When notes, people, and dots connect

What it means to send or receive a note. When grieving. Or celebrating. As evident from my recent run-ins with Selma Blair and Anna David.

The power of a note lies in its quiet simplicity.

I don’t care if it’s handwritten or typed. Sent by text, DM, email, snail mail, or pigeon carrier. It can be a novel. Or an emoji. However long or brief is of no consequence. A short note goes a long way. When you’re grieving. Celebrating. Or simply just living. It truly is the thought that counts.

Notes imprint on our hearts. When they’re from the heart. And they can be revisited anytime you need encouragement, or a reminder of just how loved your loved one truly was. Notes remind you that people remember you exist. They see you. They hear you. They’re thinking of you. It takes but a second to send a line or two. But the impact could last a lifetime. The exact words may or (may not) be remembered—but the feeling of being loved and appreciated certainly will.

The notes I received during my daughter’s life and in her afterlife will stay with me for the rest of my life. I may not remember every single person who reached out over the last handful of years as life unfolded with Miss Evan. But I certainly know who makes me smile when I see them. And chances are—it’s because they were among the kind-hearted people who took the time to connect when times were tough. Both when I was in the thick of Evan’s diagnosis. And in the immediate aftermath of her passing.

Flowers are lovely. But they die. If you’re lucky, maybe a few, fifty, or a few hundred bouquets show up at your doorstep in the days that follow the death of a loved one. But flowers eventually wilt and disappear — often with the presence of those who sent them. Not out of malice, but because everyone’s lives must go on.

Including yours. Even if you haven’t come to terms with that yet.

The absence of the note can also feel like a slight. You assume the person went out of their way not to write. To leave you behind. As they’re out enjoying their lives. But when people disappear, you must remember you don’t know what they’re going through. There may be a reason for their disappearance. I shouted Evan’s story from the rooftop. But we all cope differently.

Silence may seem easier, but it’s deafening for the other party. Sometimes we say nothing because we’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. I certainly have been in this position over the years. But it wasn’t until life with Miss Evan that I realized, I would rather have someone say the wrong thing instead of saying nothing.

Because saying something — anything — is an act of bravery. And you just never know how badly those words might be needed.

A few weeks ago, a handful of notes I both sent and received collided. There I was at Spago in Beverly Hills — standing in a room of living letters — aka. people I’d recently been in touch with. I had no idea they knew one another. Or that I’d suddenly find myself in a room with them together.

Allow me to backtrack…

1) A few months ago, I received an invitation to a dinner party with Italian label Etro in celebration of fashion entrepreneur Christos Garkinos’s memoir, “Covet the Comeback.” I felt grateful to be given a seat at the table — both metaphorically and literally — because it had been years since I’d seen Christos from his days with Decades, the Los Angeles vintage mecca he co-founded. Since I last saw him, I’ve had two children. And several life experiences — to say the least. Between Christos and myself, a lot of life has been lived in those years since we’ve seen one another. As I soon learned from reading his book.

As the mother of a rambunctious three-year-old son and wife of a photographer whose schedule tends to clash with mine, I’m gifted the rare night out once every few months. And I jump at the chance to get dressed in something other than pajamas or jeans. It should be noted: I’m not a social butterfly by nature. But I force myself to get out and see people because I have the instincts of a homebody. I’ve learned IRL is better than URL. So, I marked the date on my calendar and counted down the days.

2) Weeks later, courtesy of the Substack algorithm, I stumbled upon author Anna David’s newsletter, “Behind the Cover.” As a longtime fan of her 2004 novel “Party Girl,” I decided to reach out. Because people don’t do it often enough in the years that follow a project’s initial release. But her book made an impact on me during that era of my life — and I wanted to let her know it. Anna responded, and it felt nice to connect. (Or apparently re-connect?! She told me we’d been in touch once before. Clearly, my memory is shot. Trauma will do that. Or so I’ve heard. But don’t ask who told me. I don’t remember.) In any case, I learned Anna is still writing, but has since launched her own publishing company, an incredible feat.

3) Days before Christos’s book party, I randomly woke up — on an otherwise quiet Saturday morning — to the most thoughtful note from Selma Blair, an actress and advocate I admire for sharing so openly about her journey with MS. And for her kindness over the years when I was a cub reporter covering the red carpet for InStyle. We have only met professionally in passing over the years, but somehow we’re connected on Instagram. Through IG, Selma came across a Joyful Grief essay I wrote earlier this year: “The reality of red carpets,” which discussed why revisiting my old stomping ground as a red carpet reporter restored my faith in humanity and reminded me what goes unseen on the red carpet.

If this were a private DM, I’d keep her words to myself and close to my heart, but since she publicly posted it, I’ll re-share its sweet sentiment.

Selma wrote, “This is touching. And true. I’ve had attitude changes and appreciation growth spurts. On the red carpet. Watching and learning to celebrate. We need some glitz. We need congratulations. It’s been proven throughout time. And I’m prepared to bring it. In my quiet way. Thank you for bringing it. [In] so many ways through the years. And now.”

Little did I realize, three days later, we’d all find ourselves together in the same room at Spagos. Apparently, Selma is a longtime fashion friend of Christos and Anna published his new book. Normally, I’d be too shy to say hi to anyone I don’t know terribly well… in this case (D) all of the above. But Selma’s kind note gave me the confidence to say a quick hello.

Because I figured it was the universe telling me to use my words in person as opposed to hiding more comfortably behind a keyboard.

Due to the culmination of coincidences and the fact that we were at a book launch, over dinner, I found myself talking with a few writer friends about my desire to one day tell Evan’s story in greater detail. To one day find a cure — or even just treatment — for mitochondrial disease. To one day make it all make sense.

“I feel like these dots all somehow connect,” I told my seat mates (and friends), Melissa Magsaysay and Laura Eckstein. “I just don’t know how yet.”

I’ll never understand why my daughter Evan was born with a rare, undetected disease. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to understand why. Connecting dots that may or may not intersect. Exploring the possibility that they somehow do.

In the meantime, I’ll keep sending notes. To people who may help me find the answers I seek. To people who deserve to feel seen. To people whose support will forever mean the world. And to people who inspire me.

May I urge you to do the same?

Photo by River Callaway; stationery by Wanda Wen of Soolip