Michael Sullivan Brown

Michael Sullivan Brown chose to let go of the heavy weight of his heart and mind on Tuesday, January 3^rd.  He left his family here, going somewhere we cannot follow. These words should not be written for a boy of 15.  He was born August 7, 2007, in Idaho, arriving shortly after a poker game between his parents which they never finished.  He was perfect and so quiet.  In the late nights when he and his mother Elizabeth were alone, they would sit and watch Iron Chef America in the dark hospital room (we secretly attribute his love of cooking to this early exposure). She was the first one to cradle his sweet face and the last one to hold him. Michael grew up in a home where things weren’t always perfect, but he always had his siblings to lean on.  He was a little brother to Brody and Gracelynne and a big brother to Caroline. Their relationships were full of all the secrets only shared by siblings and it was the four of them against the world. Everyone said that Michael was a mini-me of his father Gailen, and it’s the truth.  They both had the same stubbornness (when Michael decided to do something, there was no changing his mind), the same sense of immortality and adventure. Even when he tried to make it hard, Michael was loved deeply and unconditionally by his family.  From a young age, it was clear that Michael was exceptional.  Every parent says that about their child, but Michael was special, and that brilliance was his superpower and his kryptonite.  Genius is a double-sided sword, so while Michael was one of the funniest people you’d meet, whip smart and quick with the perfect joke for everyone, he held his sadness deep inside in a place we could not reach, no matter how hard we tried.  His smile was infectious, his anger knife sharp, his empathy unlimited. Michael loved music and was rarely seen without his earbuds in, listening to everything from Irish sea shanties to Rare Americans (his first concert), Childish Gambino, 1940s swing classics or Avatar.  In the evenings we could often hear him singing with abandon in his room.

As a little boy, he had a unique sense of style, and as a teen he was known for constantly wearing a hoodie sweatshirt, regardless of the temperature. He drank way too much Dr. Pepper and would argue with you about which restaurant’s french fries were the best deal based on taste and size (Wendy’s in case you were wondering). He and his father were currently on the hunt for the perfect street tacos.  He was too young to be survived by a wife or child, too young to have a career. He was too young.

In life, Michael was a member of the Great Mills High School JROTC, he was part of the chess team and engineering team.  He enjoyed trying new things and participated in Model UN, Mock Trial, and probably other things that he kept to himself. He felt school was useless, yet he always made an impact on his teachers, becoming a favorite student, much to his own disbelief.  People told us he was always surrounded by friends.  So many people have shared memories of a Michael we only knew in part.  A wise soul, a compassionate friend, an encourager, a peacemaker.  Michael continued to create a family of his own with his closest friends; Kenzie, Charles, Kaz, Tony and the rest of the Kingdom.  Michael was an adored nephew to Anne and Brandi and their husbands Brandt and Ryan, he was a beloved cousin of Nicholas, Niah, Sawyer, Sophie, Luke and Ivy.  He was a joy and a mystery to his grandparents: John and Carol, Wendell and Traci and MariAnn. We believe firmly that he is without despair, without sorrow and experiencing true joy with his Nana and Gigi and held tightly by Jesus.

Our family has been broken by a decision made in an instant, a decision that was the endpoint of a painful journey for our son. We won’t ever have the answers we seek, the unending question of why, but we do know that Michael was plagued by mental illness that dragged him down and blinded him to his worth and the possibility of a life beyond memories of the past.  He reached out and received help, but the chains were too heavy to break quickly, and so he let go instead of fighting against them longer.  Our family’s hope is that our tragedy will save someone else’s life.  If you are pressed down and broken by your thoughts and feelings, please call 988, talk to someone, ask for help.  Share the burden of your pain with others rather than taking it all on yourself.  You are worth so much more than you know.