“Merry Christmas, Twirls!” I texted my sister on the morning of December 25th, 2016, attaching a picture of the two kittens I had just given my boys. Even though she was more than a thousand miles away, I wanted her to feel at home with us in spirit. Her reply was instant: “So cute! Do they love them?!” I could feel her excitement radiating through the screen, even though she had nothing that Christmas.
My sister became homeless just five days earlier, on December 20th, 2016. Through a string of texts, she told me how her boyfriend had left, how her roommate’s boyfriend was arrested, and how an eviction notice had been served. Utilities were scheduled to be shut off the very next day. Her words painted a picture of a life spinning out of control, and I felt powerless, trapped by distance and circumstance. Then, on December 26th, she sent me a message that lifted an enormous weight from my heart: she had secured a bed for ninety days, staying with a friend named Kim at the Salvation Army. I can still remember the exact words she typed during that conversation: “Thank you for always worrying about me. I love you.” A rush of joy and relief washed over me, melting weeks of anxiety in an instant.
It’s in these moments that the small things—gifts, kind words, a warm bed—reveal their true weight. At the time, I was also struggling financially, having just moved into a new home with my boys and husband after our own eviction. That Christmas, the kittens were nearly the only present we could give my children, and my sister would at least have a warm meal and some friends around her. Our father, who had been largely absent in our lives, provided her with a hotel room on Christmas Eve. While she appreciated the gesture, we could never understand how he could let her face homelessness in the first place. She had a father with resources, yet she felt abandoned, left to survive in the cold.
I would give anything to hear my sister, Cheryl Lynn Winkler—known to all of us as “Twirls” because of the way she twirled her curly hair—laughing or texting me from the other end of that phone. One small blessing was the “Obama phone,” a lifeline that kept her connected to me when she had nothing else.
But that lifeline would one day deliver devastating news. On January 21, 2017, I had laid down with a migraine around 2 p.m. I woke suddenly to an onslaught of messages from unknown numbers in Kentucky. A doctor from a hospital in Louisville was trying to reach me. My sister had overdosed. She was not expected to survive the night. I fell to the floor, paralyzed by grief and disbelief. How could this happen? She hadn’t wanted to die—she had wanted help. Where were the people to guide her, to hold her hand, to walk her through each day? My mind raced in anger and sorrow, questioning everything, questioning everyone.
The truth is, no one was at fault. Cheryl Lynn had a disease. She was an addict. Her story began as a lost thirteen-year-old and ended as a deeply hurt soul who had never fully felt loved. Life had dealt her challenges that many might never overcome, and she sought relief in drugs instead of therapy. Long-term treatment and medication-assisted therapy (MAT) might have given her a fighting chance—opportunities that, sadly, never came.
The final death certificate confirmed what I feared: she had overdosed on Meth, Heroin, and Oxycodone, alone on a park bench.
Now, my only power lies in advocacy. I strive to honor her memory by giving back to the community and reaching out to those struggling with addiction or homelessness. I carry forward the small joys that once helped Cheryl through her darkest days: art therapy, animals, and my children. Through these small, tangible sources of love and connection, I believe we can remind people that they are not alone. Most importantly, I hope to ensure that help and guidance are not just available—they are accessible to every single person who needs it.
