I was eight years old when I first saw my hero flicker on the movie projector screen. She wasn’t a film star or a famous athlete. She wasn’t a politician. She was a tiny, soft-spoken world-changer who lit my heart and mind on fire, never to be extinguished.

Mrs. Wellever, my third-grade teacher, was showing our class a black-and-white, 8mm film, something she did each Tuesday after lunch. I was the curtain monitor and, as always, made sure the room was dark enough for all to see the usual, humdrum educational film, while light enough to take notes for the talk afterward.

This Tuesday was different though, a game-changer, when Jane Goodall lit up the screen. I was pulled into her world of adventure, awestruck by this woman who had the pluck to do something exciting and unique with her life. Fantastically, Jane lived with chimpanzees in the jungles of Africa, studying them for scientists and researchers, all of whom, of course, were men.

I had no idea how Jane dared to make her confident, off-the-charts choices, but it lit me up to see her defy traditional women’s roles at every turn. The cherry on top was when Jane, a woman, reported chimps making tools, a discovery that resulted in man having to redefine man. That’s when my strawberry-blond-covered head exploded.

I ran home and excitedly told my mom, then everyone, about Jane. As a girl who marched to her own drummer, the best part of my discovery was that I’d witnessed a kindred soul who’d provided a green light for me to be me, despite society’s rules.

Soon after, I took steps toward my unconventional career dreams. I was laser-beamed focused on becoming a film actress and studied ballet, tap and voice to complement my calling. But at age 21, just after obtaining an agent, my first professional photos and auditions for major roles, a ballet injury triggered Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). My career was derailed as debilitating, neuropathic pain spread throughout my body.

Months spent striving, waiting and hoping to recover turned into twenty years while the disease left me bedridden, often mute, using a wheelchair and, eventually, feeling utterly hopeless. Being disbelieved and dismissed by doctors didn’t help. After deducing that my only way out was suicide, something sparked again within me, like the day I saw Jane. I decided I would turn my tragedy into something good. I would start a nonprofit to help women in pain to be heard and believed. I desperately wanted others to avoid my fate. But I needed a hand up.

Helping For Grace Take Flight

Soon after, my life partner, John, and I joined a simplicity circle of like-minded folks who saw the world operating better and healthier with less rather than more. One day, our circle happened to talk about Jane and her world-saving ways. I hadn’t thought of her in years due to the all-consuming nature of my illness.

Jane was going to be in Los Angeles speaking at events that our circle would attend. As it so often is with those of us challenged by high-impact pain, John and I didn’t have the money to join them. Fortunately, I was giddy to learn, she would also appear at a free, healthcare-related event, and off we went.

With her familiar, tender voice, Jane spoke with urgency, captivating everyone in the hall. You could have heard a pin drop. Reigniting my childhood spark, she advocated for those who suffered, for a planet in need of love. She spoke of people taking care of one another, extolling harmony between all living things. Perhaps most sacredly, Jane, despite her awareness of the overwhelming barriers to peace, said with her whole heart, “There’s reason for hope.”

After the thunderous applause, I knew I had to work with Jane. From my wheelchair, I urged John to roll me through the media gauntlet to her, failure not being an option. Suddenly she was gone and I yelled for John to get me to the parking lot. There she was, one foot in an idling van. Shamelessly, I cornered her assistant Mary, telling her my story, along with For Grace’s elevator pitch of a vision and mission.

Perhaps I reminded Jane of her own tenacity as she stepped out of the van, leaned down close and held my hand while I continued my plea. Her eyes widened when I shared my plans to empower women in pain and, while Mary handed me their phone number, Jane asked that I keep her updated. I sensed we had made a deep connection and that she would soon help For Grace take flight.

About a week later, I received a postcard from Jane, its art a famous picture of her with Fifi, one of her Gombe chimps.  She wrote that she’d read up on CRPS and was inspired by John’s and my courage. She offered to lend her name to my cause. That was my opening to ask her to join our board, which she graciously did.

From the beginning, we were more than colleagues, we were friends. In fact, I’ve never known anyone so unflinchingly loving and supportive. That, and I understood her drive because, like me, Jane lived for her mission. We were both frenetic in our efforts. I was working seven days a week, morning till night, to launch For Grace and Jane traveled 300 plus days a year expanding her conservation outreach and Roots & Shoots initiative worldwide.

Whenever Jane came through LA, Mary reached out so I could spend precious time with her. When I met with them at the Huntington in Pasadena, I was surprised by how spirited they were about the early success of For Grace. They exclaimed, “We knew you could do this, Cynthia. Many say they’re going to start a nonprofit, but you had the stuff to make it happen.”

That day Jane shared that she cited me often because of my “indomitable human spirit.” She added that the people she admired most were those who suffered tremendous health hardships and went on to make the world a better place. Jane was the antithesis of “look at me.” Instead, she was about building up like-minded leaders to join her in alleviating the suffering in the world.

Without shame or hesitation, I regularly called upon Jane with my latest scheme to raise awareness of the plight of women in pain. One day, Mary excitedly mentioned that Jane was going to receive Maria Shriver’s Minerva Award at her Women’s Conference. Because another board member had been urging me to find a way to meet Ms. Shriver, I asked Mary for tickets and a backstage pass, and, lickety split, Jane gifted me two. This led to a fruitful relationship with Maria and her media team along with multiple, self-penned articles for her publications.

When my memoir and movie deal were killed by the HMO I’d been a whistleblower against, that ruffled Jane’s feathers. She pulled out the stops in hopes of reclaiming what the healthcare system had spiked. That included getting my manuscript to her publisher as well as to actor Charlize Theron, who had recently appeared alongside Jane on National Geographic’s Iconoclasts.

My memoir, Battle for Grace, was launched on Ms. Shriver’s Women’s Conference website, and Jane provided a gorgeous cover endorsement quote. To complement this, Jane nominated me for Los Angeles County’s Woman of the Year award with the most powerful words I’ve ever received.

Something Bigger Than Cause

For all her generosity toward the work at For Grace, it was during the last six years of Jane’s life that her help transcended cause.

In 2020, upon hearing that I had triple negative breast cancer, Jane’s care became personal and loving. She sent regular emails and videos to boost my spirits during treatment – never failing to include good words for John – while encouraging her network to light candles for my remission. I was surprised when Jane shared in one of her messages, “With your positive attitude and John’s steady support, I’m certain you’ll survive this.” I never understood where that knowing sprung from, but coming from the most sagacious person I’d ever met, I believed her.

Convinced that Jane’s wise words were talisman-esque, I told Mary I wanted to interview her for my podcast before starting chemotherapy. The broadcast was to help women in pain, but it was no secret I was first in line for healing.

Jane was on one of her crazy, stressful world tours, but would be at her family home in England for one full day of “rest.” I asked for that day and when I got the yes, Mary shared, “She wouldn’t have done this for anyone in the world except you.” As always, I felt blessed by this generous angel who forever lifted me up, and up.

Interviewing Jane was an honor and great fun, especially when my kitty, Zanzibar, made himself known on air to her giggling delight. Despite the fact that she wasn’t my usual pain expert guest, we spoke deeply about suffering. Jane talked about her beloved mother’s death, sharing distressing details. She was more candid than I’d heard her in other interviews, perhaps because my community and I experience so much adversity.

Two years later while going through breast cancer recurrence treatment, I got a precious letter from Jane, written from the place I’d first fallen in love with her. Sitting in a tree trunk in her beloved forest of Gombe, she described the sights and sounds around her as only Jane could. After catching me up on her family and work happenings, never mentioning the “Big C” as she called it, she left me with this: “The peace and healing power of the forest impregnates this paper and comes with my prayers and love, Jane.”

On that tenuous New Year’s Eve and the one after, she sent me pictures of herself in front of the Goodall family Christmas tree, toasting to my health. She said she’d saved the final cheers for John and me.

The last time I saw Jane face to face, she was celebrating her 90th birthday, flying her famous doves and speaking at a Peace Day rally in 2024. When I spied her in the green room, my spirit lit up, just like when I was a wee one, but now even more so. But as John pushed me in my wheelchair toward her, I noticed something else. Jane appeared markedly smaller and more tired than I’d seen her before. I worried some, but was nevertheless confident that such a life force could not end anytime soon.

Jane had become a second mom of sorts to me when my own mother, saddled with advanced Alzheimer’s, was approaching death earlier this year. Striving to soothe my breaking heart, she reassured me that my mom was “going to a place that will be so much better for her. From where she can reach to you, spirit to spirit. She will not want you to be unhappy and, in years to come, will be waiting for you.”

During my deepest time of loss, Jane was there, emailing me each day. Then she missed a day. That afternoon, a family member alerted me that Jane was at the White House receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Biden. This still makes me chuckle. It was so “Jane” not to mention that little tidbit. I never once heard her toot her own horn.

In one of Jane’s last messages to me, after mentioning her typical frenetic tour schedule, she added that she’d never been so exhausted. She spoke of Trump, the endless weariness of having to deflect his onslaught. She was far from breaking, but I sensed a finitude. I mean, how long can we count on a 90-plus-year-old woman to save the world?

Over the summer, Mary reached out to let me know that Jane would be at UCLA for a speaking event in October. I felt an urgency, an anxious gnawing in my gut. I said to John, “Oh, my God, this could be the last time we see Jane.”

Two days before the engagement, I was finalizing backstage plans with a tour organizer when I received a text from a state senator on our board. Her words may as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made, words like “Jane”, “sad news” and “sorry for your loss.” When the New York Times confirmed the unimaginable, I screamed, “No, no, no,” again and again. My soul screamed feelings beyond description.

Today, two months later, my sadness has lessened some. I know Jane is in that beautiful place where pure souls go. Her suffering, her fight is over. But other, less comforting thoughts nip at me. I wonder if Jane could have been with us longer. In my bleakest hours, I wonder if our world had grown too dark for her to stay.

This selfless icon served tirelessly for a lifetime to bring goodness and harmony to the planet, to the animals and to us. In return, we’re taking gigantic steps backward, seemingly smudging out Jane’s herculean efforts. We’re electing and deifying dangerous characters who promote suffering, and the infliction thereof, as sport while ruthlessly exploiting natural resources for a blessed buck. Maybe this new world order broke her heart.

Still, this afternoon I spoke to Jane. I do this every day. Our exchange is joyful, filled with light. I ask her to help my mom to visit me, and, as always, she gifts miracles.

Jane’s spark continues to illuminate my entire being and it forever will. I know she inspired millions in the same way and together we will carry forward her light.

This is reason for hope.