Andrea Gibson 8/13/75 – 7/14/25
The poem isn’t over. A letter from their wife, Meg
Sweet Community,
Meg here. Andrea’s partner of over a decade. Their wife. Also a poet. Also a writer. Also the behind-the-scenes editor of this newsletter for the last four years.
It seems unlikely you haven’t heard, given that social media has been flooded and national media is reporting too, but Andrea died in our home this past Monday at 4:16 a.m., surrounded by me, their parents, four exes, dear friends, and our three beloved dogs.
If this is the first time you’re hearing this news, I am so sorry. In a perfect world, I’d be holding your hand as I told you. I’ll do my best to simulate that here: a warm hand in yours. A shoulder. A hug. A good and aching friend.
A couple years ago, Andrea said, “Whenever I leave this world, whether it’s sixty years from now, I wouldn’t want anyone to say I lost some battle. I’ll be a winner that day.”
Whatever beast of emotion bucks or whimpers through you right now, I hope you can hold that line beside it: Andrea didn’t lose anything. If you had been here in our home during the three days of their dying—if you’d seen dozens of friends drift in to help, to say goodbye, to say thank you, to kiss their perfect face, if you’d felt the love that floored every hospice nurse—you would have agreed. Andrea won.
I won’t sugarcoat the fact that they desperately wanted more time on this planet that they loved so much. This planet of squirrels and romance and basketball and moonlight.
But the time they had was significant, prismatic, and wild. It was full of trampolines and mountain ranges, stage lights and pants-peeing laughter. In their words, they “juiced the sun for every holy drop.” One of the last things they said before dying was, “I fucking loved my life.” Their conviction stunned the room.
If Andrea’s life was a poem (and it was), could there be a better last line?
If you're new here, a little backstory: In 2021, before the diagnosis, Andrea announced they were writing a newsletter, titled Things That Don’t Suck. A few weeks later, we learned they had ovarian cancer.
At first, Andrea said, “What a terrible time to be committed to writing about what doesn’t suck.” Then, almost immediately, they shifted their perspective and said, “What a perfect time.”
And so, this space was born. Part journal, part poetry, part pep talk, part treasure hunt. It became an archive of Andrea’s ability to find beauty in unlikely places, to wring gratitude from even the hardest hours. A museum of how they danced through their diagnosis, always turning their compass toward joy. It fostered a community they deeply loved.
And Andrea wanted all of it to continue.
Because here’s the thing: there’s so much more of their writing that hasn’t been published. A memoir they’ve been working on for years. Half-finished poems, still luminous. A Notes app full of midnight thoughts, written as the moon poured through our twin skylights and washed us both in silver.
And there are stories of our life, and of the last months, that I, as their partner, and as a writer, feel both lucky to carry and uniquely able to tell.
As gut-wrenching, impossible, and tear-soaked as this moment is, I’m grateful beyond measure that they were so prolific. Through their books, their reels, their interviews, their albums, Andrea’s incredible mind will reverberate for a century—I’m sure of that.
But Andrea had more to say. More to share. And it will be one of the great honors of my life to keep releasing their words.
And, as someone who processes through writing too, it will be a gift to "write my heart in" as I lasso our life down onto the page. As I put words to our incredible, indelible love story.
Those of us who have been undone and rebuilt by Andrea’s words dozens of times—need each other right now. We need a space to feel it all, to grieve in the way Andrea would urge us to. “To keep the novocaine out of [our] wisdom teeth.”
This newsletter will stay true to its title. Because to disappear into grief and melancholy would be to profoundly miss the point of everything Andrea’s been teaching us these last four years.
Together, we’ll keep looking for what doesn’t suck.
Together, we’ll keep finding the beauty in all of it.
I hope you’ll join us.
Love, Meg (and Andrea, too. Forever.) 🖤
Thank you for being here.
Andrea's dying and death is a blueprint for any willing to believe that dying is the opposite of leaving. My heart goes out to you, Meg, for having such a private moment be so public. That must be hard. Or maybe it's good. Or maybe it's both. In any event I just want you to know you're very much in my heart as you continue to share Andrea's philosophy and words with the world.
Where is the emoji for the stretch-marked heart? So much love for you and all who knew Andrea, and know them still.