happy birthday to my friend, DéLana R.A. Dameron
today would have been your 41st birthday. this is in memory of you, our friendship, your story and legacy. i miss you dearly.
I met my friend’s words before I met my friend.
It was March 26, 2024. I was on a work trip in Cambridge, Mass., and was frolicking around at the Harvard Bookstore, looking for ideas for a book talk a friend and I had been invited to do at one of our local bookstores.
What caught my attention first was the beautiful mosaic on the cover. A beautiful Black girl on the cover, and anytime I see a Reese Witherspoon stamp, I’m already one foot in on the book.
I opened up the book, and the gasp was caught in my throat. I had to put the book down and text my friend. I’ve found the book we were going to use for our talk.
I couldn’t believe that 928 miles away from Columbia, South Carolina, I found a book written by a Black woman from Columbia, South Carolina. She wrote a book on being Black in Columbia, South Carolina, but focusing on teenage years in the 90s.
This was everything I loved wrapped up in one.
I am like obsessed with my new city, so reading a [fictitious] story about what it was like decades ago from the viewpoint of a Black teenage girl born at the top of 1985 [I was born at the end] felt like a dream come true. I couldn’t believe it.
The following Tuesday, April 2, while sitting at the Graduate Hotel, waiting for my Silent Book Club guests to arrive and holding a copy of Redwood Court, I decided to send the author a friend request on Instagram. I had been stalking her page since the moment I stumbled on her novel. I pressed follow. Put my phone down and switched my attention to welcoming readers.
Silent Book Club (SBC) is a BYOBook Club. Everyone brings whatever they are currently reading. We read quietly together for an hour, with optional mingling for 30 minutes before and after. You can follow their Substack here – Silent Book Club
Afterwards, I was catching up with a girlfriend at the bar. I checked Instagram at some point and discovered that DéLana had sent me a message! I could not contain my excitement. This felt like a sign or a larger message.
I had only been an official SBC host since October 2023. Five months later, a Reese Witherspoon pick who also owns a farm, Saloma Acres, six minutes from my house, slides into my DM, telling me we need to have book club on her farm.
When I got to my car, I sent her a voice note. I wanted her to hear the excitement in my voice. I feel like she deserved it. Writing a book is hard work. Getting it published with one of the largest and most influential trade book publishers in the world, Penguin Random House1, is even harder.
There had to be something larger happening.
There is no way within seven days that DéLana and I went from strangers to literal friends, well, friends who haven’t actually met yet. But the energy that was sent between our DMs that quickly turned into text messages signaled to me that we were going to be friends, and good ones.
Two weeks later, on April 16, my book talk partner Shayla and I took her to dinner. We wanted to fan-girl her, meet her, and have a beautiful Black girl night out.
We met at an Italian spot, drank prosecco, ate some apps, and talked like we all have known each other for years. It was an instant connection.
Two days later, Shayla and I gathered at All Good Books, an independently owned bookstore, and we talked to a sparse crowd about Redwood Court. The icing on the cake is that she came. The author (and her husband) came to listen to us. Two Black girls who love to read and yap about books.
This was the highlight of my book club hosting career thus far. What an honor.
Again. What is happening?
How is it possible that four days after the book talk, she is asking me if I would be interested in joining her for a virtual conversation with a bookstore in Washington, DC, the city where I was born?
East City Book Shop hosted a virtual conversation with this February 2024 Reese Witherspoon pick on May 15, 2024. I was her interviewer. I was asking her the questions. I was her friend. I am her friend.
I gushed over this with some of my closest friends for days leading up to this. Sending endless OMG voicenotes rambling about how I feel like things are coming full circle for me, and somehow, she and I were meant to be friends and get connected, because this is the most random shit ever. How is this happening?! I am not even from here.
From that moment on, we became friends. We were the type of friends who would meet up to yap over a bite to eat or a drink.
We both found out early that we had similar tastes in humor and shady comments. I think that is what bonded us really quickly. We understood each other’s sarcasm, and I think we both craved having a person who speaks the same language.
We pushed each other outside of each other’s comfort zone. Well, I might have done a little bit more pushing than she did. Even though she is a best-selling author, she lived a quiet, simple life on the farm. I seemed to be the one person who could get her out of her hermit shell for a night on the town.
DéLana was a frequent and a favorite member of SBC. You would find her at the bar writing her next novel, FAIRFIELD COUNTY, coming out in June 2026. Afterwards, we would find ourselves chatting at the bar an hour after everyone else went home.
We planned to host SBC at the farm twice in 2025, and you know what? It rained us out both times!
I loved taking walks around her 22.5 acres. Saying hello to all of her farm babies. Since I could get to her property in six minutes, I would often drop by for a quick catch-up while she tended to her farm chores.
In October 2024, she was invited to Hello Sunshine’s Shine Away two-day event in Los Angeles. Reese Witherspoon invited all her favs to join her for a transformative two days of conversation, panels, workshops, performances, culinary experiences, and wellness moments. DéLana was obviously invited, and she asked me if I wanted to go with her.
I couldn’t make it because I had prior plans I couldn’t alter, but she sent snaps all weekend. I was so gassed for her. She was in the rooms she was supposed to be in. Mingling with all the people she needed to be mingling with. Because she is that girl!
One thing we started doing recently was meeting up for breakfast at Waffle House. We sat at the same table each time. It just so happened that the exact table was open each time we met up there. So we made it our table.
We would be so caught up in whatever our gossip topic was that morning, and the next thing we knew, we’d been sitting there for over two hours. It’s moments like this that made me cherish the kind of friendship we have. The type where I could show up with the same ponytail that I slept in. Or with seven of my ten press-on nails because I didn’t have time or the energy to pop the rest of them off.
I love that DéLana introduced me to the horse world. One of my favorite updates I would get from her was from her shooting competitions. I loved marveling over her outfit choices. My favorite was when she wore skirts that flowed in the wind while she was riding Jazzie June or Gravie Baby.
After boosting up her outfit choice, my next question was always, “How many Black people were there?” We always got a kick out of this because she was mostly (if not always) the only Black competitor, and the Black folks that did show up to her competitions were always with her.
I was in awe of her as she navigated something she was so passionate about in a world that looked completely different from her own. But the beauty in it is that we’ve [Black people] been cowboys for centuries. I was familiar with this, but being this close to someone who lived and breathed horse and cowboy/girl culture, I got a different viewpoint.
DéLana is a Black woman. A Blackity Black woman. Just like me. My love for being Black and Black people has always been the focal point of my being, my existence. DéLana always reminded me and everyone that her horses even identified as Black. I loved that we could talk, discuss, and also debate on all things Black and Black culture.
We talked shit and discussed heavy topics. A well-balanced friendship. The way things should be.
I did not get to make the launch party for her book in February 2024. We weren’t friends yet. Our paths hadn’t crossed. But when her book was being released as a paperback, we had a little shindig at the same place.
One thing I love to do is visit random bookstores when I am traveling. Sometimes I even take day trips to places, and I will make sure to check for a local bookstore. I am always on the hunt for Mika, the main character in Redwood Court. Each time I found her, I sent a picture or video to DéLana. She always responded with, “Which bookstore is this?” or a cute emoji.
I felt honored to know someone and have a real friendship with such a talented person. A person I admired and looked up to. Someone I aspired to be. I’ve always wanted to write a book, publish a book, and be a writer. Be an author.
You know it took me MONTHS to share an essay I wrote about what Redwood Court meant to me with her? I’m talking like six months. Redwood Court felt like several pages out of my high school diary. I was so connected to the book and Mika. We had so many similarities in your young teen experiences that I had to get them out of my body and onto the page.
Last year, for her 40th birthday, we got together at a cute tapas-and-cocktails spot. We toasted to life and endless opportunities that were in front of her.
We had so many big dreams together. One of them was opening an indie bookstore in our area. We have one bookstore on our side of town, and it’s a big box retailer. We wanted something cute and intimate. A place where we could host events, talks, and SBC.
We also constantly talked about doing something major for the release of FAIRFIELD COUNTY. I wanted it to be a Cowboy Carter-themed soiree. Where we would dance the night away on the farm to every song on the album in our best boots and hats under the twinkle lights we would string over our heads.
Her latest novel is about horses and life in Fairfield County. It’s a sweeping family saga about inheritance and the enduring legacy of Southern Black cowboy culture. I can’t wait to read and celebrate it. To celebrate her, her life, and her legacy.
Happy Birthday DéLana!
You are forever my friend in my heart. Our friendship was fast, exhilarating, loving, and so much fun. I am blessed to have experienced you, even though it was much shorter than I expected.
You entered my life at just the right moment, and I know it was for a purpose, even if it ended in a tragic, unexpected way.
We made plans this year for your birthday. I am still honoring them today. I am going to show up, and while you might not be there with me physically, I know you will be there with me.
I love you forever and always.
Below is my grief. My emotions as I reflect back on the last month of my friend’s life. Continue on, or end your journey here. But I encourage you to keep going, for me, for her.
It’s November 7, 2025.
I am in Sint Marteen, getting ready to leave the resort for dinner in the city, when I get a text from DéLana. It was a picture from the back of an ambulance with the words “prayers for me pls sis”.
She hadn’t been feeling good. The day before, she told me she was sick, so she finally took herself to urgent care after a long day of doing farm chores.
Seven minutes after receiving it, I respond. Asking questions like, what’s going on? Are you okay? Are you alone? Is your husband there? Have you seen the doctor yet?
She hadn’t been seen yet. So put my phone down and returned to my vacation with friends. The next thing I knew, seven days had passed.
After getting my kid out the door, I sent her a text because I hadn’t checked on her since she was admitted. I also hadn’t heard from her. In that moment, I felt like a pretty bad friend when I realized seven days had passed without me checking in.
When she responded, she told me that she was still in the hospital.
All the wind was knocked out of me. I didn’t realize things were this serious. I had a full day of work ahead of me. I couldn’t stop the day’s plans, but the next day, Saturday, November 15, I told her I would be there.
I had to take my toddler with me, which can be tricky in a hospital. I knew I had to do something “fun” with him first, so he would act right while we were visiting her, and then reward him for good behavior afterwards.
At 1:00 p.m., my kid and I pull up to the hospital. We take the elevator all the way to the top floor. It was eerily quiet when we walked off the floor. You didn’t hear much happening. I walked up to the nurses’ station and gave them a room number. One of the nurses took me to her room.
On our way there, we passed a room. A patient began hollering, “Someone help me please. Someone help me.” We kept walking by. The nurse didn’t bat an eye. I was thinking to myself, where the fuck is my friend? Why are we here?
She was sleeping when we entered, but immediately woke up when the door opened. I was so happy to see her, even if it was in this state on this creepy, quiet hospital floor.
Before I bombarded her with questions, I told her about the Brandy & Monica concert the night before. I knew talking about what was going on with her was the last thing she wanted to do, based on our text thread the day before. I wanted to lighten the mood.
My kid was on his best behavior. Waving hi at her and giving a few laughs.
It was her blood pressure. That is what made them take her from urgent care to the hospital in an ambulance. They said it was too high. Way too high. High like, how are you functioning right now?
But at no point did I treat my friend any differently because she was lying up in a hospital gown that had her booty out and hooked up to machines. We yapped and fellowshiped in the most normal way possible. I wanted to brighten her day as best as I could.
We stayed with her for about an hour. The kid was getting antsy, and I told him we would go to Chick-fil-A afterwards. I’m sure that was on his mind, his favorite place to eat.
Before we left her room, I kissed her on her forehead.
We weren’t very affectionate in our friendship. I am a touchy-feely friend, but I know that is not her love language, so I wouldn't overload her every time I saw her with hugs and loving touches. Today I kissed her. Later, she would tell me, this kinda woke her up. Encouraged her to fight even harder.
For the next couple of days, we touched base daily. Then almost four days went by. Every day I didn’t hear from her, I would immediately check her socials to see if she was active and sharing something. My nerves would ease, knowing she was still … here.
Then things went dark.
She had to start dialysis.
She said they moved her to a room she described as the size of a car. She told me she was having a mental breakdown.
I immediately responded, saying I’m coming back to see you on Saturday morning.
The day before, Friday, November 21, she tells me she might be able to go home Saturday. I was over the moon. This was the best news.
At 11:33 a.m. the following day, she tells me the doctor cleared her to go home. At 3:03 p.m., she was wheeled out.
At 9:36 a.m. the next day, Sunday, November 23, I was sitting at the picnic table on her property, painting a nail when she came out of the house and immediately burst into tears in my arms. She was happy to be out of that hospital, but more importantly, she was happy to be alive, to breathe.
For the next two and a half hours, we walked around her property on this unusually warm November day. She has picnic tables perfectly positioned around her 22.5 acres, which gave us natural break points during our visit.
She told me so many stories. So many stories. It’s like she dug deep into the crates of her life and shared descriptive details with me that I never knew.
Up to this point, I had known DéLana for exactly 600 days. I learned more about her in these 2 ½ hours than I had in all the time we’ve been friends.
I learned about how she met her husband and the big dreams they talked about when they left busy New York City for a quieter life closer to DéLana’s family. She told me about the homes she purchased (and still owns) on or near Redwood Court because she just could.
She told me about the first horse she bought and how he tragically died. I learned more about her path into riding horses and building a farm.
I also got a detailed recount of her experience in the hospital. From the nurse knocking on her door to say, “Just checking to see if you are alive,” to the floor I visited her on being called the penthouse because that is where they put people to make them “comfortable”.
During this time, her husband worked at 911. They give out a private number that employees can share with family in case of emergencies. Whoever is not on the phone handling an emergency at the time will answer that private line.
One of the days she was in the hospital, she tried to reach her husband via that private line. She needed him to come to the hospital. She needed him to advocate for her care and be another voice for her with the doctors. She felt like they weren’t listening to her. Which is an experience many Black women have with medical professionals. Our [Black women] pain isn’t treated the same as others.
She was in pain, scared, and wanted her husband. She called that line twice. It was a busy signal each time. The third time she called, her husband picked up. Out of all the employees working in the 911 center that day, her husband picked up her call. He came to her rescue.
I had several out-of-body experiences during our time together. It was almost like all the stories she was telling me were syncing up into something much more. I couldn’t believe some of the things she was sharing with me. I also felt so lucky to be on the receiving end of it. She knew I would appreciate them because she is a storyteller and I am a consumer of really good stories.
Towards the end of our walk around Saloma Acres, we end up in the most nature-ish part of the journey. A little forest, almost. I’m not really paying attention to what is in front of me, my eyes and ears are on my friend. I walk right into a spider web, and the only reason I knew this is because right in front me all of sudden I see a big black thing with little legs drop down the front of my face and dangle near my thighs.
I scream in horror.
Running around, smacking my head and body everywhere to get it off me. DéLana is standing so still, watching me crash out in the most calming way. I somehow hear her voice over my shrills, and she tells me to stop moving so she can help.
She picks up a stick and says, “This is our magic wand, and it will protect us the rest of the way.” I held it and swatted in front of us while she continued her storytelling.
I could have stayed another two hours with her. But I had a family day planned, and I had to get back home. I gave her the biggest hug I could at that moment, told her I was so grateful for this moment, for our friendship, and I kissed her again on the forehead.
I didn’t think that was going to be the last time I saw her, alive.
I checked in with her daily over the next couple of days. Whether it was via text or Instagram. She was getting settled into her new routine. She had to do dialysis on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at the crack of dawn, almost 40 minutes away from her home.
My 40th birthday dinner was next month on a Saturday, and she RSVPd to it while still in the hospital, even though it had been on her calendar for months. I had to let her know, aka prepare her well in advance, if I wanted to get her out of the house in clothes that were not farm casual.
I wanted to see how her energy and spirit levels were after hours of dialysis. Would she be up for dinner, or would she be exhausted?
She seemed to be adjusting well to her new routine.
We texted on Thanksgiving.
She sent me a DM on Friday, November 28, at 11:48 a.m. She was already back in work mode. She was promoting an event she was having with a friend who is a DJ, Preach Jacobs. He is also the same person who was going to DJ our SBC at the Farm events. She asked me to help spread the word about the event scheduled for December 10.
I didn’t get to this message until Saturday, November 29th, around 9 p.m. I responded at that moment.
The next day was busy.
I had a new sitter start. My day didn’t really free up until after dinner time with the kid. So around 5:30 p.m. I open up Instagram to see if DéLana responded to my message. And that is when I saw it.
It was the first thing on my timeline. I had to read it several times over to understand what was happening. I didn’t quite understand what was going on.
So I called our friend, Preach. He confirmed it. She left this earth sometime on Saturday.
With confirmation, I called my husband to scream in horror.
Then, I called Shayla. When I discovered her work randomly last year, I messaged her. Now I am calling her with the worst news ever.
I texted a few other people that evening.
By the time my husband had gotten home, I had probably cried a dozen times, and when he barged in the house and immediately embraced me, the tears poured out of me again.
I could not believe what I was experiencing.
How could this be? I just spoke to her. I just saw her. I just hugged her. And now she was gone.
When she was in the hospital, I told my husband I had to lay eyes on her. Something didn’t feel right. The moment she came home, I was there the next morning. I told him the same thing, I have to lay eyes on her.
When I left her house on that beautiful Sunday morning, I knew I was going to see her again.
Over the next few days, I shared my loss and grief with a few friends who I either told or had reached out to me for various reasons. Responding to their question or comment with something completely out of left field. Saying versions of “my girlfriend who owns the farm died. I’m so incredibly sad.”
Then I posted something on Instagram. This was one of the hardest things I’ve had to share online in a very long time. Selecting photos and videos and trying to find the right words to say about someone I’ve known for a little less than two years, but was such a major person in my life.
The calls started coming in.
I cried on every single one. I told the same story to anyone who would listen. I felt honored to share the intimate details of our friendship with my close friends. I felt incredibly grateful to have spent time with her in the last weeks of her life.
But I was also so angry.
Angry that our relationship was cut short. Angry that I didn’t respond to her follow-up message on Thanksgiving. Angry that I didn’t check my Instagram messages earlier that day.
At her memorial services, someone told a story about the day she left this earth. She was a friend of a friend. They had been friends for a while on social media, but never had the chance to meet. Saturday, November 29, was the day they were set to meet.
Every year, Saloma Acres screens The Preacher’s Wife on the Farm. You buy a ticket via DéLana’s husband’s nomadic cinema company, Luminal Theater, pack a chair, blanket, snacks, and watch the film on their farm with whoever else shows up. It’s such a good time, I’ve been before. The first time was before Redwood Court was even published and before I was hosting book club. That is how crazy beautiful this story is.
She was set to come earlier to meet DéLana before the movie started. DéLana texted her around 1, asking to push back the time to 3 or 4.
They did not get a chance to meet.
The day after I shared publicly about my friend’s loss, I met up with Preach. I was familiar with him because he had spun at a few events I had been to, and of course because of DéLana. He is the only person that I knew who knew her as well as I did. He saw her the day she got home from the hospital. He was her first visit, I was her second.
I heard his version of their last encounter. It sounded similar to mine. He got an overload of stories during their time together. She even recommitted to and publicly promoted an event that had to be rescheduled while she was in the hospital.
Talking with him made me feel closer to her. I no longer felt alone in my grief. I had someone to share it with. Someone who loved her just as much as I did.
Later that same evening, I had to host book club. A place she frequented so often. A place where people knew you could spot her at the bar, writing. Someone brought me flowers and a card. And I got many “I’m so sorry for your loss” and hugs. It felt really good to do something that we bonded over, even through my grief.
Someone also brought her book to read that night.
One of the things that kept tripping me out about all of this is that I just sat with her on October 1 at her mother’s services. The month before, I went to be with my friend in her time of grief over the loss of her mom.
And now I have to go back to the same place I saw her mom, and see my friend for the final time.
Shayla, Preach, and I attended her viewing services together. Sharing a drink in the parking lot, a toast, in my car before we braved that long walk inside.
Walking into the funeral home on the day of the viewing was hard. When I walked in, I looked everywhere besides the front where her casket lay. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. What is happening? What is going on? Those are questions rushing through my mind.
When I mustered up the courage to look forward and see my dear friend’s body, the first thing I said was, “Where is her hair?” From where I was, I couldn’t see all that beautiful, lush hair she had because it was braided into two braids. A style she often wore during her shooting competition.
She had on a cowboy shirt. A monogrammed ascot. A beautiful, bold belt buckle. She had her holster. Her lipstick was popping, and her skin and makeup looked good.
I stomped my foot so loud and said “GIRL!?” while peering down at her in her final resting position. I also flinched at her. Like you would do as a kid when you wanted to fight someone because they made you so mad, but you know you weren’t going to fight them. Because at that moment, I wanted to fight her. Why did you leave me here like this girl? Why? Who am I going to talk cash shit with now? Who am I going to text immediately when the magical negro does something wild and outrageous again?
I gently laid my hand on her chest and told her I loved her so much and I would never forget her.
And do you know I had to host an event a mere two hours after this? I don’t know how I pulled it together, but I did. Looking back, I am thankful for it, because it helped shift my mind for the moment to focus on something I worked so hard on.
The following day, Friday, December 12, was her memorial service. This was it. The end of it all. The last time I will be in a room with her. The last time I will physically see her.
The viewing was hard, but this was even harder. But it was beautiful, too. There was an open call mid-way through the service, where guests could come to the front and share stories or simply just talk about their relationship and experience with DéLana.
This is where I learned about her final hours. This is also where I shared with everyone our final day together and how she saved me from that dreadful spider with a magic wand, also known as a stick. I made the crowd chuckle.
I learned even more about my dear friend from all the stories. At least 30 people, including myself, went up front to say goodbye to our shared friend.
Then it was time for her husband to speak. Everyone lost it.
He shared his thanks on behalf of himself and his wife. Often using we versus I, a natural habit that will be hard to shake in the days to come.
When he started naming people individually, I never expected to hear mine, but I did. “Jemia, she valued your friendship and considered you a sister-friend,” he said. I quietly said to myself, “She loved me. She really loved me.”
I knew this about our friendship, but I didn’t know her husband knew it, too. But then again, of course, he knew.
At the repass, before I left, I followed her husband’s lead and chose to speak about DéLana in the present tense. “You know that is my girl,” I said to Curtis. “I know she is,” was his response.
She was supposed to come to my 40th birthday dinner. We talked about what she was going to wear for months. “If I have to wear something like you did the other night when you got on that party bus, I am not going,” she said to me over breakfast one day at our table at Waffle House.
“Girl, you have cute clothes. Wear something like you wore to drinks for your birthday earlier this year and you will be fine.” For weeks after this so sent me so many anti-social memes.
Now I have to learn how to move through this world without my friend. Losing her reminded me how fragile and fast life is. It has made me think twice about screening calls and texts, and the time in between doctor’s appointments.
I miss her so much, but I will do everything in my power to keep her spirit alive and loud.
This will not be the last time you hear the name DéLana R.A. Dameron from me. With FAIRFIELD COUNTY dropping this summer and also a children’s book on the way, I will make sure my favorite cowgirl gets what she deserves.
2026 is the year of the horse. So let’s make sure they know.
Here are more memories of my friend I want to share on her birthday.
My favorite competition outfit! I’ll miss getting these videos sent to me.
Redwood Court was published by The Dial Press, a respected literary imprint within Penguin Random House known for quality literary and commercial fiction.