Lyra McKee’s life was a gift to anyone who knew her

The job mattered to Lyra McKee, including the silly bits. A few years back we were both speaking at an NUJ freelance forum, trying to give advice to journalists making their way through the business.

That she was still in her mid-20s didn’t matter. She had done more than anyone in the room, but she still understood the gig-to-gig struggle that came with being freelance.

For Lyra, the event was a handy way to make contacts and meet people. She destroyed a sandwich in Buswell’s Hotel afterwards. Get in, get the job done, remember to eat, get back to work. That was the freelance life and Lyra lived it, but she had so much more.

To be the world’s best auntie was her goal, with Lyra regularly sharing images of herself playing with her niece. She had also found someone in her life, Sara, and they’d just celebrated a year together last week.

The job didn’t stop Lyra living despite it seeming all-consuming. The last time we chatted was a few weeks back on Facebook Messenger. We had a laugh about my powering through a piece on a Thursday evening during a power cut in the office.

I was going out and didn’t want to have a big piece hanging over my head during it. She got that, the need to let the hair down while also powering through the job.

There was no sore head last Friday morning, just the shock of waking up to see posts from friends about what had happened, well it was a shock.

By now you’ve seen or read plenty about who she was as a journalist. She wrote about anyone for everyone. She gave a voice to those who would normally be excluded from polite society while also being their biggest critic.

Lyra the person was not all that different. Her energy and friendliness were inescapable. She’d also put you in your place quickly if you said anything ignorant or just plain wrong. There was rarely anger though, instead she’d want to see how someone had thought that way to begin with and go from there.

Her ability to make time for everyone was extraordinary. The few minutes here or there between a gig and her bus back north was all the excuse required for a shout to meet at the Brew Dock behind Busáras.

Getting hold of her in her own neck of the woods was trickier. When she wasn’t in full auntie mode she’d always be chasing something. The breadth of areas she covered was indicative of her character. If there was a chance something would be interesting, even if there wasn’t a story in it, she’d perk up and ask questions.

When a short film was made about her blog post on coming out at 14, I wrote about the way the world now allows us to connect with people who otherwise would never have been on our radar.

The film-makers had learned about her through the blog post, found her, and went to work. Letter to My 14-year-old Self is a touching seven minutes worth your time on YouTube this morning, although that and her Ted talk have likely been shared with you multiple times already.

Lyra was a good sport, willing to be the butt of the joke as much as the one messing around. It’s a tiring life at the best of times and Lyra’s commitment to hers meant the flu was always a risk.

She could moan, for sure, but never about the strain. Lyra had been through plenty in her life so the fatigue that came with chasing stories was just part and parcel of the gig. That’s what had her in Creggan on Thursday night.

Lyra would have been happy that the narrative online switched quickly from how she died to how she lived. She’d have blushed at some of the lovely things people she never knew said about her work, but it would have also warmed her heart to know that people appreciated what she did.

I think back to the Brew Dock with her and Ger Cunningham, a fellow freelancer, after she’d spoken at another event organised by him. He made a quip twisting a typically bland thing said online into something witty. Lyra gave him a big hug.

Small as she was, her heart was huge and she knew how to enjoy herself. Lyra could have a laugh at nearly anything, but always had the sincerity within so that when it came time to be there for someone or just to be sensitive while covering a story, you knew it came from a deep place.

Looking through old chats on Friday morning, the mix was everything you need to know about Lyra. From random stories about my mother working in Belfast during the start of the Troubles through to assorted tales of getting into some fine mess due to some Clouseauesque blunder on my part.

She had plenty of tales of her own to share, and it was always a lift to chat to her irrespective of the weight of the subject matter.

Naturally I wish I’d known her more, that our schedules had coincided a few more times. I’d like to have had her introduce me to Sara and to have introduced her to more people she would find interesting.

It’s lucky all the same to have those memories, to have the permanent record of some conversations both high and low brow. There’s a reason to hurt now and it’s because of what will be missed.

Lyra was a hell of a journalist for any age, let alone for one who was just 29. She was a hell of a person too. Her death was a crime – but her life, that was a gift to anyone who knew her. It’s her life that we’ll remember.

It’s never a good day to lose a friend.