Threadbare Connection
How Ann Patchett's Stories Carried Me Through Loss and Love
There’s one author who shaped my understanding of what deep friendship looks like: Ann Patchett. I first came across her long essay These Precious Days in Harper’s Bazaar and was immediately gripped by her storytelling. Page after page, I followed as her friendship with Sooki unfolded—from their first meeting during a Tom Hanks book tour in Washington, where she was working as his assistant, to becoming digital pen pals, to the cancer clinical trials in Tennessee that eventually led to her living with Ann for an extended period.
She recounted the ordinary days they spent together, what being there for someone really meant and the blessings of friendship heightened by its impermanence: taking each day as it comes, the sacredness of sharing small routines, and the importance of art and creative expression—a glimpse of the kind of friendship I yearned for, and hoped to offer in return.
Soon after, I picked up Ann’s other book, Truth and Beauty—an honest and deeply moving account of her friendship with fellow writer Lucy Grealy. In it, she writes about her unwavering loyalty and devotion to Lucy, the ways she stood by her through her darkest moments: listening without trying to fix, staying steady through chaos, allowing space when words fell short—all while grappling with her own inner conflicts and struggles. It’s about suspending judgment, leaning into curiosity, and remaining open. I took it all in. It felt, to me, like she was teaching me about life—unfiltered, without rose-colored glasses. They stayed with me.
Little did I know that a few years later, I would walk a similar path with my older sister, Ate Marica—from her devastating diagnosis to her passing just two months later. I honestly don’t know how I would have stayed grounded without having read Ann’s stories. They taught me how to bear witness to suffering, and that presence was enough when there was little else I could give. I sat beside my sister, offering my hand to hold as tightly as she could, while the gravity of her illness sank in. And when words failed, and tears streamed down our cheeks, one simple line came to me that felt right—“Let’s take it one day at a time.” It wasn’t a direct quote from These Precious Days, but the memory of that story made it feel like the only thing to say.
It wasn’t just that one moment, but the whole experience, unfolding day by day. Together with faith, prayer, family, friends, doctors, nurses, caregivers, and our household help, we endured even when it felt both unbearable and unrelenting.
I wrote Ann a thank-you note on one of the notecards I created in my sister’s honor. Her stories were a threadbare connection—but one that carried me through one of the hardest and saddest seasons of my life. The card was with deep gratitude for what those stories had meant to me.
If there’s a story you feel called to write, or a photograph, collage, or artwork that feels vulnerable—have the courage to share it anyway. It might carry someone else, just when they need it most.
ps. I created the notecard I sent to Ann as part of a small tribute project simply called Marica—inspired by her gentle way of showing up for others. If someone’s been on your heart lately, this might be a meaningful place to begin.
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Beautiful. I’m so glad that small comfort was available. Hugs dear Stella.🤗🤗
Dear Stella, I'm so grateful for the way you share your musings and losses, what inspires you, what gets you through. It's true what you say about presence, that there are times when it's the only thing that matters. We don't always remember the words anyway, but we do remember someone being there in those hardest moments. I love this photographic series too. I'm particularly drawn to faded blooms, and your title is just incredible. So much vulnerability and fragility and strength. Big hugs to you.