'My childhood best friend was murdered. Here's what I want the world to know about her.'

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I remember finding out about her death when my grandma — who was very close friends with Micahela's mum — rang me to tell me the news.

We were best friends in childhood, but we'd drifted after high school when I moved away to Dubai. I didn't know much about what she'd been up to in her twenties.  

Watch: Bethany Clarke on coping with grief. Post continues after video.

To me, she was always a bright, loving, fiercely kind person. She made people feel heard. She lit up when she laughed. She brought comfort and joy to those around her.

I still remember the way she laughed.

Not the kind of laugh that was soft or polite, but one that made her whole face light up. That kind of laugh you only have when you're truly, unapologetically yourself. That was her.

Childhood photo

That's how I remember her.

Even now, years later, that sound lives somewhere in the quiet corners of my memory.

We met in primary school. Our families knew each other. We grew so close so quickly. 

She was the kind of friend every child hopes to have — fiercely loyal, big-hearted, and always the first to make you feel like you belonged. 

We played netball on the same team, threw ourselves into dancing and swimming lessons together, and had sleepovers almost every weekend. 

I practically lived at her house. She was my safe space.

We would choreograph dances in her lounge room, run around in a circle to make a whirlpool in her backyard pool, scooter around the neighbour blissfully and dream up lives we had no idea we wouldn't all get the chance to live.

Childhood photo

As we got older, life slowly, quietly pulled us in different directions. 

We didn't fall out — nothing dramatic happened. 

It was just the way growing up works sometimes. 

We still waved if we saw each other at the bus stop, and sent birthday messages for a while. 

But slowly, those moments became less frequent. And then, not at all.

In 2019, I found out she had been murdered.

Even writing that sentence feels surreal. 

Like somehow, if I don't say it aloud, it won't be true. But it is. A man took her life. 

A beautiful, radiant, young woman — stolen from this world in the most senseless, brutal way. 

I hadn't seen her in a while when it happened. I didn't know what her life looked like in the months leading up to that day…

I think people sometimes assume grief only belongs to the present — to the people who were there at the end. 

But I grieved the little girl who danced in my room. I grieved the teenage version of her who sat next to me at school assemblies, the one who made me laugh until I cried, the one who once knew all my secrets.

Childhood photo

I grieved every version of her that I'd ever known. And I still do.

She was kind in a way that made you want to be better. She had a way of loving people that made them feel like the most important person in the room. She made ordinary days feel like adventures. 

Her life was full of promise. She had so much to give, and she gave it freely — until someone took everything from her.

When someone you once loved dies violently, it unearths a particular kind of sorrow — one that mixes horror with helplessness.

You go back in your mind, revisiting memories that suddenly feel more sacred. 

You wonder if she knew how loved she was. If you told her enough. If the distance had made her feel forgotten.

Her death was a tragedy. But more than that — her life was a light. One that deserved to keep shining.

I often find myself talking to her now, quietly.

When I drive past our old school, when I hear a song we used to dance to, when I see a photo from those early years. There's a part of her that's still stitched into who I am. 

That kind of bond doesn't just disappear, even with time. Even with silence.

I wish the world had gotten to see more of her. I wish she were here, laughing that loud, infectious laugh that made everything feel okay. I wish we had one more sleepover, one more swim, one more moment to tell her how much she mattered.

Feature image: Supplied.