For George, serenity was never especially appealing. Peace of mind seemed, to him, a little too quiet. He wanted to grab life by the horns. He wanted to leap with joy, grieve deeply, and fight for what mattered.

Yet something inside him was always searching.

By his early twenties, the weight of our childhood had begun to catch up with him. The intensity we had lived through left both of us feeling untethered. We didn’t know how to live with peace because we had never known it. We felt disconnected from the world and uncertain about where we belonged. George wasn’t interested in therapy. His inner world remained restless, and his thoughts rarely slowed down. Then he discovered painting. Not paintings on canvas, but houses, fences, and walls.

There was something about working with his hands that quieted his mind. While he painted, he seemed to find a peace that had been missing for years. But it didn’t last.

Working for other people never came easily to him. He grew restless again. He drank more, drifted from one job to another, and struggled to find direction. Alcohol became a way to silence the constant noise in his mind, if only for a little while. Looking back, I don’t think George was running away from life. I think he was searching for a place where he finally felt at home. We spent many hours talking. Those conversations became one of the few places where we both felt completely safe. Together, we asked difficult questions, shared our fears, and wondered what our futures might hold. Neither of us had life figured out. We were simply trying to make sense of it, one conversation at a time. I encouraged George whenever I could, because beneath all the uncertainty, I knew he wanted more than just to survive. He wanted to live a good life. No one knew what the future would bring. We were simply preparing ourselves for whatever came next. Every conversation ended the same way.

“I love you, Doretta. I’m glad you’re my big sis.”

Those words have stayed with me ever since.