The Friend Who Changed My Life

Growing up in Montgomery, it seems like everyone’s life follows a script. It’s not a bad script—Sunday church potlucks, high school football games, summers spent swatting mosquitoes on porches. But there’s a rhythm to it all, a predictability. That’s how it felt until I met Marnie Hazelwood, the friend who blew up the script of my life like it was a firecracker in a soda can.

A Wildcard Named Marnie

Marnie moved to Montgomery in the middle of junior year, which is social suicide unless you’re Beyoncé (or you bring something truly extraordinary to the table—more on that in a minute). She showed up in homeroom with bright purple streaks in her hair, combat boots that clunked like she belonged on an MTV music video set, and a confidence that would’ve made the Homecoming Queen turn green. By lunchtime, she’d already nicknamed me “Alabama Jane,” corrected our history teacher on Civil War statistics (accurately, mind you), and invited me to sit with her at the one table no one dared brave: the drama kids.

You know how some people radiate energy that feels just so electric, you wonder how their bursts of brilliance don’t short-circuit them? That was Marnie. She didn’t just nudge me out of my comfort zone; she straight-up shoved me—probably while quoting Oscar Wilde or singing Dixie Chicks lyrics at full volume.

For someone like me, raised with manners so strict that I once apologized to my cat for stepping on her tail, getting to know Marnie was a revelation. Montgomery wasn’t big on rule-breakers, but Marnie turned breaking the rules into its own art form—like graffiti sprayed across the underpass of my reliably predictable life.

Lessons in Fearless Living

When it came to relationships, Marnie was the first person to explain to me—through example, not lecture—that saying “no” wasn’t just allowed, it was liberating. I’ll never forget the time some guy we called Letter Jacket Chad asked her out. Instead of politely letting him down like the rest of us were programmed to do, she smirked and said, “Nah, but thanks for asking. However, I’d love to borrow your pen to write down the name of someone I would date.”

What floored me wasn’t just the rejection; it was the casual grace of it. She wasn’t mean. She wasn’t defensive. She just knew herself well enough to set boundaries. That was Marnie: the queen of clarity where others fumbled with apologies and excuses.

One night, after a run of bad dates (or, as I call that era, The Year of Poor Decisions Featuring Boys Named Kyle), she plopped down on my bed, pulled a notebook out of her bag, and said, “We’re making a list.”

“A list of... what?” I asked hesitantly.

“Of everything we want in a relationship. And no cheating with vague stuff like, ‘Someone who’s nice.’ What do you want, Carrie Hensley? Name it all.”

Her pen scribbled furiously as I began to list out qualities I’d never dared to voice before: someone who could match me in long conversations, who’d understand my love of history and maybe even join me on road trips to obscure Civil Rights landmarks. By the time we were done, I had something that looked less like a “wishlist” and more like a manifesto. It was the first time I realized that love is not just something you fall into; it’s something you build—carefully and with intention.

Taking Big Swings

Marnie’s mantra was always, “Life’s too short for small swings. Go big or go sit back down.” Case in point: one Spring Break, instead of tagging along to Destin Beach with half the class, she convinced me to join her on a weeklong search for the descendants of freed slaves who had once lived on her family’s land in Selma. The adventure was messy—literally (one particularly unimpressed rooster chased me into a ditch at a chicken farm where we’d stopped). But it was also magical, because it was the first time I saw the connections between Marnie’s boldness and the way she treated connection—with relationships, sure, but also with her own tangled Southern history.

“You think I’m fearless,” she said on that trip while we folded maps in a truck cab that smelled like chicken feed, “but it’s not fearlessness, Jane. It’s just... bravery by choice. You don’t wait to stop being scared. You just start doing the brave thing anyway.”

I think about that line every time I reach for something I worry is out of my league: writing about history that bruises and inspires me in equal measure; teaching students who remind me of versions of myself I wish someone had nudged, just a little harder, toward greatness; saying “I love you” for the first time to someone who might say it back—or might not.

Lessons You Can Borrow From Marnie

Marnie eventually moved on, as fireworks do. She’s in New York now, producing off-Broadway plays and setting things on fire in a completely metaphorical way (I assume, though if literal arson was involved, I wouldn’t be shocked). We still trade letters now and then—the only appropriate medium for old souls like us—and I still carry her wisdom around like a pocket knife.

Here’s what I think she’d want me to share with you:

  • Say what you mean. Whether on a date, at work, or in a messy friendship, honesty is your best compass. (Just skip Marnie’s “borrow the pen” line unless you’re her level of charming.)

  • Take risks, even clumsy ones. Life is richer when you shrug off the fear of looking ridiculous.

  • Get specific. No settling for “nice” just because it’s easy. Whether it’s relationships or personal goals, define your wants and needs clearly.

  • Choose bravery. Fear doesn’t vanish. You just learn to carry it like a purse instead of letting it carry you.

Some People Are Fireworks

Every so often, you meet someone whose influence doesn’t fade like spring paint on Southern porches; it burns like a branding iron. Marnie Hazelwood was that for me. She taught me that being a proper Southern woman doesn’t mean you have to stay silent or small. It means learning to fill the room—your own version of charm, one act of courage at a time.

I’d like to think, by osmosis or sheer tenacity, some part of her wild spark rubbed off on me. And if there’s a Marnie in your life—or an Alabama Jane of your own—now’s the time to sit them down, make a list, and set something big in motion.