This First Person article is the experience of Dana Kobernick, who lives in Montreal. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ .
I’ve just passed another milestone birthday, and yet the familiar dread of reluctantly skidding into a new decade seems to have softened somewhat.
The quiet realization that my yesterdays outnumber my tomorrows feels less like a threat and more like a gift.
Aging, I’ve come to see, is a privilege. It doesn’t always feel like one because for me — whether grounded in reality or based on assumption — growing older is a process synonymous with decline, a gradual slowing of both mind and body.
But then I lost someone who never got the chance, and it made me see things differently.
My dear friend Natalie died after a brief illness almost a year ago at the age of 57. I was devastated by the loss.
To me, Natalie loomed large. Not because of her physical stature, not because she sought the spotlight, but because she had a calm and nurturing presence that made you feel like you mattered.
We met over 30 years ago at university in a statistics class. We were introduced by Lorraine, a mutual friend, and a deep and meaningful friendship grew despite her move from Montreal to Toronto.
What cemented our bond went far beyond the many trips we took together, weekends at her cottage, the birth of her children, my unforgettable 50th birthday celebration in New York City and other life events.
It was the quiet constancy: the unwavering presence we offered each other through life’s inevitable changes and challenges. Ours was — or is, I should say — a friendship built on trust, laughter and the kind of loyalty that asks nothing but gives everything.
Natalie was a light in so many people’s lives. I am fortunate to have her husband and Lorraine as close companions to keep her spirit vibrant through the many stories we share and the memories we carry forward together.
The story of “The Davids” is one that will endure above all. Natalie married David R. in the 1990s. Lorraine met David B. at Natalie’s wedding and ultimately married him. At some point, Natalie declared this a requirement: I, too, would have to find and marry a David. That narrowed the field considerably, I had joked. As it turns out, a mere three decades later, in 2023, I married David K. Go figure.
Natalie had a way of being there even when she wasn’t. When Lorraine and I reminisced about something she and I had experienced together, Natalie would sometimes chime in with her own vivid recollections. We’d pause and burst out laughing: “Nat, you weren’t there,” we’d say.
“I wasn’t?” she’d ask, genuinely perplexed, as if the memory had somehow woven itself into her own story too.
“Are you sure? I feel like I was.”
That was Natalie. So completely attuned that she made our lives her own.
About a month before Natalie passed away, my husband and I travelled to Toronto. We didn’t tell Natalie that the reason for our visit was to see her, though I suspect she knew.
Typically, she would have felt obligated to play host and I didn’t want to burden her with that. I was also afraid she’d think we were coming to say goodbye. In truth, the fear was mine, though not unfounded.
During the few hours we were together, she was herself — laughing, teasing me — as she tended to do, and perhaps quietly resigned to what lay ahead. She seemed at peace and, despite my heartbreak, I found myself comforted by her strength and resilience, as she looked squarely in the face of what many of us fear most.
It was that resilience, that bold acceptance, that left me profoundly moved. Natalie confronted death with bravery and dignity, and I’m learning to face the challenges of aging with a resolve that transforms uncertainty and apprehension into gratitude.
To be clear, Natalie also weathered much of what might be expected for someone dealt such a shattering blow. I know this, even as she shielded me from all that she was enduring.
In the same way, I realize that my newfound perspective does not mean that my fears will disappear completely, that the nostalgia of my youth, where endless opportunity lay ahead, will not stir some pain, or that the possibility of declining health will never weigh heavily.
So, as I strive to follow Natalie’s lead and move forward with fortitude, I realize that this strength will naturally rise and fall — fluctuations that are simply part of living fully.
While I try to make sense of a world without Natalie’s physical presence, I hold tight a deep sense of appreciation for all she gave me and for all that I have to look forward to.
Celebrating my 60th birthday this month, her absence feels like both a loss and a lens: a way for me to see more clearly how extraordinary it is to grow older, and to do it with love, grace and friendship.
I don’t want this next chapter to be about reinvention or reinvigoration or whatever else the world tells me aging should be. I want it to be about intention. About knowing what matters. About paying attention.
I want to live like she did: fully inside each moment, even the ones that didn’t belong to her.
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