
No apps.
No swipes.
No algorithms deciding our chances.
Just two people crossing paths in a bar in St Kilda.
Pure accident.
Which proved something I had always suspected.
Every dog gets its day.
That day was mine.
She had a way of simplifying things most of us insist on making complicated.
You saw it in small moments.
Like hot chips.
She loved hot chips.
But she had a rule.
You eat them last.
The first time she said it, I thought she was joking.
But she insisted.
Chips are the best part.
So you save them.
At first it sounded like one of those quirky habits people pick up along the way.
Later I realised it was something else.
She knew how to enjoy a moment.
She didn’t rush the good things.
She lived the same way she loved.
Fully.
If she cooked for you, she meant it.
If she chose a gift, it wasn’t random.
If she showed up for you, she was actually there.
Effort mattered to her.
People mattered.
Then came the kind of news that rearranges the air in a room.
The kind that makes people not know what to say.
You could see the sadness settle over the people who loved her.
But something remarkable happened after that.
Her appreciation for life grew.
She paid attention to everything.
Moments.
People.
Small joys.
She understood something most of us forget.
Getting old is a privilege.
Not everyone gets that chance.
She knew what was coming.
But she refused to let it define the story.
Life still was.
And she made sure we didn’t forget it.
Hardship didn’t make her smaller.
It made her stronger.
Braver.
More alive.
I wish we had more time.
But the time we had was ours.
And somehow she managed to do something remarkable with the ending.
She left.
And the things she taught me stayed.