She had relocated to Minneapolis in search of a new start—not as an escape, but as a positive move. Her husband Tim had died of cancer, leaving her to raise their little kid, and the past several years had been marked by intense grief. That sadness wasn’t concealed. She talked candidly about it, frequently in writing. Her 2020 poem “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs,” which combined poetic audacity with emotional clarity, won a university award. It was authentic, honest, and exclusively hers.
Through late-night podcasts, she explained that healing was a journey rather than a single event. She turned their chats into peaceful time capsules by recording experiences with Tim before to his death. Their voices, which have been preserved, are filled with tears, laughter, and extraordinary affection. That podcast, an echo of a life struggling to find purpose, is still in existence.
Despite living apart, Renee remained a loving mother to her other two children from past relationships. Her approach to parenting was always compassionate, even if it wasn’t entirely traditional. Despite life’s pull, she managed to keep in touch by mailing letters, recording bedtime stories, and stitching moments together across distance.
A woman she met at a writing group became her partner after she relocated to Minnesota. They lived together in a peaceful, happy house on Portland Avenue, raising her youngest kid. Their dog, Hazelnut, was a popular in the area and was frequently spotted running wildly over lawns. Because they appeared to have had a busy day, Renee was the kind to invite new neighbors around for tea. Her generosity wasn’t a performance; it was just a natural part of her life.
According to the federal agents, she was a menace. Protesters claim she never had an opportunity to clarify. A complex truth exists somewhere in between those extremes. Probably surprised by armed agents in unmarked cars, she was operating a vehicle. Her journey was cut short in a matter of seconds by a gunshot after a swift altercation. But she shouldn’t be defined by that moment.
Renee Nicole Good – Key Details
| Name | Renee Nicole Good |
|---|---|
| Age at Death | 37 |
| Date of Death | January 7, 2026 |
| Location | Minneapolis, Minnesota |
| Occupation | Poet, writer, mother |
| Education | B.A. in English, Old Dominion University (2020) |
| Family | Mother of 3 children; partner to a woman in Minneapolis |
| Background | Originally from Colorado Springs, previously lived in Kansas |
| Known For | Creative writing, compassion, activism, community presence |
| External Link | Minnesota Star Tribune coverage |
She assisted in setting up supply drops for families in need in the early stages of the pandemic. She made no posts about it or tried to attract attention. Knowing that someone else had a warm coat or a meal was her reward. She was characterized as “quietly fierce” by one neighbor, a description that now rings painfully accurate.
Incorporating poetry into her daily actions allowed her to explain what many people find difficult to articulate. Her work was grounded, emotionally eloquent, and remarkably approachable; it was not pretentious. Her uncurated Instagram captions offered insights into a mind that continued to ponder despite the chaos of her existence. One said, “Try again.” Gently, perhaps, this time. These days, that sentence seems especially timeless.
Candlelight vigils stretched from Minneapolis to Chicago to Oakland as indignation over her passing increased. However, those meetings were about more than just protest. They dealt with memory. Long before tragedy brought cameras to her street, they served as reassurances that her life was valuable.
She never passed judgment, she sobbed when others were in pain, and she naturally reached out when someone felt isolated, according to her mother, who is still struggling with the loss. Renee claimed that her laughter had the power to simultaneously calm a storm and fill a kitchen.
Despite her struggles, she created room for others. She walked into a local library and donated a box of lightly used children’s books, each with sticky notes like “read this one out loud” or “this one made me cry,” according to one tale that was posted online. small, deliberate movements.
Months later, her community is left to make up for her absence, her boyfriend must deal with interviews and inquiries, and her kids must navigate a world without their mother’s touch. However, Renee is still present in every shared memory—not through news stories, but in interpersonal relationships.
Something about the influence she left behind is very obvious. Her generosity was a habit more than a theory. Her activism was intentional rather than noisy. Although she died needlessly, her life had great significance. And we ought to continue telling that tale.