August thirty-first is always a bit of a weird day for me. I was ten years old when Princess Diana died. Hers is a death that everyone remembers –they remember where they were and how they felt the instant they heard the news. Her loss is universally tragic. For me, it’s personal.

In 1991 I was four years old, in junior kindergarten at Holland Bloorview Kids Rehab (back then, it was called Hugh MacMillan). Princess Diana was a patron of Bloorview and in 1991, she made an official visit. Being four years old, I understood nothing about who Diana, Princess of Wales was. All I knew was that she was a real-life princess and I was going to get to meet her.

To school that day in October, I wore my favourite dress –full of pink roses and complete with a lace-edged collar- pink tights, a pink headband with a bow and fancy patent leather shoes. I remember being ushered, along with the nearly one hundred other school kids, into the lounge where she would be greeting us. The room was packed to the rafters with people –students, parents, teachers, therapists. Princess Diana was late and the children were getting restless. I don’t remember if I was one of them, but I remember kids crying and therapists and teachers scrambling to pacify them with puppets and toys.

When Princess Diana walked into the lounge, a hush fell over the adults in the room –none of the students were over the age of seven and because we didn’t understand the gravity of who she was, if we were grumpy, we were staying that way. I remember being slightly disappointed that she wasn’t wearing a crown, but thinking nonetheless, she looked like a princess. She wore a black skirt and a pink suit jacket with gold buttons. I was happy, because pink was my favourite colour.

She was quiet –shy, reserved.

Slowly but surely, Princess Diana made her way through the whole room, she spoke individually to every single child. She stepped over wheelchairs and other equipment to get to the kids at the back. She made a connection with every one of us. She knelt down to shake my hand; she asked me what my name was and how my day was going; she told me I looked pretty in my dress and gave me a gentle hug before moving on to the next lucky child.

In 1991, things were not the same as they are now in terms of celebrity status and minimum distance. My mother was able to take photos from less than five feet away. I remember that there were photographers and journalists there. The press was getting very antsy; there was an official luncheon laid out and she was due to schmooze and make remarks. Not long after entering the lounge full of kids, I have a faint memory –which has since been confirmed by my mother- of her telling the press they’d have to wait; she was there to see the children. I’m sure they weren’t expecting her to take the time to speak to every child individually, so they must have been perturbed at how long they were made to wait.

In the years following that day, I came to understand who the beautiful princess in the pink suit jacket was. It slowly dawned on me, Oh, wow. That’s who I met? By August 1997, I was ten and I knew exactly how lucky I was. Meeting Princess Diana was the first day of my life that I remember perfectly –no other day from when I was that young is so clear. I was proud and honoured to have met her; I retold the story at every opportunity with a beaming smile –I still do.

August thirty-first 1997 was the only day I’d ever seen my parents not reading the newspaper as I ate my breakfast. It was so unusual that I asked them why they weren’t reading it. My parents exchanged a heavy look and my mother told me –holding back tears- that Princess Diana had been in a car accident; she died. I remember crying hysterically and not much else.

A few days later, I sat and watched her funeral with my parents. They told me I didn’t have to, but I was insistent. I wanted to, I had to. I don’t remember much about the service, but the wailing cries of spectators lining the London streets is a sound I’ll never be able to unhear; it is forever etched into my memory, along with the sad image of Princes William and Harry walking slowly behind her casket and the letter tucked into the flowers on top of it, the envelope scrawled simply with the word Mummy.

It may sound contrived, but Princess Diana was the first person whose death I ever truly grieved. I came to understand the mourning process through her passing. One of my physiotherapists passed away from cancer later that week –it was a tough time to be me. For some reason though, I felt Diana’s death more acutely.

It would be years before I could begin to understand and have my own opinions regarding the controversy surrounding Diana’s death –for the record, there’s a ton that doesn’t add up and I firmly believe that it wasn’t simply a car accident. There’s far more to the events of that night and the days leading up to and following it than will ever be officially and undisputedly known. If there is any justice to be served for what happened that night –and I believe there is- sadly, it will never be done.

I can’t listen to people who present the view that Diana was severely psychologically unbalanced; that she was bipolar; that she was cunning, conniving and manipulative. Nor can I stand people who idolize her unduly or claim to have a connection with her from beyond the grave –it makes me feel sick and I’m left with the overwhelming desire to unleash verbal lashings. Let the poor woman rest in peace and do not turn her passing into a giant cosmic joke.

Nearly ten years after I met Princess Diana, my mother and I went to England on vacation. The only scheduled activity we planned was to go to Althorp, the Spencer family estate where Diana grew up. It was a very surreal experience; I was very quiet for most of the day, lost in contemplation and trying to keep my emotions in check. We went to the gift shop at the end of the tour and my mother started telling the elderly woman behind the counter that I was lucky enough to meet Diana when I was four. The woman’s eyes lit up and I happily confirmed that I was indeed that lucky. She said to me, “You know, Diana’s brother Charles is here today. I’m sure he’d love to speak to you. Will you wait here?”

Five minutes later, Charles Spencer appeared at the bottom of the flight of stairs at the back of the shop. The woman working the till closed the shop’s doors, so that we could talk without being disturbed. Charles smiled, shook mine and my mother’s hand and asked me to tell him all about the day I met his sister –how it came about and everything I remembered. He spoke to my mother and I for nearly half an hour. He seemed more moved by my story than I would have thought –after all, who was I? A few times, he seemed to be swallowing a lump in his throat. Eventually he said, “It means so much to me, to meet you and to hear how my sister touched you. Meeting the people whose lives she impacted so meaningfully is very comforting to me, which is why I had to come down to say hello –normally I stay out of the way when Althorp is open to the public, but when I was told there was a girl here who met my sister, I knew I had to talk with you. Thank you so much for telling me your memory of Diana, it means a great deal to me.”

I know Charles Spencer has caught a lot of flack since Diana’s death –for profiting from it- and perhaps rightfully so. I know he was made to be a pariah after his eulogy at her funeral, when he pointed the finger of blame at the Royal Family and the paparazzi. But I don’t really have an opinion on that. I remember the man who came to talk to a fourteen-year-old girl from Canada after hearing that I’d met Diana. Not a hand shake and a courteous ‘hello’, but an actual conversation. He had a full –and rather lengthy- conversation with me. He was visibly moved by what I had to say. Charles Spencer –just like his sister- took the time to make a connection, to make me feel important, like my story was worthy of being heard. I’m immensely grateful to have met him and to have had the opportunity to share my memories with him. I know it meant something to him and that is nothing short of extraordinary.

I see the men Princes William and Harry have become and they are unmistakably their mother’s sons. She’d be so proud of them. I know she looks down on them and smiles. If I’d had the opportunity to meet Prince William when he came to Canada a few months after his wedding, I wouldn’t have tried to scream his name louder than the rest. I would’ve made a sign with a simple message: I met your mother, it is one of my most cherished memories. Maybe he’d have noticed and come over to say hello, maybe not.

When I was four years old, I met a princess. Six years later, she was suddenly, inexplicably, forever gone. Things were never the same after that. I will forever be affected by meeting her. I am forever changed too, by her sudden and tragic death.