When I met Serifat, I knew immediately I had gained a sister and a lifelong friend. She smiled easily, laughed raucously, and worked equally as hard as she played. I would be just as likely to find her with her nose buried in meticulously taken notes as I would find her soaking up the sun on a cruise through the Caribbean. She was colorful, both in a literal and figurative sense, effortlessly brightening anyone's day with her hair died crimson red or platinum blond. As newly minted graduate students, we were poised to take the world by storm. Our research interests were distinct, but related. She followed her passion in immune-oncology and I found my home in psychoneuroimmunology. Serifat’s intellect was unmatched – if anyone was capable of discovering a cure for cancer, I had every confidence it would be her. On Friday, April 5, 2024 I checked my phone to find an alarming number of messages all asking the same question: “Are you ok?” It took all of 10 seconds to frantically skim through the condolences to realize Serifat was gone. That was one of the only times I can remember feeling completely untethered. I wanted to fight God. The following days were not kind. I made a mental catalogue of every dream she would not be given a chance to fulfill and used it as a weapon against myself. She would never celebrate her 30th birthday. She would never get her PhD. She would never make her famous rasta pasta or bring the house down singing Adele at karaoke ever again. Though a year has already passed, the pain from losing her sits squarely in my chest. I am not convinced any amount of grief processing will make it go away. It takes no small effort to fend off the bad days with the good, but I do so in honor of her. Today I find myself revisiting some of Serifat's dreams for a different purpose. Part of her power is being able to inspire even in her absence. Since her passing I have dedicated time to improve the lives of students in our program through outreach, I have mentored undergraduates seeking a career in science, I have traveled to places I otherwise never would have dared, and every so often I have allowed my spirit the luxury of being truly free. There are still moments when I have to pull my car to the side of the road, or leave a conversation unceremoniously, or wake up in the middle of the night because that familiar pain has come back to say hello. I have been trying to fight that hurt a bit less because her memory is part of what drives me to appreciate the beauty in each moment of life. Serifat may be gone, but I refuse to let her be forgotten.