I wrote a couple months ago about the struggle I’ve had with my own eating disorder, and the overwhelming feeling of gratitude for being alive and moving and loving in this terrifying world.


This morning I woke to a voicemail from a good friend who was in the Eating Recovery Center with me two years ago, telling me that our beloved girl Amy had passed away from this awful disease.


In that same post from September, my two year anniversary of when I stumbled back out into my life, I celebrated while at a Pickwick show in Portland, Oregon. I shook it like a Polaroid picture, happy to have something to shake, and embraced people with embarrassing ferocity, holding onto the sunshine coming from the sky and from my own beaming face.


It does not seem like a coincidence that I will be celebrating Amy’s life at another Pickwick show this evening, using music as my cure, when she could not get a foothold on her own.


She was a person who loved people so fiercely, from all of her friends, to her precious daughter, and even me, despite when I goaded her into a couple dance parties myself. If she can’t be with me, throwing her hands in the air and breathing deep, then I can for her.


My sadness is overwhelming. My chest is constricted, my mind is foggy with disbelief and grief. But her life is a reminder to me that nothing is to be taken for granted, nothing is permanent, but love is real. And I love her, and I love all of the people who were there with her, and I love the time I had with her.


If only dancing feet could fix everything.