Pink confetti and yellow butterflies and fiercely living every moment

When the doctors told Laura Ben-David her illness was terminal, she didn’t retreat from life. She didn’t shut down. She leaned in — with grace, curiosity, and a quiet kind of courage.

By then, her body was tired. She was mostly in a wheelchair. But even a week before she died, we were still talking about seasonal color analysis. She wanted to know what colors would bring out her features. What makeup to try. She had just had her hair cut and shaped. She was still curious. Still asking questions. Still imagining a future — even as she knew her time was short.

But as she reminded me, everyone’s time is short. We just don’t always know it. What matters isn’t how many pages are left. What matters is how we live the ones we have.

And Laura lived hers with clarity and care. She connected with people deeply — across faiths, across borders. I’m seeing outpourings of love from Muslims, Christians, Jews — from people who knew her and from people who never met her but felt her impact. That says everything about the life she lived.

She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t trying to be anyone but herself. But she showed up — fully, honestly, unapologetically, and always mindfully. That’s one of the many legacies she leaves: a reminder to be present, to care, to connect, to keep learning. To live even as we’re dying — because, in some way, we all are.

And if we’re lucky, we’ll live as she did — with love, with grace, and with just enough lipstick to feel like ourselves.

I met Laura in 2012, at a time when I was floundering, trying to find a home here in Israel. She became like a sister to me. Our friendship stretched from Jerusalem to New York to many different pockets of the land we both loved and shared. She lit up every room she entered with her kindness, her grace, and that unmistakable megawatt smile.

From road trips singing at the top of our lungs to being vastly inappropriate on the Lower East Side — and embracing every second — to unforgettable nights and meaningful days, from heartache and heartbreak to love and healing, we lived a thousand lifetimes in our friendship.

My life took an interesting little twist a few years ago and I had another baby. (I guess as the kids say, I did it for the plot.)

Laura and I were less in touch during that period for a variety of reasons, but when we had special events for my son, I began reaching out to her to see if she would come photograph. I knew she could beautifully capture my little one — and, more importantly, that she would hold space for the unusual family dynamic and circumstance.

She did.

Because even though Laura was ill — and some days she felt pretty wrecked — she was always down for an adventure.

And believe you me, from taking photos on the stormiest day of 2023 at St. James Church (literal flurries of snow, y’all) to hanging out in one of two Armenian social clubs and drinking whisky with priests, she was 100% there. That’s also where I got to know her beloved Ray.

Again: an adventure. And Laura loved those.

So even though it was a hard week for her, she came — with her usual grit and grace — and captured the event spectacularly. It’s also one of the reasons why our friendship got back on track the way it did. I think about that often, and it brings me enormous comfort. It continues to inspire me.

Grief doesn’t end with the funeral or the shiva or the shloshim or the yahrzeit or EVERYTHING — it comes in waves, constantly. Grief is what happens when love has nowhere to go, so it ripples and ripples and ripples, looking for a shore to hold it.

And still, I feel Laura in every soft place and ray of light.

On Shabbat, somewhere between sleeping and waking, while my eyes were closed and my mind was open, I saw a shower of pink confetti and yellow butter butterflies so clearly and felt her so closely, that I choose to believe she was actually there in those few seconds. I mean, come on — warm colors are 100% her color palette, and the butterflies just make sense.

Laura had a way of seeing people — like really seeing them — and capturing them in their element. Not posed. Not filtered. Just present. Just being. She understood that the best photos aren’t always about the lighting or the angle or the setting (though she nailed those, too). The best photos are about catching someone in the quiet truth of a moment — that sliver of stillness where our true essence glimmers.

That was her gift. She could find the story inside the silence, the beauty inside the dust, the sacred inside the ordinary.

She lived that way, too. With humor, with curiosity, with purpose. And she gave that gift to so many of us — not just in her photos, but in how she listened, how she showed up, how she saw us.

And Laura knew: we’re all just passing through, but sometimes, if we’re lucky, someone catches us in our element — and for a brief, perfect moment, we belong.

Laura showed us all how to live: with joy, with compassion, with an irreverent sense of the absurd, and with unfailing courage. She created space for everyone, held people close, and never once tried to be anything other than completely, wonderfully herself.

Laura can never be a was. She will always be an is. A guiding light. A moral compass. A blessing etched into the hearts of everyone she touched — through the darkest moments and the brightest days.

May her memory always be for a blessing. And may we honor her by living as she did — fully, bravely, and with fierce and abiding love.