Dawn Ebert passed away on August 18, 2026, leaving behind a remarkable collection of family, friends, stories, laughter—and, after 30 years as a court reporter, probably more words than any one person should ever have been required to listen to.

Dawn grew up in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin, where she began a lifelong habit of making friends wherever she went. She was outgoing, beautiful, funny, and genuinely interested in people. Dawn didn’t simply enter a room; she became part of it. She loved people, and people loved her right back.

For 30 years, Dawn worked as a court reporter, doing depositions for Dan and others, faithfully recording what everyone else said while exercising the remarkable discipline not to tell them what she thought about it.

But her real life’s work had nothing to do with transcripts. It was the enormous collection of relationships she built along the way. Dawn had longtime friends, new friends, work friends, family who were friends, and friends who simply became family. If Dawn liked you, chances are you knew it.

She is survived by her husband, Dan Stevens, who had the extraordinary privilege of sharing her life, her laughter, her adventures and, finally, the most difficult part of her journey.

Dawn is also survived by her mother, Janine Schneider; her sister, Lori Frey; her niece, Jessica Frey; her daughter, Sarah Ebert, and Sarah’s partner, Mark Werle; her son, Benjamin Ebert; her best friend, Pamela Volk; her beloved honorary “aunt,” Ruth Caldiero; her uncles, Jim Bullock and Vince Bullock; her former spouse, Roy Ebert; her stepdaughters, Mary Stevens and Sarah Stevens; and was a loving daughter-in-law to Josephine Ebert.

She was preceded in death by her father, Bruce Schneider, whose place in Dawn’s life and story was never forgotten.

Those names, however, tell only part of the story. Dawn leaves behind many more people who loved her—friends from Menomonee Falls, friends gathered throughout a lifetime, coworkers, neighbors, and people who somehow met Dawn and discovered that they had acquired a friend.

Her final chapter was far too short. But Dawn’s life itself was not defined by illness. It was defined by the decades that came before it: friendships, family, work, conversations, laughter, love, and a personality that refused to go unnoticed.

A court reporter is supposed to make an accurate record, so perhaps Dawn would insist that we get this last part exactly right:

She was here. She was loved. She made life more interesting. And she will be terribly missed.

And with that, the record is complete.