A Celebration of Life in Honor of My Kid Brother, Darrick Allen Lawrence

Opening Message

Today, we pause to honor the life of my little brother, Darrick Allen Lawrence—a charismatic, complex soul with a childlike zest for life. He moved through the world as if nothing could touch him, living on his own terms, chasing freedom with a wild, untamed heart.

But Darrick felt everything. He loved with his whole being, hurt just as deeply, and carried a story woven with both fierce joy and quiet sorrow. Like the country songs he loved, his life was filled with raw emotion—honest, unruly, and heartbreakingly human.

It still feels surreal to be writing these words—to be honoring his life in this way after the devastating events of April 10, 2025. Darrick died from a police-inflicted gunshot wound during what should have been a wellness check amidst a mental health crisis.

The weight of his loss sits heavy on my chest. And yet, as I reflect on the man he was and the memories we shared, I feel both grief and gratitude. Darrick was a force—a magnetic presence. His laughter could cut through even the darkest mood, and somehow, even after pushing you to the brink of frustration, he’d have you laughing again. That was his gift: chaos and charm, hand in hand.

Personal Reflection

Darrick was many things—a hard worker, a devoted partner, and a deeply loyal family man. He loved fiercely, especially his longtime partner Jessica, and cared for her daughter, Sophia, as if she were his own from the time she was four. Even after he and Jessica parted ways, he tried to remain a steady presence in Sophia’s life, doing his best to be a source of love and support.

He was always looking ahead—dreaming up camping trips, planning a magical Disney adventure with Sophia’s children. He couldn’t wait to see their eyes light up with wonder, to witness joy blooming in real time. For Darrick, those were the moments that made life worth living: shared joy, laughter, the sweetness of connection.

Yet beneath that hopeful spirit was a quiet, persistent worry—especially for Sophia. He feared she might follow in his footsteps, struggling to accept love, to trust in help, to let go of pain. Darrick knew that path all too well. He knew how hard it was to open up, how easy it was to armor oneself with anger or silence. His concern for her wasn’t just protective—it was a reflection of his own unhealed wounds, of the love he carried and the peace he wished for her more than he ever found for himself.

His love for their daughter, Allysa, was sacred. She was his heart, his pride, his joy. He saw her as his crown jewel—the one who stood by him the longest, besides our mother. And yet, Darrick often carried a crushing weight of disappointment in himself for not being able to change—for not being the father she deserved. He knew his actions caused her pain, and that truth haunted him more than he could ever say.

As much as he wanted to heal, Darrick couldn’t quite bring himself to surrender to the love being offered. Vulnerability terrified him. So instead, he hid behind shame, behind poor choices and chaotic moments that pushed others away. Not because he didn’t love—but because he didn’t feel worthy of being loved back.

Over time, that internal struggle began to erode his relationships. His pain spilled over, sometimes as conflict or unpredictable behavior, sometimes as silence or distance. For Darrick, chaos became a misplaced language of connection—a desperate, backward way to stay tethered to the people he loved. He longed for closeness but didn’t know how to allow it without also fearing rejection.

Still, despite the strain, Darrick’s love for his family never disappeared. It pulsed beneath everything—imperfect, tangled, but real. He was still tethered to all of us, even when he couldn’t say so.

And Darrick’s story was never just one of struggle. He had a way of showing up when it mattered. In 2019, just 24 hours after celebrating my son Logan’s wedding, he climbed into a packed moving truck with me and drove across the country during Savannah’s record-breaking heatwave. Together, we helped move my son Gavin from a third-floor freshman dorm to his first house. It was brutal. It was beautiful. It was classic Darrick.

His devotion stretched wide—to our parents, to our sister Andrea. As a boy, he worked alongside our mother at the family business, Day’s and Crawford Scrap Metal, absorbing her grit and loyalty. Later, he partnered with our father to start Liquid Blue Assets, a gray water hauling company in Colorado. They dove into unfamiliar territory with no contacts and limited experience, fueled by trust and a shared sense of adventure.

He worried about Andrea too, seeing in her some of his own struggles. He feared she was fighting shadows that weren’t really the enemy—avoiding the deeper wounds by staying caught in surface-level battles. That fear was born of love. Darrick wanted more for her, even when he didn’t know how to ask for more for himself.

He also had a gift for lightening tension—especially in his 20s, when bar fights among friends could be diffused by one of his famously inappropriate jokes. His timing was questionable, but his heart was in it. He could quote movies, crack jokes mid-crisis, and turn tears into laughter in the span of a minute. He was frustrating, hilarious, unforgettable.

His childhood friendships were a lifeline. The kids from the neighborhood—the ones who knew him before life got complicated—remained loyal. Their connection grounded him, reminded him who he was before the world left its scars. Those relationships were sacred, a source of safety and belonging he carried with him.

When words failed, Darrick turned to action. He once bought matching Mickey Mouse watches for himself and Jessica so they’d always have something connecting them. In our teens, he spent over 15 hours helping me dig out our parents’ first koi pond—an anniversary gift made with nothing but shovels and sweat. He loved the outdoors.

Whether hiking Devil’s Lake with his daughters, nephews, and niece or camping with family, those were the moments when he was most himself—grounded, joyful, free.

Darrick taught me more than he realized. Most of those lessons came through his battles—with self-worth, unmedicated mental health, and eventually, addiction. He turned to substances for relief, and over time, it became a dependence that unraveled so much of his life. But even in the devastation, I saw the complexity of his heart. His story wasn’t just about struggle—it was about the pain of being human and the longing to be whole.

The Complexity of Darrick’s Struggles

Darrick’s struggles were not sudden—they crept in gradually, quietly weaving themselves into his life until they became part of his identity. Long before he left for Colorado, subtle changes had begun to take hold, quiet but persistent. Once he moved west and spent more time alone on the road for work, those struggles deepened. The long stretches of solitude, the pressure, and the quiet echoes of unresolved pain began to weigh more heavily on him. But by the time he returned home to Illinois, it was hard not to notice. The vibrant, loving man we all knew still flickered through in moments, but something essential had shifted. There was a heaviness in him, a shadow that lingered behind his eyes.

That return home brought with it a quieter kind of heartbreak. Darrick moved back in with our parents, searching for stability, structure—anything that might help him rebuild. But the weight he was carrying didn’t stay at the door. It followed him everywhere, whispering self-doubt, feeding the victim mindset that had begun to take hold. The world had worn him down, and his spirit bore the bruises.

Still, in July of 2024, Darrick made one of the bravest choices of his life: he checked himself into rehab to get sober after more than 30 years of drinking. It was a massive, courageous leap—one that many never take. That decision wasn’t easy, but it was proof that some part of him still believed in the possibility of healing.

Unfortunately, due to family circumstances, he came home earlier than planned and wasn’t able to complete his full stay. Even so, he did something remarkable: he stopped drinking. For about seven months, he stayed sober from alcohol—a feat that deserves recognition, not just for the abstinence itself, but for the strength it took to even begin.

But the roots of his pain were deep. And sobriety, while powerful, didn’t erase the trauma beneath. About four months into his recovery, the addiction found another outlet—another way to numb the ache. Because addiction isn’t just about substances. It’s about what we’re trying not to feel. It’s about the ache we can’t name, the grief we can’t touch, the memories we can’t bear to revisit. And for Darrick, those inner storms never fully quieted.

One of his greatest challenges was asking for help. He tried, more than once, to pull himself out. But he didn’t always have the tools, the structure, or the sustained support to see it through. And when you’ve lived for decades inside your pain, it’s hard to know where healing even begins. It’s hard to trust that anything—or anyone—can really hold you through it.

His attempts weren’t failures. They were proof of his resilience. Proof that no matter how dark things became, some part of him still wanted to rise. He never stopped trying. Even when he stumbled, even when he spiraled, that desire—to be better, to do better, to live better—was always alive inside him.

Darrick carried immense guilt for the hurt he knew he caused, especially to those closest to him. But beneath the guilt was love. Deep, raw, aching love—for his family, for his daughter, for the people he couldn’t always show up for in the way he wanted to. That love was real. And it was often the very thing that gave him the strength to keep going.

It’s important to say this clearly: Darrick’s addiction was not who he was. It was one chapter in a much bigger, more nuanced story. A story filled with adventure and humor, with fierce loyalty and tenderness, with moments of generosity and sparks of wonder. A story of a man who fought hard—even when he didn’t know how to win.

His journey reminds us why empathy matters. Why compassion must come before judgment. Because the truth is, there are so many people like Darrick—carrying invisible wounds, battling private storms, trying desperately to hold themselves together. And what they need most is to be seen. Not as their worst days, but as their whole selves.

That’s who Darrick was. A whole, complicated, beautiful human. Not defined by his struggles—but shaped by them, yes. And still, even in the darkest places, he never stopped seeking connection. He never stopped loving.

Navigating Our Complicated Relationship

My relationship with Darrick was layered—a tangle of deep love, frustration, fierce hope, and quiet sorrow. I’ve always been someone who sees the good in others, who holds on tightly to the belief that people can change, can heal. As an empath, I didn’t just witness Darrick’s emotional storms—I felt them. His energy, his anguish, the rawness of his inner world… it was always palpable to me. Even when I couldn’t reach him with words, I could feel the weight of what he carried like it was stitched into my own nervous system.

Growing up, Darrick was every bit the little brother: mischievous, bold, boundary-pushing, and full of contagious energy. He stirred up chaos with the neighborhood kids, always one step ahead of trouble—or dragging it behind him like a kite on fire. And still, there was something undeniably magnetic about him. People were drawn to his light, his mischief, his spirit that somehow made everything feel a little more alive.

Even when he tested every limit I had, I never stopped feeling grateful for the moments we had. On some level, I think I knew they were precious. Maybe I even knew, deep down, that they’d be cut short. That’s why I hold onto the laughter, the spontaneous adventures, and those rare, sacred moments of closeness—not the devastation that came later.

Darrick had a love for the messy, wild wonder of life. He sought out adventure, even when it led him into trouble. One memory that never fails to make me laugh—whether I want to or not—is the time I picked him and one of the Gilbert boys up after a canoe trip down the Kishwaukee River in his mid-20s. Along the way, they spotted a bloated, very dead raccoon floating nearby. Most people would’ve ignored it. Not Darrick. Of course he had to poke it with a paddle. One jab—and boom. The thing exploded. Raccoon guts, stench, and an unholy mess coated them and the canoe. And yes, my car too, for weeks.

To Darrick, it was just another story—a badge of curiosity and reckless boyhood. He was equal parts Huck Finn and chaos gremlin, always finding hilarity in the grotesque and joy in the unexpected. That was his nature: to live fully, without filter, and to turn even the most disgusting disaster into a punchline.

But as we grew older, witnessing his descent into struggle stirred something far heavier. There was a constant ache inside me. On one hand, I could empathize deeply with the pain he carried—pain rooted in the unresolved traumas of our childhood. On the other, I had to accept a heartbreaking truth: I couldn’t save him. He had to want to save himself. And the hardest part was knowing… I don’t think he ever truly believed he was worth saving.

That belief—or lack of it—was the deepest wound he carried. It showed up everywhere: in how he treated himself, in how he pushed others away, in the way he kept choosing suffering over surrender.

His pain didn’t just affect him—it created ripple effects that touched everyone in our family. The hurt, the addiction, the chaos... it stretched relationships to their limits. There were times we had to create distance, just to protect our own peace. It didn’t mean we stopped loving him. I never did. But I had to learn to love him from a distance, from behind boundaries that were both necessary and excruciating.

And yet, before the phone call, before the text… I already knew. It wasn’t just a hunch—it was a soul-knowing. Something shifted in my body, a sudden stillness. A whisper inside that said: “He’s gone.” And then came the message—a friend who’d heard it on the police scanner. And though the words were brutal, they didn’t shock me. I had already felt the silence settle.

Still, the pain hit hard. It punched the breath out of me—grief, rage, disbelief tangled into one unbearable moment. My brother was gone. Gone in the exact way I had always feared, despite all the prayers, all the hope.

But when the initial wave passed, something else emerged… something unexpected.

Relief.

Not because I wanted him gone—but because he wasn’t suffering anymore. His pain, that constant ache behind his eyes, the storm he could never outrun… it was finally still. And in that stillness, I could feel something sacred. Not peace for me—but peace for him. For the first time in a long, long time.

Celebration in Song

In honor of my brother’s memory, we’ve chosen to sing “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty. This song has always held a special place in my heart—not just because it soundtracked one of my favorite memories with Darrick, driving the winding back roads of Wisconsin together—but because its lyrics speak directly to who he was. It feels like it was written for him. Every line echoes the essence of his untamed spirit, his restless search for belonging, and his quiet yearning for peace.

Darrick was never someone who could be boxed in. He wasn’t meant for rigid paths or fixed destinations. He was a wanderer in the truest sense—always looking, always reaching, never quite still. The world often felt too confining for a soul like his. There was a softness in him, a sensitivity that didn’t always have space to breathe. But out in nature, in laughter, in open skies and unexpected moments—he came alive.

He belonged among the wildflowers.

That’s what the song captures so beautifully: the tension and tenderness of being someone who is both wild and wounded. Someone whose beauty is inseparable from their fragility. Someone who longs not just to escape—but to be—without judgment, without expectation, without shame.

By singing this song, I'm not trying to perform. I'm trying to honor. I'm trying to offer something raw and real—from the ache in my chest, not from polished vocals. It’s a tribute to Darrick in all his contradictions: his chaos and his charm, his grit and his grace, his humor, heart, and hurt. Through this melody, we’re letting him know that we saw him. That we see him still.

Darrick felt things deeply, even when he didn’t always have the words. He loved fiercely, even when it hurt. And he carried more than most of us knew—weights that weren’t always visible, but were always present.

As you watch this video, I invite you to pause and think of the wildflowers in your own life—the people who don’t quite fit the mold, who carry silent battles, who show up in beautiful, unexpected ways. We all walk with invisible burdens. And in remembering my brother, I hope we can soften—toward ourselves, toward each other.

Let us make room for more grace. More listening. More wild souls finding their place.

Darrick would’ve liked that.

Honoring Darrick Through the Life He Loved

To truly honor Darrick’s memory, I invite you to embrace the joys he cherished—the simple, soulful moments that brought him peace, connection, and a sense of belonging. Go fishing with your kids, the way he did with our father—casting lines, telling stories, and letting the stillness of the water hold your hearts. Take a walk through the woods, breathing in the quiet power of nature that always grounded him. Go bowling with friends and laugh without holding back, or gather around the dinner table with loved ones for a Sunday meal, where every bite and every story reminds us what it means to feel at home.

These were the moments where Darrick came alive—when his spirit softened, and he felt truly connected to the people he loved and the world around him. I believe he’d want us to keep those moments close, to live them fully in his honor, and to share them often with others. Because more than anything, he valued togetherness. He found magic in the ordinary when it was shared with those who mattered.

But Darrick’s memory also calls us to something deeper—the courage to talk about the things that are hard. The need for real conversations around mental health. The bravery it takes to say, “I’m not okay,” and the grace it takes to truly listen when someone does.

If there’s one thing his life has taught me, it’s that vulnerability is not a weakness—it’s a doorway to healing. We must teach our children, and remind ourselves, that it’s not only safe to feel—it’s necessary. That asking for help is a sign of strength, not shame. And that none of us are meant to carry our burdens alone.

So tonight, take a moment. Hug the people you love a little longer. Step outside and look up at the stars—the same stars Darrick once gazed at, searching for peace. In the vastness of the universe, we’re reminded how small we are. And yet, in that smallness, we each hold the power to make our little corner of the world more loving, more gentle, more true.

Let’s honor Darrick not only by remembering him, but by living the values he held close: connection, joy, honesty, and the quiet strength it takes to keep showing up with an open heart.

Carrying Darrick’s Legacy Forward

If Darrick’s story has touched something in you, I ask that you carry it forward—not just in memory, but in action. His life held both beauty and struggle, and within that contrast lies a powerful invitation to do better by each other.

Start by educating yourself and your community about addiction and mental health. Learn about the pain behind the patterns and the stigma that keeps so many silent. Awareness is the first step toward compassion, and compassion is how we change the world.

If you know someone who’s struggling, share a resource. A hotline. A support group. A local therapist. Sometimes the smallest offering—a hand extended in the dark—can become the light someone was praying for.

Donate your time, your money, or your heart to organizations that help people heal. Whether you volunteer at a shelter, mentor someone who needs guidance, or simply choose kindness in your everyday life, you become part of the ripple effect Darrick’s story can inspire.

And above all—be present. Call someone you’ve been thinking about. Ask how they really are. Sit with them, without rushing to fix or explain. Because often, the most healing thing we can offer isn’t advice—it’s presence.

Let’s make a promise to each other: to create a world where no one feels too broken to be loved. Where reaching out is met with tenderness, not judgment. Where every silent struggle is honored as a sacred part of being human.

Carrying Darrick’s legacy forward means more than holding onto his memory. It means living in a way that gives others the chance he didn’t always have—to be seen, supported, and understood. It means letting his journey awaken something brave and loving in all of us.

Because his story matters. And through us, it can become a force for hope and healing in the lives of so many others still searching for light.

In Closing: A Tribute to Darrick's Spirit

Darrick’s life was a powerful reflection of the human journey—a tender reminder of both how fragile we can be, and how much strength it takes to carry what life places on our shoulders. His path was marked by hardship, yes—but it was also lit by love, by laughter, and by a light uniquely his own. He was someone who felt the world intensely, who loved without filters, and who left a lasting imprint on every heart he touched.

To my brother—my kid brother: You are now among the wildflowers, where your soul has always belonged. Free. Unburdened. At peace. Though you no longer walk beside us, your presence lingers—in our memories, in our laughter, in the stories we’ll tell again and again. You taught us the courage it takes to live authentically, even when life doesn’t make it easy. For that, and for the countless ways you showed us your love, you will always be with us.

To everyone who has wrapped our family in kindness during this time of profound grief, I offer my deepest thanks. Mike and his family, the kids from the old neighborhood, and my daughter Lexie—your love has been a shelter. Your presence, a balm. Your support has reminded us that we are never truly alone, even in our darkest hours. You’ve helped carry us through—and that is something we will never forget.

As we move forward, let us honor Darrick not only with remembrance, but with intention. Let’s live the lessons he left us—love big, speak truthfully, hold one another with compassion. Let’s create a world where wounds can be met with grace, where no one has to walk through pain in silence, and where every soul—no matter how lost—can find their way home.

Because Darrick’s life was more than a story of struggle. It was a testament to the raw, beautiful, complex experience of being human. May his wild, untamed spirit continue to move through us—in how we love, how we connect, and how we choose to live.

May we all, in our own way, find the wildflowers.