It was Thursday, Thanksgiving evening, that I received this text:
I stared at the screen and quickly texted back:
My shoulders shook as my body reacted with grief-wracked sobs that drew my daughters and husband to my side to encircle me with their bodies and their hearts.
Jen and I connected back in 2005, when blogging became mainstream for mothers. Back then, everything was shiny and new and innocent. Some of us came up with internet monikers rather than our real names. For instance, Compulsive Writer, whose gentle heart was often stretched with testy teens while the rest of us had little ones; she was our wise guide. Sister Pottymouth, an avid reader and former technical writer with her crew of kids, once swore at a Girls Camp testimony meeting. Mrs. Organic, a professional quilter, with a natural ability to diagnose the strangest symptoms for us, while mothering five kids, one with incredible special needs. Cabesh, a northwest girl living on the East coast, a Jill of all Trades, busily teaching, sharing her love of home architecture, quilting and celebrating the seasons with her photo posts. Wendy Sue, our resident all-weather runner, dental hygienist and mother to four in a mixed-race marriage like mine. Bek, whose mantra of “ignore the crazy” saved us many times, generously parenting a large brood with adopted and biological children with equal doses of humor and solid therapy. Jet Set educated us about mid-century modern before it became trendy, and flowed with fashion and style, unapologetic about her strength and knowledge, daring and encouraging us to live more boldly. Lucky Red Hen, a photographer who used to ride a motorcycle, has crazy cool, hip short hair, always using her frank honesty to help us see another way to authentically embrace ourselves. And these are just a few.
Jen was LaYen, who, after trying to get pregnant unsuccessfully for years, adopted a spunky, gorgeous daughter. For a while, that’s how she thought her family would grow. Wouldn’t you know it, later she had three additional biological children. I remember teasing her about how she seemed to always be pregnant. She said, “All W has to do now is look at me and I get pregnant.” She didn’t know why her fertility suddenly bloomed, but Jen recognized the miracle—despite delivering them all by C-section, due to the trickiness of keeping them inside her body long enough, then juggling difficult recoveries, her young family at home, and babies in the NICU—met each challenge with devotion and laughter. Raising a young family of four is work enough, but raising them mostly on her own while her husband was deployed to far flung regions of the world is Herculean.
Jen’s blog Galanpalooza is the perfect gateway into Jen’s accessible, entertaining, generous, inspiring personality. As for me, I chose the moniker Queen Scarlett from a nickname my husband started calling me while we were dating. On one of our early dates, we chatted while driving home from San Francisco, and I saw a license-plate border on a car that said, “Queen of Everything.” My future husband paired it with Scarlett to honor my admiration for Rhett Butler’s magnificent kisses with Scarlett O’Hara. I fell in love with mothering my two daughters, and through them learned so much about empathy, childlike faith and forgiveness.
Together, our growing group of friends shared intimate stories about our lives and our families. Some of us started a recipe blog together, because it was fun. Our recipes never included a lengthy novel to scroll past, preceding the actual ingredient list. We didn’t have time for fluff, we had to feed the hungry babies immediately. Back then there was no such thing as monetizing or keywords collecting eyeballs. We watched each other’s children grow up, enter high school, go to college, get married, graduate college, and become real adults. We saw each other evolve, soften, harden, succeed, struggle, and discovered we could trust and rely on one another. We mobilized with meals from across the country, thoughtful gifts to lift a heart, aid for family members, prayer and fasting. I’ll always remember when I developed a blood clot while vacationing with my family in Hawaii, and how these friends spread the word and I felt their love and prayers from across the Pacific Ocean. Or when, years ago, I opened a package and found an adorable piece of art I had mentioned once that I adored—Jen had simply surprised me with it. We’ve vented, disagreed, and laughed in our secret Facebook group. We also organized secret-santa gifts, and paypal’d or venmo’d when ladies needed a little help. Those were the days. One year, Jen made us all matching aprons, and the one she made for me is my favorite apron in my collection. The pattern doesn’t need any ties, and it comes with big pockets and bright happy colors. She even had a secret Venmo account her husband didn’t know about to spread her love in her trademark, thoughtful ways. In 2018, when she was in the trenches, struggling with her health and having difficulty moving around, Jen offered to write Christmas letters for us. She found a way to distract herself from her pain while delighting us. Her letters were epic. The one she wrote for my family was filled with brilliant tall tales, and the best part, that made the two of us giggle, was how people actually believed the funny things she wrote for us. My local friends truly thought I was raising guinea pigs to harvest their meat. Reflecting on these memories highlight just how lucky we all are to have friends to share our grief and burdens, enjoy snarky humor, and caretake a safe spot to spill our heartaches and our joys.
Our ages varied, and while most of the ladies lived in Utah there were a handful of us outside the state, with Jen the constantly moving variable. We called ourselves the Damn Ladies. Where that name came from is lost in the annals of time. I vaguely remember typing that in a conversation we were having in our secret Facebook page, but why or how it banded our identities together is a mystery.
Like many good rock bands, our little group eventually broke up, but many of the friendships endured, and we’ve made new friends. Jen had a knack for bringing lost souls together. We were the ones that didn’t quite fit the mold of our communities, and even our religious houses of worship. If you ask any of the women in our group, you would probably find that each one of us felt like we had an extra-special relationship with Jen. I can barely keep up with my calendar with only two kids, and Jen was always able to keep tabs on everyone. Jen remembered our birthdays, our histories, and our concerns. It wasn’t unusual to receive a special Galantine in the mail to brighten up our Februarys. She never hesitated to stop and let us know we were present in her thoughts. Jen was and always will be the heart of our messy, sassy, scintillating posse of women.
At her core, Jen’s spiritual soul outpaced all of ours. Not that it was a competition. She was not only ready for further knowledge, she had the maturity, wisdom and ability to level up more efficiently and effectively than the rest of us. Jen understood suffering and trials. She lived with depression and shared her struggles with us openly. Her willingness to share her vulnerability brought us into her sphere of love. With Jen there was always a seamless flow of conversation when we rolled from serious gospel discussions to real-life trials, humor and banter. She never flaunted her expertise and intelligence. She never raised herself above us. She just lived and breathed her own brand of spiritual goodness while also making us laugh.
Jen consistently delighted those she loved with thoughtful, whimsical, and perfect gifts. I have a collection of tangible, physical manifestations of Jen’s love—like the Friends tee I’m wearing as I type this, sent a few years ago, acting like a warm, virtual hug. So it was a rare treat to find a gift that elicited pure joy from her as well:
I haven’t finished folding, gluing, and assembling together my own mini-library yet. I’m nearly there—I think I’ll dedicate the completion to her. As a fellow book lover, I think she’d appreciate it.
Jen made me feel like I mattered. And mattering to Jen was everything. I tend to pride myself on building strong emotional defenses. I often hold back and present the expected image—that I’ve got it down, I don’t need help. Jen always knew better, but didn’t let on that she knew. Her little, inspired love tags—via texts, insta tags, and funny notes—always came just when I needed it, even though I didn’t know I needed that love.
I miss her so much.
One of my favorite cards Jen sent me is one that reads, “You’re Sofa King Awesome.”
She is “Sofa King Awesome.”
Jen was diagnosed with stage-four metastatic breast cancer only after her whiplash (from a freak run-in with a deer during a cross-country road trip) never went away.
Jen fought her cancer for eighteen months.
What a weird twist of fate that she only found out about the cancer after this serious car accident as she and her family were moving states due to the Army.
They moved so frequently, and she handled it all with her signature humor in the face of these challenges.
When Jen started chemo things got real. The weight of her life before cancer was already heavy. Getting updates on how she couldn’t leave her bed, how her organs were failing, how she wasn’t even able to enjoy a good meal—and then finding out she made a list of books she wanted to read, knowing she’d never finish them, was heartbreaking for us who love her. Jen adored literature, and maybe it was her trusty English degree that provided the foundation for all her clever, well-crafted thoughts that always hit, even in the midst of trials.
I imagine it must’ve been tiring for her to have us frequently ask her how we could help, but she never complained. She always found a way to let us help, even if it was just to pray. Jen trusted God. While we often felt helpless trying to care for her and show her we loved her from afar, Jen still reached out, taking time to share with us moments that reminded her of us. Jen kept letting us know how much she loved us. The Damn Ladies pooled resources for delivered dinners, and created a schedule where we’d surprise Jen with gifts that were delivered regularly. Distance made us crazy that we couldn’t descend on Jen’s home with the full Damn Ladies arsenal. When her treatments became more frequent, and more taxing, we even sent our own superwoman, Compulsive Writer, with a plane ticket and resources, to help nurse Jen during one of her painful treatments. We sent all our love, all our hopes and prayers with her.
It’s so easy, as mothers, to not include ourselves in the social-media footprint of our lives. As moms we sometimes put too much pressure on our appearances, on what society expects of us. Jen overcame that as the shadow of cancer loomed over her. She put herself firmly in her narrative. Her Instagram account is filled with selfies of her beautiful face in the midst of her cancer journey paired with captions that mixed the cancer vomit with wry comments about withdrawal and then an admonition to be kind to those who suffer from addiction. While her body failed, her spirit only became more expansive and reflective. She kept up with sharing photos and moments with and of her children, clearly memorizing those moments, and preserving them for when she knew they would lose their mother. Having faith that families can be together again doesn’t negate the sorrow of how much you’ll miss the chance to hold and comfort your babies.
There were moments I was in denial. I held on to a belief that Jen would get better, that we would hug each other in real life, that we’d finally get that girls trip and I’d get to see Jen laugh at and with me.
Looks like—after about 15 years of deep friendship—our first hug will have to happen in the afterlife. Hope I can get a visitor’s pass.
Jen never sugarcoated things. She taught me about how to hold the heartache, disappointment, and grief in one hand, along with humor, patience and love in the other.
Jen, the miracle worker who spits fire and is always too smart for any room she’s in is also fun to fake-feud with. One of my greatest joys is harassing her about Grapes of Wrath. She loves it, thinks it’s a great piece of writing or something—but it bores me to tears. She even told me to tell my daughters that she promised to help them analyze and discuss the book, if they ever had to read it in school, since their mother is clearly a heathen. I hope she’s reading this now with an epic eyeroll, while busily concocting a diabolical plan to haunt me. The truth is, I haven’t been able to go a day without thinking of her, her family, what she’d want for me and our friends, how she’d feel about this or that. I’m constantly in a state of “What would Jen do?”
Maybe she is haunting me.
If she is, she can stay.
It’s one thing to have a hope of Atonement and another to grapple with mortality and the valid grief of losing loved ones we haven’t even had the chance to hug. So yes, I’m a little bit angry and a lot bit sad, and though I know I may get the chance to see her again, on behalf of her young family and myself and our friends, this is a raw deal.
Stephanie Huang Porter adores falling in love with stories. Her background in broadcast journalism, and career in public relations/marketing keep her fingers flying. She forgets she has a tiny piece in Lessons From My Parents. If, and when, she finally decides to grow up, she hopes to fill pages with the little people clamoring around in her head. She easily shocks her family whenever she changes out of her pajamas, and has unlocked all the achievement points entertaining her two brilliant, eye-roll perfected, tiktok teens. With her husband, they live to whisk their compact family all over the world just to eat and see all the things.
