For Boyd: A Brother Remembered, A Mission Continued

I didn’t grow up close to my brother Boyd in the way some siblings do. He was twelve years older than me, just old enough to feel like more of a wild, unpredictable force than a playmate. I have vague childhood memories of him holding me over the basement steps or threatening to stuff me in the washing machine. Big brother energy at its finest. We laughed about it later, of course. That’s just who Boyd was.

Boyd went into the Marines when I was still little. He served a combat tour during the Gulf War. He came home, got married, had kids, started a new chapter. But like many who’ve seen war firsthand, he also brought some things home with him that couldn’t be unpacked or left behind. Quiet things. Heavy things.

For a while, we lived in our separate orbits, with the occasional catch-up here and there. But in the last few years, we reconnected in a way I’ll forever be grateful for. We visited more. We talked more. And less than a month before he passed, he and my sister-in-law Keri came to visit and stayed with Anthony and me.

It was a beautiful visit. The kind you don’t realize you’ll treasure until you're looking back at it through tears.

They came to town to see our parents, but I got the best part. I got the late nights. I got to stay up with them talking about anything and everything: life, family, ideas, plans, hopes. Boyd promised to be there for the hard conversations ahead with our aging parents. He meant it. He even called me a few days after they left because he had a 3D-printing idea for something he wanted to make for my husband for the holidays. That was Boyd. Always thinking of others.

He was so proud of his kids and grandkids. I’ll never forget how his face lit up telling me about one of his sons winning a quilting award at the state fair. He beamed when he talked about his family. The pride in his voice was unmistakable.

I was looking forward to continuing to grow that relationship. To many more phone calls. More visits. More late-night conversations.

But his demons became too much one evening. And he’s no longer here.

I don’t tell you this story to make you sad. I tell it because someone else out there might need to hear it. You might have a Boyd in your life: a veteran, a loved one, a strong face that hides deep wounds. Combat veterans are good at covering. Good at saying “I’m fine.” Good at looking strong when they’re actually hurting deeply.

Please. Keep an eye on them. Reach out. Ask twice. Sit up late with them. Let them talk. Let them not talk. Just be there.

Organizations like StopSoldierSuicide.org are there for soldiers and their families. They’re doing the work of standing in the gap, of reminding our veterans that they are not alone. That their story matters. That their pain does not have to end in silence.

Twenty-two veterans a day take their own lives. That number is unbearable. Even one is too many.

Boyd’s story didn’t end the way I had hoped. But I will continue to tell it. To honor him. To help someone else’s story go on.

For Boyd. For every soldier. For every family still fighting in the quiet.

You are not alone. And we will not stop shining light until the darkness loses.