Donna Rae Godin

Donna loved ladybugs. Not just because they were cute, but because they were resilient—tiny symbols of luck and transformation. Just like her. She had a soft spot for the little things in life: a good rummage through a free pile, a trip to Resource where treasures waited to be discovered, and the comfort of a pre-rolled joint and a rum and coke—though let’s be honest, she rarely finished the glass. It was more about the ritual, the moment, the joy of asking for it.

Shes the best Nana ever. That’s not up for debate. Her love for her grandchildren was fierce and unconditional. She showed up for them in ways that mattered—whether it was a hug, a laugh, or just being there with her wild stories and her even wilder honesty.

She had no filter, and that was part of her charm. You never had to guess what she was thinking—she’d tell you straight up. We never knew when we’d come home to the house rearranged or the silverware and plates in completely different places. Though she’d always say it was the last time.

She was loud and she was fun. The kind of person who made you feel alive just by being near her. She didn’t care much for rules or appearances—her fashion sense proved that. She cared about people. About laughter. About finding joy in unexpected places.

The toy store she worked at wasn’t just a job—it was her playground. She lit up among the shelves of stuffed animals and puzzles, always ready to help a child find the perfect gift. And even outside the store, she gave gifts for no reason at all—a candle, a bracelet, a funny mug—because she remembered people, and wanted them to feel remembered too.

So today, we don’t say goodbye. We carry her with us.

In every ladybug we see.

You were deeply loved.

You still are.

And you always will be.

Thank you for being you.

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