She Led With Purpose. She Lived With Passion. And She Wasn’t Finished Yet.
Late Sunday evening, my phone rang.
A friend asked me a question I wasn’t prepared to hear.
“Have you seen the Facebook post about Phyllis?”
I hadn’t.
She explained that the post seemed to suggest that my friend, Dr. Phyllis Hatcher, had passed away.
“No,” I said.
That couldn’t be true.
Someone had made a mistake.
At least, that is what I needed to believe.
I went to Facebook and searched for the post myself. I found it. I read the words, but my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.
So I did what any friend would do when social media is telling you something your heart refuses to believe.
I called Phyllis.
The call went to voicemail.
I called other people who might know what was happening. Their phones went to voicemail, too.
And eventually, I went to bed.
Not because I had received an answer, but because I had convinced myself that there had to be another explanation. Surely, someone had misunderstood something. Surely, by morning, someone would call and tell me it had all been a terrible mistake.
The next morning, there was a text message waiting for me from one of the people I had tried to reach the night before.
“Yes Apostle Moss, it is true, Dr. Hatcher has passed.”
I read the message.
Then I read it again.
And again.
I kept looking at those words as though somehow, if I stared at them long enough, they would change.
They didn’t.
My friend was gone.
And I wasn’t ready.
Before the Titles, There Was Phyllis
There will be many ways people remember Dr. Phyllis Hatcher.
Some will remember the pastor.
Some will remember the community servant.
Some will remember the political candidate.
Some will remember the advocate who was willing to step into spaces where decisions were being made and make sure her voice—and the voices of others—was heard.
Her record of service was substantial.
Public records document her service in Rockdale County civic life, including an appointment to the county’s Department of Family and Children Services Board and participation on the steering committee for Rockdale County’s 2023 Comprehensive Plan.
Her commitment to young people was longstanding. She served with the Boys & Girls Clubs of Metro Atlanta’s Rockdale County board and was its board chair in 2017. She also served on a Rockdale NAACP committee associated with scholarships for local students.
Through Phyllis Hatcher Ministries, service wasn’t simply something she talked about. Atlanta Community Food Bank records document significant food assistance distributed through the ministry, reflecting another dimension of her work in the community.
And then there was politics.
Phyllis served as President of the Fourth Congressional District Federation of Democratic Women and ran for Georgia State Senate District 17. She was also active in the Rockdale Democratic Party, where she was elected second vice chair in 2018.
Later, she sought the Democratic nomination for Georgia’s 10th Congressional District.
But those are the things that can be found in archives.
I knew Phyllis.
And there is a difference.
She Showed Up
Phyllis and I met years ago.
When I launched Real Women Atlanta Magazine in 2018, Phyllis was there to help me celebrate.
That means something to me now.
Before RWAM became everything I am still working to make it today, when it was a vision being introduced to the world, Phyllis showed up.
She came to our monthly luncheons. We spent time together. Conversations happened. Life happened.
And somewhere along the way, we became friends.
Our friendship wasn’t built on always agreeing with one another.
In fact, we didn’t.
We both worked in the political arena, and there were times when Phyllis and I stood on different sides of an issue or supported different people.
We were both strong-minded women.
We were both driven.
We were both persistent.
And neither one of us was particularly afraid to stand behind what she believed.
Maybe that is part of why we understood one another.
We Chose What We Had in Common
During the last Rockdale County election, something happened between us that means even more to me now.
Phyllis and I decided to put our differences aside and work together on Chairman Oz Nesbitt’s campaign.
That decision taught me something.
Sometimes people become so committed to their differences that they forget everything they have in common.
Phyllis and I decided not to do that.
We understood that two determined women could spend their energy fighting each other—or put that same determination together and accomplish something.
So we chose the latter.
We found our common ground.
We were both driven.
We were both persistent.
And most importantly, we were both God-fearing women who believed our lives should mean something.
Politics didn’t have to destroy friendship.
Disagreement didn’t require disrespect.
And being on opposite sides yesterday didn’t mean we couldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder tomorrow when we found something worth working toward.
That may be one of the greatest lessons our friendship leaves with me.
The Woman Who Helped Change My Daughter’s Life
Phyllis’s fingerprints are also on a chapter of my own family’s story.
She is the reason my daughter, Valyncia Smith, is a City of Conyers Councilwoman today.
That is not a small thing to me.
Sometimes someone’s legacy isn’t found in the position she held herself.
Sometimes it is found in the person she encouraged to step forward.
The woman she saw something in.
The person she pushed toward a door they might never have walked through otherwise.
Leadership isn’t only about occupying a seat.
Sometimes leadership is recognizing who should sit in the next one.
And my family will always have a reason to remember the role Phyllis played in Valyncia’s journey.
She Was Already Writing Her Next Chapter
That’s another reason this loss is so difficult to process.
Because when Phyllis and I spoke recently, we weren’t talking about endings.
We were talking about beginnings.
She was talking about the next chapter of her life.
Marriage.
Montgomery, Alabama.
Moving away.
I couldn’t believe she was really going to leave everything she had built here—the community, relationships, work and life she had established.
But if you knew Phyllis, you knew something else:
Once that woman made up her mind, her mind was made up.
I hated the thought of seeing her go.
But friendship isn’t asking someone to live the life you want for them.
I wanted for Phyllis what Phyllis wanted for herself.
So I began making peace with it.
She’s moving to Montgomery.
Okay.
I’ll visit.
There would be phone calls.
There would be trips.
There would be another lunch.
Another conversation.
Another opportunity to laugh, disagree, agree, talk politics, talk faith, talk about life and figure out when I was going to get down to Alabama to see her.
At least, that’s what I thought.
I thought I was preparing myself to watch my friend move away.
I never imagined I was preparing to say goodbye.
“Don’t Underestimate Me.”
Looking through photographs of Phyllis now, one in particular stops me.
It contains a motto she chose for herself:
“Don’t underestimate me. I think more than I speak, know more than I say, and notice more than you realize.”
That sounds like Phyllis.
Another photograph carries the words:
“Lead With Purpose. Live With Passion.”
Perhaps there is no better way to describe the life she tried to live.
Because Phyllis didn’t simply talk about community—she served it.
She didn’t simply talk about politics—she put her own name on a ballot.
She didn’t simply talk about helping people—she created ministry around service.
She didn’t simply talk about leadership—she sat on boards, entered campaigns, participated in civic life and encouraged other people to lead.
And apparently, even after all of that, she still wasn’t finished.
There was another chapter she intended to write.
The Stories We Think We Have More Time to Tell
As Publisher of Real Women Atlanta Magazine, I spend much of my life telling women that their stories matter.
Today, those words mean something different to me.
We often wait.
We think there will be another luncheon.
Another interview.
Another telephone call.
Another birthday.
Another campaign.
Another event.
Another opportunity to tell someone what her presence has meant to us.
We assume there will be time.
And then life reminds us that time was never something we were promised.
That’s why Real Women Atlanta exists.
Not simply to celebrate women after they become famous.
Not simply to document titles, awards and achievements.
But to say to ordinary Black women doing extraordinary things:
We see you now.
Your work matters now.
Your journey matters now.
Your story deserves to be told while you are here to hear us say it.
So, Phyllis…
I still don’t like that message on my phone.
Part of me still wants to read it one more time and discover that somehow the words have changed.
They haven’t.
So now I am left with memories.
I remember the woman who showed up when Real Women Atlanta was beginning.
I remember the luncheons.
I remember the politics.
I remember the disagreements.
I remember deciding that what we shared was greater than what separated us.
I remember what you did for my daughter.
And I remember our conversation about Montgomery.
I thought there would be time to visit you there.
I thought there would be more conversations.
I thought there would be another chapter.
Maybe that’s why this hurts so much.
You weren’t finished living the life you were planning.
But, Phyllis, you left evidence that you were here.
It’s in the people you served.
The people you fed.
The young people you supported.
The communities you advocated for.
The candidates and causes you fought for.
The women you encouraged.
The people you pushed toward leadership.
And it’s in those of us who had the privilege of simply calling you friend.
Rest well, my friend.
You led with purpose.
You lived with passion.
And you will be remembered.
—Charmaine
