Jane Goodall died this week, and I found myself feeling the deep impact of someone leaving the planet who had quietly shaped me for so many years. It feels almost impossible to believe she’s gone. I started watching and following Jane’s work when I was around ten years old. Along with my younger brother, Mark, I would sit for hours in the viewing booths at the community college library near our home in Florida, headphones on, mesmerized by her gentle voice and her patient communion with the chimpanzees.
We had moved to Florida from New York the summer I turned eight. I was born and raised in Baldwin, a harbor town on Long Island. Being the eighth of nine children, living a few blocks from the water, and exploring my little world on Pacific Street had felt idyllic to me—a perfect blend of chaos and wonder. When my family moved south, my young explorer’s heart thought it was just the next adventure. But the reality of being so far from family, friends, and the only home I’d ever known quickly sank in.
Life on Metzger Road was different—hot, quiet, and strange. One of the ways I learned to feed that lost inner explorer was through those afternoons with Jane. Her calm, melodic narration and her stories of compassion, observation, and trust filled me with a peace I didn’t always feel at home. Mark and I would laugh and learn as Jane forged friendships with the chimps. Her kindness toward them—and her reverence for their world—taught me something sacred: that empathy is the bridge to every living thing.
As I reflect on her passing, I can’t help but think about how I was first introduced to her work. It was my sister Taffy who opened that door. Taffy is almost ten years older than me, and my earliest memories of her are full of warmth and generosity. She had a way of making everything feel special—like the time she’d bribe us with English muffin pizzas if we helped clean the house. When I was ten, Taffy was in nursing school and pregnant with her first child. Life must have been hectic, but she still found room for us.
One sweltering afternoon in our little house with no air conditioning, she told Mark and me she was taking us along to the college while she studied. That small act changed everything. She showed us how to use the library’s viewing booths and queued up Jane Goodall films for us to watch while she hit the books. Soon, we knew exactly where to go each time—slipping into our booth like explorers returning to camp, waiting for Jane’s voice to carry us back to Africa.
Taffy’s simple generosity gave me a lifelong gift. Through her, I met Jane Goodall. And through Jane, I rediscovered my sense of wonder, even far from the salt air and harbor of my childhood.
Years later, as an adult, I would return to Jane’s teachings for balance and hope. Her book The Book of Hope remains one of my favorites. The line that has stayed with me most is this:
“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”
Jane made a difference in my life, not only through her words but through her example—her patience, her humility, her unwavering belief in connection. And that difference was made possible by Taffy, whose small kindness set the whole thing in motion.
I am grateful to both of these extraordinary women—one I knew only through screens and pages, and the other who has been woven into the fabric of my life since the beginning. Together, in their own ways, they gave a little girl far from home a way to see the world again—with compassion, curiosity, and hope.
As I sit with the news of Jane’s passing, I feel a familiar ache—the kind that comes when someone who shaped the world in quiet, lasting ways takes their final bow. Yet, her spirit feels as alive as ever. I see her in the way I move through my own work: in the pauses I take to listen deeply, in the compassion I try to offer, and in the unshakable belief that gentleness can be powerful.
Jane taught me that changing the world doesn’t always mean doing something loud or grand. Sometimes, it’s a soft voice in the jungle reminding us to notice, to care, and to keep choosing connection. And Taffy showed me what that looks like in everyday life—a sister who, even in the middle of her own challenges, made space for two little kids to discover something that would stay with them forever.
Their combined influence reminds me that legacy isn’t only built from great acts; it’s built from moments of kindness that ripple outward, touching lives we may never even know.
So, as I honor Jane Goodall this week, I also honor Taffy—and every woman who, through quiet compassion, changes the course of another person’s life. The explorers, the nurturers, the teachers. Those who leave behind trails of light for the rest of us to follow.
In their reflection, I’m reminded of the kind of difference I want to make. And that, perhaps, is the truest tribute I can offer.
Roars of Love,
Jennifer