A Letter to Isabelle — Ten Years On

 I decided to write this post in the form of a letter...

Kochana Izuniu

August 1st. Ten years since you left this world, and somehow it still feels both impossible and painfully real. A whole decade has passed, yet you remain so alive in my heart. I’ve often asked myself since: Have I really lived? You did. You lived, you loved, and you were loved. Those were your parting words. You had no regrets. You taught me that’s what really matters.

You had a rare kind of wisdom, Izunia. You faced hardship not just with courage, but with grace. When life handed you lemons, you didn’t just make lemonade, you found the best recipe. And never once did you sour someone else's day to sweeten your own. You believed in the power of choice, that happiness was only ever a thought away, and you lived that belief with conviction. Even when your body gave way, your spirit stood tall. You focused on the good, never blamed, never complained. You chose joy, you chose kindness, again and again.

You celebrated life without ego - always expressing, never impressing. Your strength came with humility; your love came without conditions. I still remember your little garden swing; your desk stacked with books about protecting our planet and nurturing the soul. You lived thoughtfully, purposefully.

Your final days, though heartbreaking, were filled with the kind of love most people never get to see so clearly. The way you still laughed, still savoured food, still asked permission to sip a tiny glass of whisky. That bittersweet joy - Polish bread and gherkins shared with tears and smiles - lives in me forever. You prepared your goodbyes so selflessly: letters, gifts for your son, keepsakes of a mother’s boundless love.

I still think of that moment when we first really spoke. It was on a tram, headed to a class. You told me about your mother’s cancer. You were so young, and already so brave. The strength wasn’t something you found only in the end - it was always yours.

When I visited your hometown, Włoszakowice, I cried seeing your family home, your childhood things. I flipped through your books and found those words by Helen Keller you had underlined:
"With every death of someone I love deeply… a part of me dies... but their influence gives me the energy to carry on living." I carry that energy. You gave it to me.

You were always an inspiration to me. You graduated in the UK, and you did it with no help of others - just hard work, resilience, and a heart full of purpose. Graduating from the same university three years ago, I thought back to your graduation. I hope you know how much your example meant to me.

In my keepsake diary, you wrote Kipling’s If for me. You chose that poem for a reason - it was who you were. You kept your head when all around you lost theirs. You spoke the truth without bitterness. You met triumph and disaster and treated those two impostors just the same. You filled every unforgiving minute with meaning. You gave, you guided, and you loved.

And you keep giving. Even in the quiet of goodbye, you left one more gift. In the hostel where I stayed after the final farewell, I met Silvia. Just one night, a passing moment, and yet we’ve stayed in touch all these years. Another beautiful soul, another quiet thread you tied between lives.

So, it was for you that I rode around the Isle of Wight, you would have loved - for the hills, the air, the wildness - just as the geographer in you loved. I rode to raise money for Young Lives vs Cancer; a charity I know would mean the world to you. And to honour others like you - mothers, friends, daughters - whose stories are still being written.

Ten years on, I miss you every day. And I promise, Isabelle, you are not forgotten. You never will be.