Go Together Life

Di whirled into my life when my boys were still little and Grace wasn’t even a thought. We’d been on the hunt for a talented designer to join our team and were completely blown away by her husband, Jon. I was managing the People Team at the time, so I was his primary contact during the hiring process. After a few long video calls we sealed the deal, and Jon and Di packed their bags and moved from the Eastern Cape to Cape Town to start a new adventure.

Wanting to welcome them to the city, I invited them over for dinner a few nights before Jon’s first day. Since we worked in the food space, I went all out, making a “fancy” salad that featured every ingredient known to humankind. Unfortunately, Jon was allergic to nearly all of them. So there was that. Fortunately, we managed to find something Jon could eat and he and I settled into a deep and easy friendship that involved a little less culinary creativity.

Di and I however clicked instantly. She rolled in with this bright, unstoppable energy and filled our home with laughter. Some friendships just snap into place—easy, deep, and real. That was us.

She was my kind of crazy. Nothing Di did was ever half-hearted. Every classroom, project, and friendship got all of her—her imagination, her drive, her over-the-top attention to detail. Once, we spent hours building and painting giant Lego blocks out of shoeboxes and egg cartons, just to make sure Daniel’s birthday party was “on theme.” That was Di.

I was lucky to have her in my kids’ lives too. When the boys started playschool, she watched them two afternoons a week—collecting them from school and filling their afternoons with play and care. They adored her. Even when Adam made a daily game out of hiding on the school grounds (causing brief but severe widespread panic), Di stayed patient and loving. Eventually to everyone’s relief he’d be found, hiding in a play set or behind a shed, or a stack of cushions. Adam thought it was hilarious, Di and the rest of the school, not so much. “Aunty Di” was the bee’s knees.

Our friendship grew over our boys and a shared love for joyful living. We hiked Table Mountain flat, often with the boys perched on Jon’s and Patrick’s shoulders, laughing until our sides hurt while our husbands looked on in disbelief. Later, we started running together. Di was patient, steady, and always positive—loping along easily while I puffed beside her.

We ran night races at Groot Constantia, time trials at the Western Province Cricket Club, and endless loops through Tokai Forest. We even trained for the Cape Town Trail Marathon in matching shirts that Di sewed herself. We were building up to run the big one—African X—when Grace made her imminent appearance known. One of the few worthy reasons to pull out of a race, if you ask me.

In the years that followed, Di shifted into teaching, sharing her boundless creativity and joy with children in Llandudno and later Tokai. She had that rare mix of kindness, curiosity, and care that made every child feel seen. Her classrooms were a work of art. I hope they know how lucky they were to have her.

Even as our lives evolved, we stayed close—checking in, sharing meals, and laughing at every opportunity. Jon and Di helped us move into our home in Rondebosch, and we returned the favor when they settled into theirs.

We survived baboon encounters in Tokai, celebrated Patrick’s “40th” (quotation marks intentional), and laughed endlessly about the day Di refused to let me visit after Grace was born—she was deep in the haze of new-parent exhaustion and wasn’t having it.

She joined us at the Noddy Christmas party, diving headfirst into the boys’ hay wars (and probably itching for days afterward). We shared countless dinners, braais, sundowners in Llandudno, fancy parties, and cricket-ground picnics. A lifetime of memories, packed into fourteen years of friendship. Even after we moved to the U.S. and our lives diverged we kept in touch through voice notes and the occasional joyful in-person visit.

Di’s voice still echoes in my head every time I hit the trails. She pushed me to be better, to try harder things, and to find joy in the mess. I can still hear her affectionate “No, man, Mandy” followed by that signature side-eye.

Through the hardest years—chemo, radiation, endless treatments—she and Jon approached each step with grace, courage, and conscious positivity. I’ll treasure every voice note she sent, gentle reminders of what truly matters. My friend, you are loved and you will be deeply missed. See you on the heavenly trails—save me a seat, a glass, and a block of chocolate.