I met Frances when I first joined Pinterest; we were both aspiring, slightly lazy employees who enjoyed the dragged out lunch or snack break. We clicked instantly. We spent a lot of time climbing; at first in the gym, then on trips, to Bishop, Yosemite, local crags.

When she moved to New York, I figured we wouldn’t spend as much time together. There was a brief period where we didn’t talk as often as we used to, but then she flew back to SF to visit us, went to Bishop, and I soon realized that the break was only temporary.

Everywhere I went, Frances went too. She was the loyal friend who always came to visit, always checked in, always looked out for me.

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To those who knew Frances, she was an incredible force.

She found humor in everything, and loved to give her signature cackle, throwing back her head, eyes wide, opening her mouth as far as it would go while grinning ear to ear, each cackle exploding out of her with full bodied force. She laughed with her whole soul.

She loved to make light of herself, her favorite activity to meme-ify herself in highly memorable quips- as she tiptoed up the climbing wall hesitantly, pausing to eke out a timid “I’m shcared” and then bursting into a fit of laughter. Or when she lightly poked you in the arm, put on a convincing pouting face, and loudly proclaimed “I’m BORED” to get your attention. And you could never endure a prolonged silence with her without her pushing out every little ounce of breath she had into a successive staccato of yawns, progressively shorter, transitioning to her smacking her lips a few times and letting you know, just in case you weren’t aware, that she’s tired.

She teased — a lot. Maybe for some a bit too much, but for me it was just the right amount. We teased each other endlessly, bickering and bantering and throwing light jabs at each other playfully. It never got old, and felt like home for me. She loved to put wild accusations in your mouth to fluster you (“you LOVE losing money….” “Chris said my nose looked huge…”).

She was a deeply loyal friend. She had your back no matter what would happen. You could count on her to be there day in, day out. She always followed through on her word, protected you and cared for you, nagged you when you ate too much ice cream or didn’t exercise, and loved and supported you through thick and thin.

She loved fiercely. Her love language was touch — often walking up to whomever, arms outstretched, shouting “halloooo” ready to embrace you in a deep, prolonged hug. She loved to stand uncomfortably near your face, staring at your features, and gently petting and tapping your head.

She was a lover of animals. She had two cats, Gnocchi and Ravi, of whom she adored and would send pictures of constantly. Every time she visited, she’d rush up to our cats; “Hallaooo toadieee” she’d proclaim, as she enveloped one of our cats in a bear hug, showering him with kisses on his face.

She was a sensitive soul, who cared deeply about others. So much so, that you would find that she reflected back your own soul — and encounter the very strengths and weaknesses you express yourself. She countered pain with pain, anger with anger, rejection with rejection, love with love, devotion with devotion. Fundamentally, she was seeking what we all do — belonging, and safety. She sought home.

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To Michelle and I, Frances was a deep, bonded friend and family member. She was our first child — every time she visited, for weeks at a time, and multiple times a year, we took care of her, watched over her, made her go on walks, made her put her dishes away, made her watch Harry Potter for the first time. We invested all our attention to making sure she could feel safe and happy here.

We love and miss her dearly. She will forever be a part of us.