Andy

This Saturday, friends and family will gather at a park in Holden, Massachusetts, at a bench that honors my late friend, Andrew Abrams.

This morning, while flipping through an old writing journal, I stumbled upon something I had started writing about him.

The timing felt just like Andy.

A gentle nudge.

Don’t forget. You started writing this.

Andy and I met several years ago in an online memoir writing class. We were both working on our books, and this writing group became deeply meaningful to us. It was a source of encouragement and kinship with people who understood the difficult and vulnerable work of trying to tell a story that mattered.

It didn’t take long for Andy to become everyone’s favorite writer and biggest supporter among us.

Andy always had a thoughtful comment, word, or phrase he appreciated about something one of us had written. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to have a loving observation about the person sharing their work too—recognizing the bravery it took, the heartache beneath a story, or the joy someone risked placing on the page.

He truly connected us more deeply as a group.

It’s as if he added his color and came with a whole box of crayons, inviting us all to try a new one.

I think it was the fall of 2024, Andy and a few of us attended a writing conference in Maine. One of the evening activities was an open mic where participants were encouraged to read their work aloud.

The moment it was mentioned during orientation, my immediate thought was:

Yeah, I won’t be doing that.

Anyone who knows me knows public speaking—and especially reading my writing aloud in front of a group—is one of my biggest fears.

But something about that weekend felt transformative.

By the last evening, I found myself signing up to read one of my essays.

One of the attendees from our writing class snapped a photo while I stood at the podium reading my essay. In the audience sat Andy and another dear writing friend from our class, side by side in the front row. Our friend’s arm reached gently across to Andy as they listened.

When the photo was shared during our next Zoom class, what struck me most was the way they looked so proud of me.

Not performative proud.

Tender proud.

The kind that says, Look at her go.

Like loving parents watching their child do something difficult they never imagined she’d volunteer to do.

It brought tears to my eyes to see how fully and lovingly I had been witnessed in that moment while doing something I never imagined I would—or could—do.

Andy was one of those people who helped others become more themselves.

He also introduced me to Internal Family Systems and generously offered me several sessions. I still use what he taught me. His influence continues showing up in my life in ways that matter.

After Andy died, his wife finished the memoir he had been working on and graciously allowed me to offer my two cents of help in bringing it across the finish line.

It was important to me that Andy’s book be shared in the world.

And now his voice still exists here on earth, resting between the pages of the story he worked so hard to tell.

I miss Andy.

I miss both his strengths and vulnerabilities that he willingly shared—one-on-one and with our writing group.

I think of his big, loving energy looking down on all of his tribe and all that he loved about life on earth.

I have a feeling he knows all the answers he struggled so hard to understand.

I feel his love, smiling down on us and still cheering us on:

You’ve got this.

It’s not as hard as it seems.

Even the hard stuff.

Enjoy the ride.

Enjoy the learning.

And just for me, finding these unfinished words in an old journal just days before friends and family gather at a bench that bears his name, the gentle nudge.

Don’t forget.

You started writing this.

Finish it.

If you’d like to read Andy’s memoir, Restless Spirit: A Lifelong Spiritual Quest, you can find it here: Restless Spirit: A Lifelong Spiritual Quest by Andrew Abrams⁠