Omar Avendaño was wise beyond his years, and I am forever grateful for our 13 years together. During his life’s troubles, he learned to keep going. And I learned from him that life is short; we should plan for the future but not compromise the present, build solid friendships, show and receive love, prepare for death, and live without fear.
Omar was born to Miguel Avendaño and Rita Correa in Santa Ana, California. He was a sibling to Miguel, Alejandra, and Abraham, and Lizbeth.
Rita often shares stories of Omar’s childhood, and I’ve created an endearing picture of Omar as a child: mischievous, curious, empathetic, chatty, independent, adventurous, clever, and inseparable from his cousin Eddie. Rita would receive calls from school four days out of five; Omar was the most talkative person in the room, distracting everybody, yet he knew all the material. This was the first hint at Omar’s genius for multitasking effortlessly.
The family moved from Santa Ana to Mexico, then back to California when Omar was 14. After high school, Omar chose the farthest state college on the map: Humboldt. He made a fast friend of Heriberto Soto Gonzalez when he wore a Mexican jersey to soccer practice, as the place wasn’t very diverse at the time.
In early 2009, his dear father died, prompting Omar to drop out of a fellowship in Health Economics at the University of New Mexico and return to the Inland Empire. The following year proved to be the most difficult of his life: The country was in a deep economic recession, he had recently ended a relationship, and he was uncertain about his path forward. Our conversations about that time helped me understand why Omar loved a good redemption story.
After applying for countless jobs, Omar received a call from Impact, a small startup in Santa Barbara, which hired him in 2010. Soon after, Omar became close friends with coworkers Damian Juarez, Lia Crawford, Fedor Kostritsa, and Vern Rodriguez, who, in particular, made an effort to include Omar outside of work, encouraging him to stay in town and explore Santa Barbara.
The night I met Omar at Palmieri’s in early 2012, I walked away knowing I had met someone special. We talked for hours, our conversation flowing from lighthearted topics to the deep lessons that loss teaches us. Over the next 10 months, we hung out, met each other’s friends, and went to concerts, game nights, happy hours, and hikes. One day, he sent a text admitting that he liked me as more than just a friend. A few weeks later, Vern spotted us being flirty at a bar and called out, “¡Besos!” We kissed, and our love story began.
Our first date was magical: Thai food, a walk at the beach, and a shooting star streaking across the sky after a kiss. A year later, we started planning our life together. On a trip to Paris, I was retracing the steps of Nino chasing Amélie in my favorite film when Omar gently held my face, told me he loved me, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. We were married during a perfect spring day, surrounded by family and friends.
When our two beautiful daughters, Emilia and Lucia, arrived, our lives felt complete. Omar was a natural dad: He befriended neighbors and helped plan community events, he coached Lucia’s AYSO team, he spent countless afternoons going on bike rides with the girls and answering questions to anyone who asked about whatever new e-bike he was riding, and he was an involved parent at the Orfalea Center and at Adelante.
Early in our relationship, Omar suggested saving aggressively for our retirement home in Guanajuato City. A few years later, luck struck, and we were able to buy our dream home. During the pandemic, we spent months there at a time, raising our daughters as bilingual and bicultural, hosting our favorite people, and filling the walls of our new home with happy memories. Often, I would think how unfair it was to have so much happiness.
Back in Santa Barbara in the summer of 2024, Omar was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. Throughout our relationship, we had spoken about death and the importance of enjoying life, but signing his advance directives was so hard. Before being discharged from Cottage Hospital to begin treatment, Omar told me it was okay to have feelings, but we could not spend our days consumed by sadness; our girls needed the best of us for whatever time we had left.
The next 12 months and eight days were a gift. We lived fully and with intention. Friends and family traveled from near and far. We attended weddings of some of the most important people in our lives, received counseling, soaked in love, and created memories for our daughters to cherish.
Inevitably, Omar’s health declined, and I learned that caring for someone you love unconditionally does not feel like work; it feels like a gift. His army of loyal friends and family surrounded us with love. The evening of August 12, as the Perseids meteor shower lit the sky, Omar died peacefully at home in my arms.
