The Loss of My Brother

The hardest thing I've ever written

The Day Everything Changed

It was a day like any other and the month my brother was to turn 21.

I was driving home from work. It was a nice day. And then I got a notification on my phone… a message in a group chat my brother had created about a week prior, just to cut up and have fun with friends. There were 5 of us in that group.

I opened the message.

It said how much he loved us... and that he had made a mistake. He said we may not see him tomorrow, but again, reminded us that he loved us.

My heart raced.

Others in the group chat read it too, and I immediately started calling him. Over and over and over.

But no answer.

I called my dad. He picked up. I told him about the message. He hung up without hesitation and went to find my brother.

But it was too late.

My dad called me back a little while later and told me what had happened.

I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m coming,” I told him.

I had just gotten home and ran inside and told my wife I had to go. I drove as fast as I could back to my parents’ house, where my brother had been living. When I arrived, the ambulance and police officers were already there.

My mom was bent over on the ground, crying. All I could do was hold her. Try to get her to stand up and go upstairs. Eventually, she did.

When the ambulance left, my parents went to the hospital with their pastor, who had come immediately. My youngest brother - he’s 12 now - and they didn’t want him to go to the hospital. So I took him back to my house and we waited.

We waited for hours.

I went outside and paced up and down my street crying.

Was he okay? What had happened?

Eventually, their pastor called me and told me my parents were headed back and where to meet. That’s where they told us the news… the news I had already begun to piece together.

We sat there and cried. For over 30 minutes, we didn’t have words. Just tears.

That night, after we had left the pastor’s house, I called one of my closest friends and friend of my brother. He lived in New York at the time. I told him, in a few short words, what had happened.

The next day, he flew out.

He told me, “I’m here for you, man.”

And he was. He never left my side unless I asked him to. He’s the friend who records the podcast videos we publish. He’s the friend who plays video games with me when I need a break. He showed up when it mattered most.

That night, and in the week that following, I did the best I could to be there for my parents. To try to be the rock they needed.

There’s a line Jordan Peterson once said:

It is necessary to be strong in the face of death, because death is intrinsic to life. It is for this reason that I tell my students: aim to be the person at your father’s funeral that everyone, in their grief and misery, can rely on. There’s a worthy and noble ambition: strength in the face of adversity.

That line ran through my head over and over as I tried to be the person who could comfort, hold, and help… not the one who broke down in front of everyone. I had no idea how to get through it. I had never experienced anything like this.

But I decided: I would be that rock. I would focus on everyone else.

My parents were devastated. My youngest brother wouldn’t even sleep in his own bedroom. Family flew in from across the country. Friends came in and out. The church that my brother had been attending… everybody showed up. Everybody cared.

The week flew by. I barely had time to think. My wife was there through it all. Every waking moment, she was behind me - my rock - so I could be the rock for others. She couldn’t quite understand what I was going through, and that was okay. She helped me more than she knows.

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His Final Gift

The weekend before everything happened, my brother had been over at our new house. He’d worked so hard the previous month helping us move in, get situated, and make small changes to the place.

He had just purchased a new motorcycle.

He told me that he had gotten it registered... and put it in my name, just in case something ever happened to him. We joked about it… I told him that better never happen. He laughed and agreed.

A month after his passing, I went to the courthouse and had the title transferred into my name.

The summer before, in 2024, he had pushed me to get my motorcycle endorsement with him. We studied together and went to the DMV to take the first test. We passed. I didn’t take it any further at the time… I didn’t have a bike yet. But he soon did. And he started riding nearly every day.

In the following months after the funeral, I enrolled in an MSF course and got my license. Deep down, I knew I owed that to him. For everything he had given me... I felt like I owed him this.

Throughout 2025, I started riding the bike. Every time I got out on the road, I teared up. I thought of him. As the wind rushed past me and I flew down the road, I knew it was a gift.

Every time I chose to get on the bike and ride, I knew it was him and he was there with me… his gift. His way of always being there. Always kind.

This year, my wife decided she was ready to ride with me. She now hops on the back, and we ride together.

She is so happy. So free.

When we’re out on the road, time flies. It’s peaceful. Breathtaking. And still, I always think of my brother.

This was him… his passion. His final gift to me.

And I don’t take that lightly.

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The Funeral

On the day of the funeral, the church was full. Friends, family, people from all parts of our lives showed up.

I had written a tribute, and one of the ministers read it for me… because I knew I couldn’t.

As we left the funeral and carried the casket, I was surrounded by some of his closest friends - many of whom I had grown up with, too. We followed the hearse to the cemetery.

The line of cars behind us stretched two and a half miles.

Two and a half miles of people who had been touched by him. Loved by him. Who cared enough to show up.

I stood in awe.

And I was reminded - again - that the things we leave behind are not as valuable as the people we love while we’re here.

My brother was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. People were there because he built real relationships with them. Because he showed up in their lives. Because he was intentional, loving, funny, and honest.

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Moving Forward

I don’t know how everyone deals with loss.

But this is how I did.

It’s been nine months since he passed. And those first few months were brutal. I dreamed of him. Thought of him constantly. His name came up in every conversation.

It was excruciating.

But over time, the pain eased.

It’s still there… but it’s changed. It’s not as sharp anymore. It’s a dull ache. One that lives with you, but doesn’t cut as deep.

If you’re going through loss right now, I want you to know something: It does get easier.

The pain doesn’t vanish, but it softens.

And I hope you can hold on to the memories… the good ones.

The times you laughed.
The times you loved.
The times you had.