I’ve known Danielle since we were both students at Sierra. During my first semester, we had almost every class together, all day long. By the end of the second day, I’m pretty sure she was the one who approached me (yeah, that sounds about right), and we walked to the parking lot together and exchanged numbers. Even then, it was completely platonic, though there was that youthful, underlying itch—the kind that makes you notice someone just because they’re appealing, attractive, and, in my case, way out of my league. That was 1998.

Two years went by, and we hung out all the time. She became my sister from another mister—one of those rare people I could honestly talk to without fear of judgment. And she did the same with me. We were always in relationships with other people, but we shared the ups and downs like siblings swapping stories about their day.

Then we both transferred to Sac State, and sure enough, there we were again—same schedule, "T/Ths all day," as we used to say. But this time, I was in "her" world. She already knew everyone, and it felt like we were working on a play together in that tiny English department. I met some great people there, but Danielle was always my bud, my go-to, the one person in class I could turn to and say, “I don’t understand this shit—can you help me?”

And then, grad school. And then, the adjunct world. Then marriages and weddings. She showed up at my house with an orchid when my firstborn, Abby, was born. Through all of life’s shifts—good and bad—Danielle was there.

Lately, life had thrown its share of struggles our way. COVID loomed in the background, and the weight of life’s rocks at the bottom seemed heavier by the day. There were so many morning runs where I’d get halfway through, stop, walk the rest of the way home, and call Danielle—to catch up, see how she was doing, and grab a beer and a taco: exchange bands, books, and movies. Our conversations would zigzag from The Kinks to Joan Didion—she was one of maybe three people I know who liked Woody Allen movies and wasn’t afraid to admit it.

She loved to travel, and I knew she was built for it when she got the chance to teach abroad for a semester. Like I said, she was my sister from another mister, my sis from another miss; I always cherished her family, even if I didn’t know them as well as I should have. I was beyond happy for her, and I’m grateful she had the chance to stand beneath a different sky, to see the moonlight from the other side of the world—just long enough for it to shift her perspective, even if only slightly.

To her siblings and parents, my family sends our love and condolences. To Dan—my brother and his wife, DJ and Bonnie Angelone, send their love to you as well. You and your family have always been so kind to us. And to Karen—I’m so, so sorry. Danielle loved you so much. Sure, she sometimes rolled her eyes at you behind your back when we would meet and talk about moms, but that was just the leftover teenage years. From where I stand, she adored you so, so much.

Warmly,

Michael Angelone 

My lifelong friend, Karen Defoe, is Danielle’s mom. The personality and attributes described by your posts most certainly came from her mom.  I only knew Danielle through her proud mother’s descriptions of her daughter and amazing accomplishments,  I hope you will respectfully include Karen in your hearts and prayers as she is alone and grieving for the loss of her only child and daughter. 

I live  in Alaska and lost my 39 year old son suddenly 14 years ago, His friends honored our family by flying in from all over the country,  speaking at his service, arranging food and flowers,  donating money, visiting with us, establishing a memorial and keeping a tribute page that yearly gets postings.  All these things have sustained us and were dearly appreciated.

Andy, my most sincere and deepest sympathy.  May the Lord give you strength and comfort during this time of sorrow.  May she Rest in Peace.                                                                                         Soledad (Chole) Palacios Castro - El Paso Texas