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This isn’t a typical Sheer Ambrosia newsletter article. But as the founder and face of this business, I feel compelled to share something that’s been weighing heavily on me—and, in turn, has affected my ability to show up fully for my work.
On the morning of Tuesday, June 24th, I woke up to what felt like a nightmare. Around 7:30 a.m., I received a call from Dr. Sidni Shorter, President of the Utah Black Chamber. The moment I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked.
Her voice was low and trembling—barely a whisper. She hesitated, and then the words came:
“Rita, Nikki died.”
My brain couldn’t process it. Nikki? Surely not our Nikki. Not Utah’s Nikki. Maybe she meant someone else—an older community member I didn’t know well? But no… it was Nikki Walker.
Just weeks earlier, I had seen her at the Habitat for Humanity fundraiser. She was radiant as always—commanding the room as emcee, full of confidence and poise. How could this be?
I learned that Nikki suffered from asthma, and Utah’s air quality—especially during our recent windstorms—had made conditions difficult for anyone with respiratory issues. I never imagined asthma could be deadly, but tragically, it was.
Nikki and I weren’t best friends, nor would I say we were close. But she was a constant presence in my world—a bright, undeniable force at nearly every event I attended. She showed up for me in moments that mattered. She came to my grand opening. She was there to comfort me last November when the building that houses my bakery was vandalized, and I had to throw out $2,000 worth of baklava. I cried on her shoulder that day. She didn’t have to be there, but she was. That was Nikki. A rock for so many of us.
The news of her passing spread quickly—rightfully covered by major news outlets. I attended three tributes before her funeral, each one overflowing with people whose lives she had touched. It’s hard to believe someone who lived in Utah for just over seven years could leave such a profound legacy.
Nikki was fearless. A fierce advocate for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion—and a proud Republican. She didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s expectations. She didn’t code switch. She was unapologetically herself: Jersey-born, bold, brilliant, and relentless in her pursuit of justice and excellence.
She mentored so many. Sat on boards. Ran a PR company. She even ran for state office. She was everywhere—at every party, every panel, every moment that mattered. And yet, somehow, I never made the time to truly get to know her. Not in the way I now wish I had.
I turned down invitations—to her birthday party, to the Black Panther screening she hosted—because I was always working. Always too busy. Too buried in the grind of running this business. And now, I can’t get those opportunities back.
Losing Nikki has forced me to reflect on some hard truths:
- I need to slow down and nurture the relationships I value—and the ones I haven’t yet taken the time to grow.
- I need to prioritize my health. Sleep better. Eat better. Take care of myself, not just my business.
- I need to speak up. To tell people I love and admire how I feel while they’re still here to hear it.
- I need to live more like Nikki. Bold. Fearless. Unapologetically authentic.
For days after her death, I was in a fog. Grieving not just for myself, but for her beloved mother Sharon, her son Jacob, and the family members I don't know. The sense of loss wasn’t only personal—it was communal. We didn’t have to be best friends for me to feel this deeply. Her passing has left a crater in this community.
Nikki Walker was only 48 years old. She was a national treasure. A once-in-a-generation kind of woman.
And while I didn’t get to know her as well as I now wish I had, I miss her already.
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