She was in a hurry from the very beginning — born early, always ahead, always more alive than the room could quite contain.
Lera was the kind of person you didn't forget. Not because she tried to be — she didn't need to. She lit up wherever she walked into, simply by being there. She was vibrant, funny, fierce and pure-hearted. She read people before they'd finished their first sentence. She wore her heart on her sleeve and was never afraid to speak her truth.
She loved the beach. She loved music — drives with no destination, windows down, singing at the top of her lungs. She believed in divine feminine energy and the power of being completely, unapologetically yourself. She was nineteen, and had already lived more than most people manage in a lifetime.
She was living by her own rules. Making her own rules.
When someone like Lera dies, everyone carries away a different piece of her.
One person remembers the way she laughed. Someone else remembers a conversation they had after ballet. A teacher remembers a quiet act of kindness her family never witnessed. A classmate remembers a moment that changed their life. A cousin remembers an adventure. A friend remembers a secret.
No single person ever knew the whole of Lera. Every one of us holds a different chapter.
For almost six years, those chapters have lived quietly in people's hearts. Some memories were too painful to revisit. Others became tucked away beneath the busyness of life.
But memories don't disappear. They wait.
Perhaps now is the right time.
An Invitation
If you knew Lera, I'd love to invite you to tell your story.
Not because it needs to be perfectly written. Not because it has to be long. But because every story matters.
Whether it's a paragraph, a page or twenty pages — whether it's joyful, funny, unexpected or deeply moving — your story is a piece of Lera that nobody else can tell.
As her mum, I know my Lera. But I'd love to discover yours.
