I didn’t know it at the time, but her name would stay etched in my story forever. Tara. That’s all she needed—just four letters, short and punchy, like an exclamation point on legs. When I first met her, I was a shy sophomore wearing an oversized beanie in the dead of March (Vermont winters are a different kind of cruel), sitting in the back row of Anthropology 201 and quietly shrinking into myself. Tara, on the other hand, walked into that classroom like she was Beyoncé on a world tour—commanding the room, coffee in hand, late but unapologetic. “Hey, sorry, I live life on mountain time,” she quipped with a wink, even though there wasn’t a mountain within 200 miles of campus.
I laughed, but not because it was funny. It was the kind of laugh that bubbles out of you uninvited when someone just is—completely and utterly themselves. Over time, I realized that unapologetic authenticity is exactly what made Tara magnetic. She didn’t just exude a confidence I didn’t yet recognize in myself; she brimmed with a curiosity about life and a dedication to connection that flipped something inside me like a switch. She taught me more about love and relationships than any textbook or theoretical class discussion ever could. But her lessons weren’t about romance; they were about identifying what you need, standing confidently in your truths, and not apologizing for the way you shine.
Lesson 1: Be Bold, Even When It Feels Uncomfortable
One night, during finals week chaos, Tara whisked me out of our dorm room, where I had been stress-eating granola bars and highlighting the same paragraph of my textbook for the twelfth time. “We’re going sledding,” she declared, holding up a hot pink pool float she’d somehow stuffed into her backpack. I protested, citing a to-do list seven miles long, but she rolled her eyes and dragged me outside anyway.
There we were, careening down a half-frozen hill in the middle of the night, screaming and laughing with tears in our eyes. Tara turned to me at the top of our fifth run like an Olympic coach delivering a gold-medal speech. “See this? This is why you don’t wait to feel ready before you live.”
Looking back, that one hot pink sledding adventure carried a lesson that wove its way into every corner of my life—especially relationships. How often have we told ourselves, I’ll ask them out when I feel ready? or I’ll share my feelings once everything’s perfect? Spoiler alert: You’ll never feel ready. Tara taught me that true boldness comes not from waiting until you’re fearless, but from leaping with your trembling hands anyway. Jumping before the readiness arrives could mean staring down the icy hill of vulnerability or, in Tara’s case, a literal snowy incline.
Lesson 2: Your Boundaries Are Your Superpower
Tara was someone who could—and did—talk to everyone: professors, janitors, the overly enthusiastic barista who spelled her name “Tarrow” one too many times. But despite her wide social network, Tara taught me that knowing where to draw the line wasn’t a weakness; it was strength. She would listen with the patience of a saint but had no problem saying, “Love ya, no, you can’t borrow my laptop just because you forgot to write your essay and I happen to own Microsoft Word.”
At first, this baffled me. Raised as I was in a Navajo community where every gathering is communal, there’s a shared expectation of generosity. You share frybread when someone’s short on theirs, stories around the fire, even resources if someone’s in need. So Tara’s refusal to bend over backward for people made me pause. But her approach wasn’t cold—it was liberating. She taught me that boundaries don’t mean shutting people out; they mean knowing how to protect your energy so you can show up fully for the things—and people—that really matter.
Boundaries, Tara explained, were like the safety fences at amusement parks: They’re not there to ruin the fun—they’re there because you don’t want your rollercoaster careening off the rails.
Lesson 3: Love Isn’t Reserved for Romance
Perhaps the greatest lesson Tara gave me was redefining what love really means. She wasn’t my girlfriend, my sister, or my soulmate in a Nicholas Sparks sense. Growing up, love had largely been presented to me in binaries. Familial love was the warm comfort of bowls of mutton stew passed around gatherings and the hum of ceremonial songs that greeted me each morning. Romantic love was this distant, mystical idea—a thunderstorm on the horizon that I thought would sweep in one day to define my universe.
Tara shattered that notion. With her, love took an entirely different form. It was showing up with tea from the 24-hour diner when I’d barely slept in two days because of a paper. It was her refusal to let me underestimate myself and her knack for showing me my own worth before I could see it. Tara embodied one of the most important truths my ancestors have always cherished but that I sometimes lost sight of in my modern rush: Love is abundant. It’s not trapped in one category or reserved for one special person. It lives in every choice to care deeply, to show up earnestly, and to celebrate one another’s victories—even the tiny ones.
How Tara’s Lessons Shaped My Relationships
Tara and I keep in touch, though our lives have spread us across the country. But her lessons linger in the way I approach relationships of all kinds—platonic or romantic. When old friends ask where my confidence comes from, I joke, “I borrowed it from Tara and never gave it back.” It’s what pushed me to admit to a crush before I played it “safe” and watched that opportunity pass me by. It’s what helps me spot red flags early, drawing boundaries with clarity rather than guilt. And when dating feels messy or uncertain, I remind myself of one critical thing Tara said that night we went sledding:
“You’re the sled, babe. They either hop on for the ride or stay at the top of the hill. But the snow is fresh, so go anyway.”
Closing Thoughts
Some friends come into your life like passing snowstorms—beautiful, brief, and leaving only the faintest memory in their wake. Others, like Tara, settle in more profoundly, carving rivers of change in the landscape of who you are. She made me bolder, braver, and more self-assured. She taught me that love isn’t just reserved for grand romantic gestures but is tucked in the small, quiet places where someone sees you, believes in you, and cheers for you like it’s their full-time job.
So here’s your takeaway: Be someone’s Tara. And when you meet your own Tara—whether it’s a friend, mentor, or fellow sledding enthusiast—hold them close, and let them reshape you in all the messy, joyful, unforgettable ways they can.
