The Light That Never Fades: Honouring My Aunty Angela’s Legacy 32 Years Later

I want to share a story about love, loss, and the quiet heroes who shape us—even in the briefest moments. This week marks 32 years since my Aunty Angela passed away. I was only four years old when cancer took her, but her impact on my life has spanned decades. She taught me that love can be a lifeline, even in the darkest storms.

The Woman Who Showed Me What Love Looked Like

Angela wasn’t just my aunt—she was my sanctuary. In a childhood marked by instability and neglect, she was the first person who made me feel seen. While my mother’s affection felt conditional and distant, Angela’s love was steady and warm. She’d sit with me for hours, even as her body weakened, braiding my hair or letting me try on her gold rings. “Don’t let anyone dull your sparkle, Kylie,” she’d say, her voice soft but fierce.

Her presence was a balm. I remember her perfume—White Musk—a scent I still associate with safety. When cancer stole her hair, she wore headscarves with dignity, though I could see the sadness in her sunken eyes. Even in her final days, lying on the sofa with a commode nearby, she’d humor my chatter. “Just use your potty, Aunty” I told her once, not understanding why she resisted. Her laughter, though faint, was a gift.

The Last Lesson She Taught Me

Angela’s death shattered me. I was too young to grasp the permanence of loss, but old enough to feel the void. The night she passed, I was colouring in my room when I heard her voice. “Aunty La La La needs to go away now, but I’ll always be close by.” Moments later, my mother confirmed what I already knew. Angela was gone.

But here’s the thing about love—it outlives even death. To this day, when I’m at my lowest, I catch a trace of White Musk. It’s her way of saying, “I’m still here.” She taught me that love isn’t about blood or time—it’s about the moments that imprint on your soul.

Why Her Memory Still Matters

Angela’s legacy isn’t just in the stories I share—it’s in the stubborn resilience she planted in me. She showed me:

• Love shouldn’t hurt - It shouldn’t demand silence or self-erasure.

• Small acts of kindness can rewrite a child’s world - A listening ear, a shared laugh, a whispered truth.

• Grief isn’t weakness - It’s proof that someone mattered.

For years, I blamed myself for my mother’s inability to love. Was I too loud? Too needy? Too much? But Angela’s memory reminded me- The problem wasn’t me. She was the first to show me that real love is safe.

Carrying Her Torch Forward

As I reflect on 32 years without her, I realise Angela’s greatest gift wasn’t just the love she gave—it was the permission she granted me to demand better. To walk away from toxicity. To mother myself when no one else would.

I’d like to remind you to:

• Grieve the love you deserved but never received.

• Celebrate the “Aunty Angelas” in your life—those who showed up when others failed.

• Remember healing isn’t about forgetting. It’s about carrying their light forward.

Angela’s story is just one chapter in my memoir, The Narcissist’s Daughter: From Breakdown to Breakthrough. For those navigating their own healing, I’ve created a companion journal to help you find your voice.

Your story isn’t over. It’s just beginning.