“Merry Christmas, Twirls!” I texted my sister on the morning of December 25th, 2016, along with a picture of two kittens I had just given my boys that morning. I wanted her to feel a little bit of home, even though she was over 1,000 miles away. “So cute! Do they love them?!” she replied almost immediately. She was so excited for my boys, even though she had nothing herself.
Just days earlier, on December 20th, my sister became homeless. Through a series of text messages, she explained how her boyfriend had left her, how her roommates’ boyfriend had been arrested, and how she had just been served an eviction notice. Utilities were about to be shut off, and life had escalated so quickly that she didn’t know where to turn. Then, on December 26th, she sent me a message that felt like a miracle: she had found a bed for ninety days with a friend named Kim at the Salvation Army. The moment I read it, I felt an overwhelming rush of joy and relief, letting go of the fear that had settled deep in my chest. I will never forget her words in that message: “Thank you for always worrying about me. I love you.”
It was moments like this when I realized just how much the smallest gestures can mean. That year, my own family was struggling financially. We had just moved into a new home after an eviction, and the holiday season felt like the peak of our hardships. The kittens I gave my boys were free, and nearly the only present we could manage, while my sister would at least have a warm meal and a safe bed surrounded by friends.
Our father, who had never really been present in our lives, provided her a hotel room on Christmas Eve that year. While she was grateful, we could never understand how he could let her be homeless in the first place. He was far from impoverished, yet his daughter felt abandoned. It was a cruel reminder that love and care cannot be measured in money alone. My dearest sister, Cheryl Lynn Winkler—Twirls, as we all lovingly called her because of the way she twirled her curly hair—was left to survive the cold on her own.
I would give anything to have her on the other end of that phone, texting me again. One thing I will always be grateful for is the so-called “Obama phone” that she qualified for—it was her only lifeline to me during those desperate months.
Then, on January 21, 2017, the world as I knew it shattered. I had gone to my room around 2 p.m. with a migraine, and woke suddenly to a string of messages from unknown numbers in Kentucky. A doctor from a hospital in Louisville was on the line. My sister had overdosed, and they told me she wasn’t going to make it through the night. My body went numb, and my mind screamed in disbelief. How could this happen? She didn’t want to die—she wanted help. Why was no one there to guide her, to walk with her through every day, like someone should have?
The truth is, it wasn’t anyone’s personal failure. My sister had a disease. She was an addict. Her journey began as a lost thirteen-year-old and ended as a deeply hurt soul who never fully felt loved. She faced hardships that some people might never survive, and instead of receiving long-term treatment or medical-assisted therapy, she tried to wash the pain away with drugs. I can’t help but believe that with the right support, she might still be here today.
The final death certificate revealed she had overdosed on meth, heroin, and Oxycodone. She was alone, on a park bench, when her life was cut short.
Now, the only power I feel I have is through advocacy. My mission is to give back to the community, to help those struggling, and to make sure no one feels as alone as my sister did. She found solace in small joys—art therapy, animals, and my children. It is through these small, everyday moments that we can offer hope, reach out, and create a lifeline for those who need it most. Above all, we must ensure that help and guidance are accessible to every single individual who needs them, before it’s too late.
