My Brother Michael

I am the oldest of three children. My sister is just over a year younger than I am, and my brother Michael was three years younger than me.

Michael has been my inspiration for my entire life.

He was born with severe disabilities. In his eleven years on this planet, he never learned to talk, walk, or crawl. Michael lived his entire life in an institution. Knowing that, it may seem surprising that he became the greatest influence I have ever known—but there is a reason.

Michael made me feel better than anyone ever has, before or since, simply by the way he reacted when I walked into a room.

When I was about five years old, my parents divorced. Michael’s birth put an unbearable strain on their marriage. My mother blamed my father, believing his genetics were responsible for Michael’s condition. My father blamed my mother, believing she hadn’t taken proper care of herself during pregnancy. Their conflict turned physical, and ultimately, it was best that they separated.

After the divorce, Michael was placed at Pacific State Hospital, where he remained for the rest of his life.

Once a month, my mother, my sister, and I would visit him. Michael was usually either in a wheelchair or lying on a padded mat in the middle of the playroom. That’s where the children stayed so families could sit with them, play with them, and spend time together. We would stay for a couple of hours. It was never enough for us—but somehow, it was always enough for Michael. He was grateful for every moment.

When my mother walked into the room and said, “Hi Michael,” he reacted with joy. When my sister entered, greeted him, and hugged him, he reacted with joy again.

But when I walked through the door, everything changed.

Michael leapt with excitement. He reached for me. He laughed. He made sounds. His entire body came alive. He made me feel as though the best thing that had ever happened to him was simply my presence in that room.

Nothing in my life has ever matched that feeling.

And yet, in the outside world, I was “that guy.” In high school, I escorted the homecoming queen. I was captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams. I lettered for years. I had achievements, recognition, and status—but none of it came close to the joy Michael gave me without ever saying a word.

That is why he is my hero.

Michael set my compass. He gave me a lifelong goal: to make people feel seen, valued, and genuinely joyful simply by being present. To make an impact that doesn’t rely on words, titles, or accomplishments.

I believe Michael was an angel sent to this world for me.

Yes, he touched everyone at Pacific State Hospital. He impacted my family deeply. But in my heart, I believe he was placed on this earth to teach me compassion, love, and how to care for others without conditions or barriers.

Because of Michael, I am drawn to people the world often overlooks—those who are disabled, marginalized, or treated differently. I make it a point to engage with the less fortunate, because Michael taught me that there are no real barriers between us, only the ones we choose to see.

Michael was born on September 13, 1960. He passed away on November 2, 1971, at Pacific State Hospital from pneumonia. He was eleven years old.

He lived a short life—but his impact on mine has been immeasurable.