She began in cramped Off-Broadway rooms that smelled of wet paint and burnt coffee, where the lights flickered and the budgets didn’t matter. From the first curtain up, she refused to shrink herself to fit expectation or comfort. As Sister Mary Ignatius, she didn’t hide behind irony or distance; she stood in the fire, forcing audiences to face the contradictions they buried. That unflinching honesty became her signature, a kind of artistic vow she never once broke, whether under a bare bulb or a marquee blazing her name.

As Linda Loman, she made quiet devotion feel volcanic, revealing the invisible labor of love that history rarely records. On camera, she carried that same raw empathy into homes, making strangers feel both seen and gently indicted. Those who worked beside her speak of a fierce tenderness, a precision that never dulled her compassion. In losing her, we inherit her challenge: to show up braver, to speak truer, and to treat every moment as if it might be someone’s last chance to be fully understood.