I have been thinking about Kate a lot over the past few weeks. When I do, I keep remembering a few specific little instances, snapshots of our interactions. I think they portray the advisor she was: extremely professional, generous, empathetic, and caring.

She always had time to meet and always replied to emails within minutes. I must have sent hundreds of emails to her titled “Small question” or “Advice.” I don’t think she ever ignored one of them! One time, I hesitated for half a day before asking her for a recommendation on short notice, and when I finally did, she said, “I’m glad you asked,” and submitted it within hours.

I once didn’t email her for two months because I felt that my paper was falling apart. When we finally met, and I apologized for that, she told me not to be afraid of talking to people, “be afraid when you are not talking to anyone!” 

After a presentation where I was particularly stressed (and probably looked like I wasn’t eating properly), and I asked for feedback, she told me, “This is good, you’re doing fine, go eat a burger or two.” 

When I asked her whether people would think my work was interesting, she laughed and said, “Yes, but you cannot be sitting like that when you tell them about it.” (I was almost hiding under the table…)

I admired so many things about Kate. Not only her work itself, but her dedication, her commitment to tackling complex questions and being precise, and her overall philosophy about research. She was an outstanding lecturer; brilliant, engaging, funny, and extremely clear.  In seminars, I was always amazed by her questions and by how friendly she was to everyone, students and colleagues alike. 

I saw her in April. She asked me how I was doing, how I was settling into London, how my work was, and only at the very end did she mention that she was sick. I only understood how serious it was weeks after that.

To me, and to everyone who knew Kate, she leaves a huge vacuum. I hope she knew the tremendous impact she had on so many people, how much she meant to all of us, and how terribly we will miss her.

Shortly after I accepted my academic job, I talked to Kate about the expectations in my new department—how I’d be expected to do research, teach and develop courses, as well as advise students. I was thrilled by the prospect of my new esteemed colleagues, and more than a little intimidated, and so I made an offhand comment that my prospective students would probably have better options for advisors than me.

We were walking along the beautiful green path from the Princeton train station to the Economics Department—the same walkway where Kate and I had so many advising conversations over the years. I remember Kate stopping mid-stride, turning to me, looking at me squarely, and saying, “Never say that again.”

In that moment, I felt a deep sense of shame. I realized what I had said. This was someone who had worked with me for six years, whom I had wanted as my advisor even before either of us had Princeton ID cards, who had spent so much of her time pushing me toward where I wanted to go—and I had just told her that now that I had finally arrived, I didn’t think I was up to the task. 

Maybe my comment would have been true; maybe it wouldn't. But to diminish myself as her student ahead of time—I couldn’t have been more disrespectful to her in that moment. I remembered my face turning red as I apologized.

That was when I truly understood the greatness of what Kate had given me over the years. The countless meetings. The unseen work she did to support her students. I realized that in all of it, she was setting an example: not just in how to conduct oneself in the profession or within a department, but in her ability to see through us to what we wanted to be, to the best versions of ourselves we could not even imagine, and to push us relentlessly toward that. The way she was able to see better versions of ourselves—that's something I'd do well to remember.

Graduate students! We were an insecure bunch—ambitious, always trying to do more, and yet often told to be our own worst enemies before Referee #2 had a chance. Amid all that, Kate somehow always helped us see exactly where we fell short, while never failing to remind us of our strengths and to point the way forward—pushing us to get there.

Looking back, there were many times in graduate school when I was too nervous to check in with Kate. I think I was afraid of disappointing the person who always seemed to believe I could do better than I believed myself. Now, I’m heartbroken that I won’t get to check in with her anymore.

Over the past two weeks, as I’ve thought about Kate again and again, one question keeps coming back to me: Who will I ask to point me to the best version of myself now? I think she would have said I was being “daft.” I think I have an answer. I'll try to hold her memory close, follow the example she set for me and for so many others, and perhaps I'll get a little closer to that best version. I imagine she’d like that.

Kate started as my first-year mentor, and I was lucky enough to become her advisee.

Grad school is challenging, but Kate was like a safe harbor for me—a place where I could always go to find protection from the challenges of the outside world and my own inner struggles.

Last year, I went through a very tough time when a close family friend passed away. As an international student with family far away, the distance made the grief particularly difficult. I shared the news with Kate during one of our meetings, and I nearly broke down right there in her office.

I will never forget that moment. I could feel her deep empathy, as if my pain resonated with her own experiences. She didn't just give academic advice; she encouraged me to go home and be with my family. From that day on, Kate became the pillar of my life in grad school. I felt safe navigating this PhD journey, simply because I knew she was there.

I never imagined that one year later, I would be facing another massive loss. Only this time, the person who taught me how to get through grief is the person I have lost.

I still can’t believe this happened. Like everyone, I was shocked to hear the news. Even though I try not to, I can’t help thinking about the interactions I had with her—the meetings in her office, her lectures, and especially the last time I saw her.

In our last meeting, Kate encouraged me to find what I’m truly passionate about and pointed out my strengths and where I could thrive. I have always dreamed of sharing the news with Kate once I found a job I loved, but I will never have that chance.

My friend Judy shared a beautiful thought with me. She said, perhaps we are all living in a virtual world, and Kate has simply returned to the real world to restart her game. In that world, I know Kate will see my success and will be happy for me.

May Kate rest in peace.

The first thing Kate said to me was, "Can I be of any help?" after my very first IO lunch presentation in 2023. She then gradually took me under her wing, generously offering time to advise my research and, also gradually, emotional support throughout my graduate school career.

A huge part of research is worry--a natural human response to the uncertainty of long intellectual queries. The magic of her is that somehow she not only sees what I am worried about, but also the thoughts and feelings that translate into those worries. Just being seen this way was calming and comforting. Then, whenever my research moved in the right direction, she would assertively point that out, along with a concrete summary of what I am good at that lay behind it. Over time, these glittering little pieces of positive feedback, too real to be ignored, helped form an incipient shell that defines my research identity. It may have cracks later when I face more challenges, and it is too hard to think about the fact that she won't be around to patch them with those kind and gentle touches, but her voice that made it grow in the first place will play in my head forever, as solid as a rock, always having my back.

The last thing she said to me was, "I won't keep you here--go find your students," when we ended our last advising meeting, because I had a precept right after. At that moment, I had a lingering thought that I wanted to spend more time with her, but her words called, as did my impending responsibilities. I can't help but think how inspiring her teaching was--the systematic approach to IO and to health policies. I am also constantly reminded that she cared a lot about students, undergraduate and graduate students alike. She will continue to inspire me to be a good teacher.

We miss Kate so much because she brought so many good things with her and brought out the best in anyone she touched. It might be selfish to wish that she stayed longer with us in this world, but I'm sure she is in the best place in a multi-layered universe, not trapped in a mortal human body that is susceptible to pain and failure. Health economics is about the mortal human body and mind, though, and I wish to carry on the mission she pushed forward--making mortals live better.

The first time I heard Kate’s name feels like yesterday. I was deciding between grad schools. My friend Quan, making a similar decision, told me that Kate Ho might be coming to Princeton. 

“Who is this Kate Ho,” I wondered, “and why is it so important that she come to Princeton?”

In the eight years since, Kate made an indelible impact on my life. Kate did come to Princeton, and I was smart enough to ask her for RA work. As a boss, she gave me room to learn even as so much of the work went above my head. In my second year, I lucked into taking two of her classes. She shaped the course of my work in ways both obvious and surprising. I turned out to love the same kind of health-IO-bargaining work that Kate did, and I jumped in. (Although looking back, did I simply love working with Kate? A counterfactual we can never identify.) But also when Kate taught us about partial identification, another area of expertise, I realized her work was exactly the missing tool for a burgeoning subfield of statistics, and a side career was born. I tried once to explain Kate’s impact here to her, but I don’t think she quite understood how much she had done. 

Given this foundation, it was natural for Kate to be my advisor. Kate was the type of advisor you hope for: supportive in a way that builds self-belief, incisive in a way that inspires you to get better, and mindful of work-life balance in a way that keeps your effort sustainable. One of my strongest memories involved running an early research idea by her. “You’ll have to think about the moral hazard,” Kate advised me. Wanting to sound knowledgeable, I chimed in, “and adverse selection.” “Of course,” Kate nodded. It was only on my way out of her office that I realized what I was thinking of was, in fact, moral hazard. 

It always felt like Kate was three steps ahead.

In Kate’s last year and a half of life, I defended my thesis and started getting to know Kate as something like a colleague. Those were some of my favorite conversations, and also some of the most achingly incomplete. The thought that consistently makes me the saddest is knowing I will never run into Kate at a conference and just chat. 

I was so lucky to have had Kate in my life. 

When I sat down to write this note, I wanted to find stories that would capture what Kate meant to me. It felt impossible. I tried my emails, but by and large, they were just Kate finding times to meet. That was the kind of person she was: giving so much to her students. 

I did find one note that summed up so much. 

“Figured out estimation issue. Kate was right.” 

Kate was my husband's (Jacob Dorn's) thesis advisor. I can hardly say I knew Kate, having met her just once, and even then for only an hour. Even so, I think it's fair to say her life has deeply impacted my own.

Anyone who has been through the process of completing a PhD knows how profoundly one's advisor can affect not only their research, but also their entire graduate school experience. In that sense, Kate was no exception. What was exceptional, though, was the sheer number of situations where the phrase "Why don't you talk to Kate?" was like a secret cheat code for navigating the ups and downs of grad school. If there was ever a time where a discussion with Kate left my husband more confused or discouraged than before, I certainly don't know of it. When it came to navigating the wildly stressful gauntlet of the academic job market, all it ever took was a single conversation with Kate to make the next steps crystal clear. 

Those are rare qualities in an academic advisor, and they were obvious even from my position on the sidelines. But perhaps her rarest quality, and the one I owe her the deepest debt of gratitude for, was her consistent prioritization of her students' work-life balance. There were many times over the years she made this priority clear, but one in particular sticks out. My husband had been drowning in work, submitting dozens of job applications, writing his job market paper, and managing any number of other stressors. One day he comes home and simply says, "Kate told me I'm doing fine, and to go home and spend some time with my wife." That permission (or perhaps it was a directive) from Kate to put the work away, even for a little while, and focus on our relationship was exactly what we both needed at that point. It was also an exceedingly generous act of kindness on her part. It is truly a remarkable advisor that recognizes when what their student needs most is time away from their work, and all the more remarkable when they personally advocate for that time away. Kate was that advisor - consistently, steadfastly advocating for her students' wellbeing in all facets of life. I am lucky beyond my wildest imagination that Kate was my husband's advisor - our marriage is no doubt stronger because of her. 

So much of my husband's career - and by extension, my life with him - has Kate's fingerprints all over it. I may only have crossed paths with Kate briefly, tangentially, but I feel her loss deeply. I will always be profoundly grateful for the ways in which she shaped my life without her ever knowing. 

I was so fortunate to be Kate’s student. She was extraordinarily generous with her time, engaging deeply with every problem and in every conversation.

Looking back through our many messages, there were countless exchanges trying to find time to meet. Kate always greeted me with a smile. No matter how stressed I felt walking in, I left our meetings feeling calmer and with a clear plan. She was fully engaged—jumping up to the whiteboard to work through a problem, connecting me with colleagues who could move a question forward, or offering thoughtful advice on managing both research and life. She held me to a high standard while making me feel genuinely supported.

She was also remarkably modest. I remember her apologizing once for not seeing a solution quickly enough, when the lack of clarity was entirely mine, and another time saying she struggled to juggle projects—shortly after winning the Frisch Medal.

She also had a quiet sense of humor. In our Zoom meetings, she would tease me about my inevitable struggles to connect my Bluetooth headphones, pointing out that her corded ones somehow always worked...

Her mentorship shaped my work and continues to guide how I approach research and mentoring today. I will miss her deeply.

I feel incredibly lucky to have been Kate’s student. My first memory of her is from class, when she suddenly asked me to comment on a discussion paper because my corner of the room had been quiet for a while. I remember thinking right away: she’s tough, but she really pays attention to her students. That was enough to make me want her as my advisor, even though I wasn’t especially interested in health care markets at the time.

I was lucky to work with her in my third year and to write my third-year paper on short videos under her guidance. She was genuinely excited about the project, even though it was clearly far from her usual terrain and she probably had never watched any of those videos herself. I’ll always remember my first IO workshop presentation: one faculty member couldn’t make it, and when I met with Kate the next week for feedback, she told me she had gone out of her way to talk to him and pass along his thoughts to me. That was just so Kate.

Kate will be remembered by so many people, and for good reason. Even if you can’t hear all of these words, I hope you knew how grateful we were to learn from you and to spend time with you. Rest in peace, Kate.

I am deeply grateful to have known Kate. She was a dedicated advisor, and I benefited enormously from her guidance on my research. Yet as the years go by, I find myself most often drawing on the example she set through her dedication to her work, to her students, and to the people in her life. She showed us how to be serious without being consumed, ambitious without losing perspective, and generous with both time and care.

Kate led by example in every sense of the phrase. As an academic, editor, and teacher, she took each element of her work seriously. She allocated her time thoughtfully and, as far as I could ever tell, consistently honored her commitments. I’m sure she overcommitted at times (I can imagine her chuckling at me for suggesting she had work–life balance entirely figured out) but she always showed up and brought her full attention to her research, her students, and her editorial work.

As an advisor and mentor, Kate took the time to understand what my goals were, whether for a paper or a career decision, and she offered clear, astute guidance on how to reach them. She took genuine joy in seeing her students succeed along paths that made them happy. This was a rare quality in a profession that so often assumes we all have the same objective function.

Perhaps most notably, Kate showed me that it was possible to be deeply committed to academic work without letting it consume one’s entire life. She took her job seriously and excelled at it, but she also modeled a version of work–life balance that felt intentional and kind. I remember her once telling me that she chose editing as her primary service commitment because it didn’t take her away from home. And when she did travel, I recall her pulling out a small figurine—perhaps a penguin—at a seminar dinner, taking a photo so she could show her children where she had been when she returned. It was a small moment, but it captured something essential about who she was.

May Kate’s memory be a blessing to all of us who were fortunate enough to know her and to learn from her.

I was among those fortunate to have Kate as an advisor. She was brilliant, candid, and always available for short questions and advice. I admired her ability to quickly engage with very technical questions, while also emphasizing the importance of the big picture. She had a special talent for summarizing the key directions for improvement in any research paper. But she cared not only about her advisees’ research, but also about their wellbeing. In my last in-person conversation with her, she emphasized the importance of choosing a job based on where I thought I would be happiest. I will truly miss my conversations with Kate.

Kate was a student in my MBA class on Strategy at HBS.  It was a required course, so she was with her section, with whom she took all classes in the first year of the MBA program, as I did some years prior to her also as a student. She was clearly among the most analytic, but also wore her intelligence lightly.  There was only grace surrounding her.  It seemed to make sense to me that she would go into an academic career. It's with much joy that I observed her progress, though only from afar since our research fields did not overlap. Princeton, where my kids and i were undergrads in the past, was lucky to have her. I will miss Kate!