There are certain memories that stick out in Technicolor against the hazy grey of misremembrance- people, places, conversations all eventually fade into some sort of cerebral abyss, but snapshots of importance can be recalled as well in 30 years as though they had been experienced in just the previous 30 seconds.

I have a memory like this. I was 18, and we were in the final week of preparation before my debut as the Mayoress Cora Hoover Hooper in Steel Valley Senior High School’s production of Anyone Can Whistle. I was just days away from committing to The University of Pittsburgh’s main campus (thank you very much) to study biology with an emphasis on pre-medicine. As we had dinner, my parents, Kelly, Spikey and I, my mother offered to play me a voicemail on our now-obsolete landline’s answering machine.

As we ate the meal my mother had prepared for us, I heard the voice of an admissions advisor, informing us that I’d been awarded a golden ticket- formally known as the William V. Campbell Family Endowed Scholarship, and that it was redeemable for four years of undergraduate education at Duquesne University: tuition free.

I did what most teenagers would in this situation. I bowed my head over my mother’s cooking and I burst into tears. That was the very first action of an incredible life-changing journey, one that I’ll be on until, well, I’m not.

From a genesis at a kitchen table in Munhall, Pennsylvania, I would go on to graduate from Duquesne University with a 4.0 GPA, two degrees (English and Public Relations, go figure), and a one-way bus ticket to employment in New York City. I am quite simply living my dream, the one I’d imagined in that frilly pink bedroom at an age that’s decidedly too young to be making that kind of decision. Bossy, loud, and incessant- I’d tell anyone who would listen about that dream: I’m going to get out of here, you know. I’m going to leave the Steel Valley, and I’m never coming back.

Flash forward to present day. Checking the morning news as part work, part pleasure and I am sitting stunned at my chocolate factory in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen. The benefactor who had made this life I lead possible: is gone. And I never got to thank him for everything he’s done.

Sure, I’ve sent him letters and videos. I’ve spoken his name at donor dinners as the face of Duquesne’s Endowed Scholars. But I never got to do something that, until now, I didn’t realize was so important to me- I never got to shake his hand, look him in the eye, and thank him for all the opportunities he’s given. For all the ways he’s enabled me to grow. To let him know that every single good thing that happens to me from here on out is somehow indebted to him and his generosity.

As I read through the pages and pages of articles about him- not just from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, either, but places that as a young PR professional I’ve only dreamed of getting placements: Bloomberg, Fortune, Reuters, even re/code and TechCrunch- I started to see the impact of Mr. Bill Campbell at scale.

As my high school physics teacher Ben Lander so correctly pointed out: there are two valleys that are grieving over the loss of this man. On the one hand, Silicon Valley has lost a brilliant thinker; a coach and a mentor to the likes of Apple’s Steve Jobs and Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. As the head of Intuit and an influential player at Apple, the field of technology has been melded and molded under his guidance, and the entire world is benefiting from his direction and leadership.

But there’s another valley that’s reeling in this loss. One that’s more intimate and lacks the star-studded line-up of mentees. But we have something very important in common with Mr. Campbell- we’re all just kids from Homestead. This similarity, however minute, amounts to meaning everything.

From his stately position in Silicon Valley, Mr. Campbell never stopped taking care of the first SV he’d experienced in his life. He donated millions of dollars to the community and high school to improve one of the things he valued most: education, both on and off the field.

Gymnasiums. Science classrooms. New band uniforms. Laptop computers. They’re things I, and likely my classmates, took for granted in our education at Steel Valley. They were, as far as I was concerned, nothing extraordinary. I had experienced the kindness of Mr. Campbell without ever realizing it, and without ever appreciating it for the true gift that it was.

And then one day, Mr. Campbell’s generosity became real to me. Tangible. Numeric—Personal. Just one life impacted, but still a life changed forever. And not only did Mr. Campbell’s creation of an endowed scholarship change the course of my education, but his example has changed my attitude toward where I come from, and taught me the incredible importance of giving back.

As a transplant New Yorker, I’ve learned that you only get one hometown. It may not be pretty. It may not be somewhere you’re immediately proud to discuss in open conversation. But it does, at a very fundamental level, make you who you are.

Though as a teenager I resented the town that only ever felt “too small,” I am now able to see it through Mr. Campbell’s eyes- a place where the only disadvantage you have is the belief that you’re disadvantaged. Being from the Steel Valley has made me stronger than I could have ever imagined. It has taught me the importance of hard work; of being “tough as steel.” About being tenacious and ambitious and not letting anything or anyone get in your way.

But Mr. Campbell, specifically, has also taught me about being kind. About giving back to the place that gave you roots- a steady foundation for a life that can thrive and grow wherever you want it to if you have the nerve to go out there and get it.

Mr. Campbell showed us the importance of taking care of our own. Of community and fraternity even when the only thing we may have in common is the same home zip code.

I didn’t think there would ever be a Venn diagram where the late Steve Jobs and I overlapped so meaningfully. But it does exist, as we, and countless others, have benefitted so greatly from our ties to this giant of a man. If nothing else, that alone goes to show you the true impact of a single human life.

I never met him, but Mr. Campbell is my hero. He gave me hope and fanned a fire in me that’s never quite gone out. He was the conduit through which I learned that I can do anything, and that even the best of us- legends- can always benefit from a little coaching. I’m truly sorry that I won’t get to say these things to him in person, but I’m hoping that this tribute, however little justice it actually does to him and his character, counts for something.

Rest Easy, Mr. Campbell. Your valleys, from Steel to Silicon to all those in between, will miss you dearly.

This post was originally published on LinkedIn.