Kate Didd

The messages started coming in one by one, and I sat there in complete disbelief. The question kept repeating itself in different forms: How could someone I looked to for clarity, joy, and grounding suddenly be gone from this planet?

I didn’t know him personally, not really. We existed in that modern, gentle orbit where you recognize someone’s presence before you ever recognize their absence. We followed each other on Instagram once in a while. We both “stalked” each other in the harmless, curious way humans do online. But it was his friendship with my best friend, someone I love deeply, that made his existence feel important in my own life.

His name was Adam the Woo, and his life reminded me of something we forget far too often: people exist with purpose, even when we don’t fully understand why.

Adam ran one of the longest daily vlogs on YouTube, over ten years of showing up, every single day, with curiosity, kindness, and a fun-loving spirit. When my life got really, really dark, his content kept the noise at bay. Not because it was loud or flashy but because it was consistent, human, and real.

I first heard about him through my friend while she was battling cancer. She listened to him daily. His videos were a companion during long, heavy days. She shared stories about how he inspired her, and she had the privilege of calling him a friend. I was merely a witness, like so many others, watching from the outside, knowing small, intimate moments of his life that were never meant to be dissected or owned. Just shared. Sweetly. Genuinely.

And now, without him, it feels like there’s a quiet gap in the world. Not because no one else can do what he did but because he was ahead of his time. He didn’t try to be an inspiration. He just showed up as himself, and that was enough.

I wasn’t part of his inner circle, and I would never claim to be. I don’t know much about him beyond his intention, to make people smile. To find wonder in places most people would call boring. To pass through states and towns and moments that felt invisible and say, this matters too.

During one of the darkest chapters of my life, I was battling someone online who tried relentlessly to ruin my reputation, my character, and my name. They failed, not because I fought harder, but because I learned accountability.

About eight years ago, accountability became my superpower. I reached a point where I no longer liked who I was, and I realized the woman I wanted to be already existed somewhere inside me. I just had to choose her. People like Adam, people who believed in humanity without needing applause, helped me remember that.

When my mother passed away, I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. I only knew I needed to run. Away from the noise in my head. Away from the pain in my heart. When my legs wouldn’t carry me, I used my car. When that wasn’t enough, I took my children. When that still didn’t quiet the ache, I took boats, trains, planes, even helicopters.

For three and a half years, I traveled while screaming silently from the depths of my soul: Why did I survive when so many others didn’t?

Was it luck? Was it fate? Or was it the accumulation of tiny moments, snippets of humans across the world, who simply wanted others to believe in a better tomorrow? Adam was one of those people. I leaned into his YouTube videos more than I ever admitted.

I’ve always said I’m not a “fan” of anyone. But I’ve learned something important: people are just human beings who happen to be really good at what they do. And they deserve recognition for the work it takes to show up as themselves. That realization is powerful because if they can do it, so can I.

I didn’t grow up with many good examples. Not in childhood. Not even in adulthood. So I learned by observing. By listening. By watching people who led with purpose instead of ego.

I didn’t know if Adam’s persona was fully real, but I came to learn he was deeply loved by people who bring hope into a world that’s been heavy for far too long. I also knew he was considering stepping back, maybe even retiring from social media. That feels symbolic now, somehow.

So I ask myself: if he was ten years older than me, what can I do with the next ten years of my life?

The last decade was about healing, ownership, and surviving what tried to break me. In my last reflection, I talked about how the past still nips at my heels, trying to pull me backward, only to remind me how far I’ve come.

As I lift my head and look to the stars, I wonder:

Who will I be at 51?

What dreams will I chase?

Who will I inspire?

If my purpose is simple, to believe in humanity, then maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.

We need more people like him. And if no one else is volunteering, why can’t it be me? No one ever said I couldn’t. Maybe I’m not stepping out of line. Maybe I’m stepping into a role no one realized was open.

People ask me where my confidence comes from. The truth is simple: it comes from what I’ve already survived. Nothing has taken me out yet. And if death is the only thing guaranteed, why wouldn’t I want my life to mean something?

If I’m going to be an example to my children, if I’m going to be someone they’re proud to call mom, then I have to live with purpose. I have to be softer. More present. More intentional with my words and my actions.

I’m not here to save anyone. I’m not here to be rescued. I just want to know I’m doing better than I did yesterday. The world doesn’t need louder voices. It needs purposeful ones. It needs joy. It needs glee. It needs people willing to believe, even while grieving.

So how do we become the hope in this world?

And who are we brave enough to give it to?