Sometimes I see my life split into two phases: before and after. But I guess a more accurate description would be with and without. With my best friend, and without her. With Nicole, and without Nicole.

My best friend Nicole lost her life in a tragic plane crash when we were 14 years old. She was beginning high school, barely beginning life. When I think of the things I have experienced in the past four years, I can’t help but to do it with a sense of guilt because I know that Nicole will never get the chance to experience them. Nicole and I had known each other since the first grade; our friendship had flitted through the early stages of childhood, through the awkward stages of middle school, and finally on to high school.

When she was here, it was never just Madi or just Nicole; it was always Madi and Nicole. We were inseparable.

I remember when I first found out she was gone. All I could think was that there was no more Madi and Nicole. A part of me wasn’t just missing, it was gone forever; she was gone forever. It wasn’t that the dynamic duo no longer existed because our friendship ended on bad terms or one of us moved away; rather, there was no more Nicole.

Most of my memories of before are flooded with your typical teenage things: laughs, stupid inside jokes and lots of sleepovers. My memories of after consist of learning to be without. Without a friend, without a teammate, without those Friday night sleepovers and laughs, and without Nicole.

After the accident, everything changed. My perspective on life, my relationships with those around me, my community, my life—everything had been affected. In many ways I cannot even picture my life, or myself, without this loss that defines me.

I remember the days after Nicole’s death as a blur. A blur of tears and lots of purple—Nicole’s favorite color—that the whole school and community were engulfed in. It was in the days right after the accident that I began to notice and appreciate the love around me. There were so many people that cared—not just the people who knew Nicole: my family, friends and teammates. Nicole’s loss brought our whole community together; I had never seen anything like it before, and I haven’t seen anything like it since. The unwavering support and love from every corner of our small suburban town made dealing with this unthinkable event just a little bit easier.

The accident happened only four days before Thanksgiving, and I just remember thinking how unfitting the idea of giving thanks was, but how at the same time there were so many people for whom I was so thankful for in my life. I think this deep appreciation for those around me stemmed from not only the love and support I was given after Nicole’s death, but also from the realization that I should have told Nicole what she meant to me when I had the chance.

In the years since, my whole world has continued to change. Nicole had been a dancer since she was just a toddler, and her loss resonated deeply within in the dance community. On the year anniversary of the accident, Nicole’s mother Robin—who is, by far, the most graceful, inspirational, and strong woman you will ever meet—opened a dance studio in her honor. Being a dancer at this studio and part of Robin’s journey has not only taught me strength and courage, but also has taught me the most important lesson I have learned: how to create something beautiful and positive out of something so negative.

I think that anyone who has lost someone dear to them knows what it’s like to constantly wish they were back with you. Everything that you do, you wish they were right by your side. But there comes a point when you realize that is not the reality of things. They won’t ever come back, no matter how much you hope or pray. That’s when you learn to honor their memory and keep them in your heart each day.

That’s when you learn what it feels like to say goodbye.