In 2017, I was hired to photograph a conference in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida. A few weeks before the conference, Alex called.

“How far is Ponte Vedra Beach from Gainesville?”

I looked it up—about an hour and a half.

She asked if she could tag along—and if I could extend the trip by a day and take her to visit the University of Florida College of Veterinary Medicine. I was excited to spend the time with her.

A few days later, she called again.

“How far is St. Petersburg from Ponte Vedra Beach?”

Three hours.

“Okay, I have a job interview in St. Petersburg that Monday. Can I borrow the car?”

So began Alex’s Florida adventure.

She visited the vet school at the University of Florida and loved it. She must have aced the interview in St. Petersburg, because she got the job. Four months later, she and Dakota moved to Florida.

I was not thrilled about the move.

At age 24—two years older than Alex at the time—I also left home for a city where I knew no one. I knew what it was going to be like—and I knew she wasn’t prepared.

I tried to tell Alex, but she was undeterred.

Inevitably, the phone calls came.

“How much do they take out in taxes?! This is ridiculous!”

After she realized her budget might not have been as realistic as she thought.

“There’s a hurricane coming. What do I do?”

She and Dakota headed to South Carolina to stay with friends. Hours after the hurricane passed St. Petersburg, I got a text.

“Storm passed St. Pete. Headed home.”

“You’re in South Carolina. The storm is moving north past Florida. You’re going to drive right into it.”

She stayed one more night.

She left for home late that day. At 1 a.m., my phone rang.

“I’m on my way home. I’m almost out of gas and nothing is open. What do I do?”

I got out of bed, went to my computer, searched for gas stations on her route, and found one that was open. She had to wait in line for 45 minutes, but she got gas.

Two days later—again at 1 a.m.—another call.

“I have a flat tire. What do I do?”

Her insurance had emergency roadside assistance. They put on her spare.

I told her to get the tire replaced immediately—and not to drive faster than 50 mph on the spare.

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to get to her for an hour and 45 minutes.”

So Alex sat on the shoulder of the expressway until after 3 a.m.

I was awake pacing the floor until she was safe.

This is my favorite story.

Alex’s car leaked oil. It needed a quart every so often to keep it full. I usually took care of that, but I hadn’t seen her for a while.

One Sunday afternoon, my phone rang.

 “Where do I put the oil in my car?”

I started to explain.

“Pull out your dipstick. You can’t miss it—it has a bright yellow handle.”

As I got further into the instructions, she started getting frustrated.

“FaceTime me and I’ll walk you through it,” I said.

Twenty minutes went by. No call.

So I texted her.

“Do you still want help?”

“Never mind, I put it in the yellow thing.”

“Your oil cap is black.”

“Wait, what?”

“Send me a picture of your engine.”

Moments later:

“You just put oil in your radiator.”

Alex was never about doing things the easy way.

These are the moments that shaped Alex—her independence, her determination, and her willingness to figure things out her own way.

If you’d like to support the work being done in her memory, you can learn more about the Alex Lebovic Foundation here.