I’ll never forget the details of that night. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. It was a chilly September evening, and I was standing at my kitchen counter, putting the final touches on a pizza for my little ones. The house was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the windows—a sound I’ve never loved. I was alone, waiting for our babysitter to arrive so I could finally enjoy a rare night out. Little did I know, that night would change me forever.
It was a rare opportunity to get away, and I was genuinely excited. My husband had picked up an extra shift at his second job to help a coworker, so I was headed out with a close friend for dinner. After sliding the pizza into the oven, I checked my phone to see if the babysitter had texted yet. No message. So, I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook to pass the time.
Then I saw it. A post that froze me in place. It read, “If anyone knows how to get in touch with Tom’s family, call the police department. Tom passed away at a party last night.”
I stared at the words, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Ummm… excuse me? A Facebook post telling me my brother had died? This couldn’t be real.
I immediately called my dad. No answer. Then my mom. No answer. I called my dad again—and again—five more times before he finally picked up. All I could manage to say was, “I just saw a Facebook post… it says Tom died.”
And his words, broken and quiet, will haunt me forever: “I think he did, Britt. I think he did.”
What followed was hours of confusion, panic, and disbelief. Cousins, aunts, and uncles called one after another, all asking the same impossible questions. Meanwhile, I tried desperately to get the post removed so no one else would have to learn this way. But deep down, a part of me already knew it was true. My dad was in Florida, my mom in Philadelphia for work, my other brother in Boston, and I was in New York. We were scattered across the country, and yet, in a single moment, my family felt more alone than ever.
My brother died at just 33 years old. I am about to turn 35, and never in my life did I imagine I would outlive him. He struggled for years with depression and mental health challenges, and ultimately, he lost his battle to a heroin overdose. My teenage and college years were spent worrying about him—always waiting for that dreaded phone call that finally came. You think it will never happen to you… until it does.
Mental health matters. We need to do more—for the people we love and for strangers we may never know are suffering. My brother tried so many times to get better, but his demons were relentless.
We also need to be kinder to each other, even to those we don’t know. Behind every smile or polite nod may be a battle we cannot see. Addictions are a disease, not a choice. If it were up to him, I know my brother would have chosen to stay, to be here with all of us, to watch his nephews grow.
Please, check in on your friends—your sad friends, your happy friends, even the new neighbor down the street. Be present. Be human. Compassion and understanding can save lives, and the world desperately needs more of both. We are losing a generation to this epidemic, and we must do better. We must be better.
Let’s make the world a little kinder. Let’s honor those we’ve lost by caring more today.
I miss you, Tom.
Love always,
Your baby sister
