The day before Carrie Fisher passed away at age 60, my family and I went to see "Rogue One," the newest installment in the "Star Wars" franchise. I sat between my mother and my younger brother, elbowing the latter every time a scene called back to the now-defunct Expanded Universe or a musical cue echoed motifs and themes from previous films. I’ve loved the "Star Wars" films for as long as I can remember – when "Episode I" came out in 1999, my parents trained me to repeat the name of the character Jar-Jar Binks over and over again until whoever I was speaking to lost their mind with irritation. But it wasn’t until I was 9 years old and I watched "Episode IV: A New Hope" for the first time that I became a true "Star Wars" fan, and of course, my favorite character was Princess Leia.

And really, who else was there? I thought Luke was a whiner. Han had a bad attitude, and of course, Obi-Wan was out of the question – he died partway through. Besides, there’s little to hate and everything to love about Princess Leia. From the first time she appears onscreen, she’s ferocious, talking to Darth Vader as though he’s a child who’s spoken out of turn, and she doesn’t let up throughout the movie, or any of the sequels. I was so inspired by the character Carrie Fisher brought to life that I dressed up as her for Halloween two years in a row – and again this past year. It wasn’t until the past few years when I learned more about the woman behind the character.

Carrie Fisher – actor, script doctor, writer, mental health advocate, proud owner of Gary the emotional support dog. She was only 19 when she was cast as Princess Leia, becoming the icon of a generation. By the time I was 19, I’d achieved such varied things as zombie-crawling my way through the Portland Marathon and writing at least one, but not more than three, appallingly bad novels. I’d also managed to get myself into at least one, but not more than three, serious depressive episodes. Of course, neither I nor anyone in my family could call them what they really were. My parents and younger brother observed my months-long fits of melancholy and occasional bouts of irrational rage with some concern but more conviction that the tormented mess I was rapidly becoming was a normal teenager. It took me five years to name my illness. By the time I did, I discovered that my childhood idol had done the same thing.

Carrie Fisher’s honesty about her struggles with bipolar disorder strengthened me. She showed me that I didn’t have to lie about my illnesses, and more importantly, that those illnesses did not in any way impact my talent and my worth as a human being. Her insights about our culture’s image crisis opened up new horizons and emboldened me to start speaking my own mind. Like the character she played in "Star Wars," she was brave enough to speak truth to power and expose dangerous ideas, but she was more than that. She was, as many of her fans refer to her as, our “space mom” – looking out for us, encouraging us, and making us laugh.

For me, part of who Carrie Fisher was will always be tied up in the image of a 19-year-old girl shooting a hole in the garbage chute and hopping in. I’ve dived down a few metaphorical garbage chutes in my lifetime, and I’ll dive down many more before I go. But the garbage chutes never last forever. There are friends and family to help you push back the walls of the trash compacter, who will help you open the door to escape and hug you even though you smell like garbage. I’ve never met Carrie Fisher, and now I never will, but she helped me escape from dark places. I will always owe her and love her for that.

Safe travels, space mom. May the Force be with you.