🕊️ Celebration of Life – Catherine “Renee” Dodson

eulogy for catherine renee dodson - by her daughter on june 13, 2025



Thank you all for being here today.

My mom would’ve hated seeing you this way—sad, tearful, viewing her body. She’d be rolling her eyes and smirking like,

“Make sure they know I’ve always been a badass.”

So let me start by saying: this speech might get political, might make some folks uncomfortable—but that’s exactly how she’d want it. My mom was a deeply political woman. Fiercely opinionated. She believed in fighting for what’s right, and she expected her kids to do the same. I’m speaking today not just for me, but on behalf of my brothers Ben and Daniel, and her life partner Tony—because she taught us to use our voices, especially when it matters most.

She taught me to be resilient. Independent. Bold. Loud if needed. Soft if deserved. But always real.

I won’t quote scripture today. That wasn’t her.

But I will quote the gospel she lived by: Dave Matthews Band.

“Celebrate we will, because life is short but sweet for certain.”

And that was her. A firecracker. A storm and a shelter. She was opinionated and sweet—and a little spicy if you tried her.

She loved pizza, Christmas mornings, softball, politics, and her kids more than anything. She was the kind of woman who could flip off a republican politician in one breath and hug a stranger in the next.

She never met a stranger. She loved people. Helped people. Taught us to do the same. She raised me—a biracial Black woman in a country that hasn’t always been kind—to lead with conviction. She said, “Your voice is your power. Don’t let them silence you.”

And trust—she walked that talk.

She was proud of every glass ceiling I cracked, every time I made “good trouble” in corporate America, every time I showed up and spoke up in rooms where I wasn’t meant to be. She may not have gotten to where she dreamed of going—but she told me she was damn proud that I did.

She loved her boys so deeply. Ben? Strong-willed, loyal, stubborn in the best way. Daniel? Her “sweet, sweet boy,” sensitive and kind. She always made sure they knew they were loved. And Tony—her partner in life and in chaos. They annoyed each other, sure—especially over his Grateful Dead obsession—but their love was deep and real and lasting.

She never missed any of our kids sports games. Not one. She was there in the stands, yelling louder than the coach and probably telling off the refs.

And she loved to laugh. If you needed proof, ask Ben about the time he threw a Batman toy at her from the back seat when he was a kid because she wouldn’t stop for McDonald’s. She grabbed it and chucked it out the window. He was heartbroken. This last Christmas? She surprised him with a new Batman toy. Full circle.

She lived for moments like that. She lived vicariously through me—on every trip I took, every new city. I always brought her back a magnet. She displayed them proudly, like trophies.

Mom, my best friends are here today—the ones we used to talk about. The ones who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. My family and I are forever indebted to the overwhelming love and support you inspired.

When I moved back to Indiana from Atlanta, something told me to. I listened. I’m so glad I did. We spent her birthday together in my new house a few months ago, her laughing, eating Chinese food, being surrounded by all three of her kids. It was perfect.

She loved my Nespresso machine. One February morning, she made a cup so strong she turned on YouTube and transformed my living room into her own concert. She blasted Michael Jackson, Dave Matthews, danced with my dogs, and threw a one-woman party at 9am. I will never forget how happy she was.

And she was happy. Even when she struggled, she found joy.

But she was also scared.

“I’m scared of dying,” she told me in those final weeks.

She knew Medicaid was failing her.

Trump’s cuts had already stripped her of critical medications.

She looked at me and said:

“People like me—the most vulnerable—are going to die in this country.”

And she was right. It’s happening every day. It’s why I’m donating to the ACLU in he r honor. If her story moves you, I ask that you consider giving—either to the cause or through me. Because no one should die because they’re poor. No one should suffer because they can’t work. No one should be treated like a burden just for trying to survive.

She raised us to believe in better.

She’d say: “99% of the things we worry about never happen anyway.”

But this was the 1%. And she knew it.

She left us at 8:00 p.m.—the exact time I was born. Full circle.

I’ve gone through pictures—decades of her joy, her laugh, her light—and at first I felt her spirit was stuck. That she was mad. Not ready.

But something shifted.

She’s not trapped anymore. She’s flying now.

And I hear her saying:

“Ragen, I just love this. I can be with you and your brothers all the time. All day. Every day.”

No oxygen tank. No pain. No fear. Just freedom.

Just love.

Just Dave.

Just her nephews Matthew and Ty.

Just her mom and dad.

Just her grandparents.

And a front-row seat—for every move my brothers and I make.

“She feels like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life… She prays to God most every night, although she swears He doesn’t listen…”

– Dave Matthews Band, Grey Street

That line was her.

But I know now—He did listen.

Mama, thank you. I’d choose you over and over again. In this life. In the next. In every one.

Rest now. We’ve got it from here.