My Mom’s name was Fran Harper. She passed on December 6th, 2025.

She was born Frances Schroeder. After only one year of a destructive marriage, which ended in divorce, she decided to carry the name Harper for the rest of her life. She kept it because it made things easier for me. Same last name. Same paperwork. Same sense of belonging. This is how she looked at life.

That detail says more about her than most biographies ever could.

Fran was a critical care nurse. Not briefly. Not as a chapter. Nursing was her life’s work. She showed up for other people, over and over again, in moments when things were chaotic, painful, or falling apart. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t flinch. She knew what to do when others didn’t. She was the person you wanted in your life when things fell apart.

She was great at it, too! Identifying solutions to wicked prognoses, pushing back when patients weren’t receiving the best treatment, and working at levels far beyond her pay grade. She did the right thing, always.

She had a sharp mind and deep emotional intelligence. She noticed things others missed. She advocated fiercely. If someone she loved was sick, hospitalized, or vulnerable, she became the squeaky wheel without apology. She would push. She would ask questions. She would insist. And she understood the cost of being annoying — she just decided that care mattered more.

That instinct didn’t turn off when she clocked out.

Fran loved big. She wanted to always be in the know. She checked in. Every conversation followed the same rhythm. How are you? How’s your wife? How are the kids? One by one. She needed to know everyone was okay. If they weren’t, that became her focus.

She raised me as a single mom. She worked long shifts and still tried to be a part of my life when she could. When she had time off, we’d visit friends and family, visit new cultures, and go into nature. We saw and experienced a lot. I always knew I was loved. Even when her advice wasn’t right, even when her caution felt like resistance, it came from care. From fear, too — but fear shaped by love.

She was a maker when she had space. Quilting was her refuge. An entire room was dedicated to fabric, patterns, and half-finished ideas. Before that, it was stained glass, woodworking, and restoring antiques. She created beauty. She admired what others made. When she was at peace, she was either creating something or surrounded by things that had been lovingly made. This said, somewhere in the mix, she stopped taking time for herself, for her creation, for her well-being.

Although Fran had many hobbies she loved, she lived a life oriented toward others. Toward family. Toward patients. Toward neighbors. Toward anyone in her orbit who needed something steady. She felt best when she was of service to others.

And that life came at a cost.

She didn’t take care of herself the way she took care of others. Not because she didn’t know better. She was a nurse. She understood the body and well-being. But she carried wounds she never really tended to. Along the way, she lost agency. She internalized a life of harsh words used as weapons by her family, and ultimately, she believed them. She measured her worth through her perceived usefulness. She was so focused externally that she’d often deflected questions about herself so she didn’t have to look inward.

Her world grew smaller during COVID. Fear, exhaustion, and isolation reinforced one another. Social media amplified the chaos of the loudest edges of the world, and without strong counterweights, it started to feel like that chaos was everything. Her routines narrowed. Her hobbies became things of the past. Her stamina declined. Her body followed. Within three years, she found herself unable to create, explore, or live the life she desired.

The daily activity bar slowly fell until falls started. Breaks followed. Frailty accelerated. Infections. Pneumonia. Complications layered on top of one another. This strong and independent woman, who had spent decades holding others together, found herself dependent, weakened, and worn down.

She was 72.

There is no reason she shouldn’t still be here. There's no reason she shouldn’t still be creating, asking about the kids, loving loudly, and advocating fiercely. No reason she shouldn’t have had decades more to give — if she wanted to — from a place of strength instead of depletion.

Watching my mom’s life taught me something that feels uncomfortable to name, especially in front-line workers, impact workers, and caregiving cultures.

Every life of service has a cost.

Not in a dramatic, moral way. Not as a warning. Just as reality. Energy spent has consequences. Capacity ignored erodes. Love given without replenishment eventually draws from the future.

Service doesn’t fail because people don’t care enough. It falters when the people serving slowly disappear.

We talk a lot about sustainability in systems, organizations, and solutions. We talk far less about whether the people doing the work are living lives that can carry that work for decades without collapsing under it.

My mom didn’t lack love. She didn’t lack discipline. She didn’t lack commitment. What she lacked were structures — internal and external — that made caring for herself as legitimate as caring for others.

This isn’t a lesson aimed at fixing her. It’s an offering to those still living lives of service. When you spend your life looking outwards

Front-line work, caregiving, impact work, family stewardships, community building — these missions are often bigger than ourselves, and they ask something of us. The question isn’t whether there’s a cost. The question is whether we’re honest about it, and whether we build lives that can carry that cost without erasing ourselves in the process.

If you’re in healthcare, front-line work, impact work, military, or if you resonate with even a small portion of working on a mission bigger than yourself, please ask yourself, “Are you okay?” “Are you taking care of yourself so you can take better care of others?” “What do you need to recharge and sustain?” “What’s the cost?”

My Mom, Fran Harper, lived a life of service.

She deserved a life that could sustain her, too.

I love you, miss you, and I’d give anything for just one more chat.

- Your son, Sage