If you really want to know who my sister Brianne was, let me tell you the way I would if we were sitting together and you asked about her. She wasn't someone you could sum up in a sentence. She was too big for that.
Brianne was one of those rare people who seemed to arrive in the world already knowing who she was. An old soul with sharp wit, a soft heart, and a stubborn streak strong enough to move mountains. She came into this world with a sense of self most people spend their whole lives trying to find.
If she loved you, you knew it. She showed up. She listened. She protected you. She fought for you. Determination wasn't something she practiced — it was something woven into her being. It lived in her bones.
She loved beaches, fast cars, traveling, and yelling at the TV during Packers games. She could make anything funny. And she had this "are you serious right now?" stare that could shut down any argument instantly. She was goofy and blunt, soft and sharp, all at once — somehow both the comic relief and the truth-teller.
She understood people in a way that still amazes me. She saw through the noise. She noticed the things most people miss. Even as a kid, she carried this calm, grounded presence that balanced her toughness. She was thoughtful, intuitive, and compassionate in ways that couldn't be taught — wise enough to understand people deeply, sharp enough to read a room in seconds, and bold enough to call out what everyone else was too afraid to say.
She didn't let people in easily. But once she did, you were hers. Her loyalty was fierce. Her generosity was effortless. She carried other people's pain quietly, without ever asking for anything in return.
She had these little quirks that made her even more "Brianne." She loved sloths — partly because she joked she looked like one, and partly because their slow, gentle nature reminded her to breathe. And DoorDash? She loved it way too much. Even on her hardest days, picking food on an app made her smile. Those small joys mattered.
Brianne's heart was big, but so was her capacity to forgive. She never held grudges. She believed people were more than their mistakes and encouraged everyone around her to let go of the past. Her personal motto, something she lived every single day, was simple but powerful: "Moving on."
She also knew I was a dweller. I hold onto things. I replay them. I overthink. And she'd tell me — with that effortless Brianne confidence — that I needed to let things go. She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. It was her way of reminding me to live the way she did: forward, not backward.
That was her motto, and she lived it with a kind of grace I'm still trying to learn.
She decided she wanted to be a police officer at eight years old. It wasn't a dream to her — she didn't believe in dreams. "Dreams don't come true," she said. "Goals do." And she hit her goals with precision.
At 5'2" and barely 110 pounds, she marched into the Detroit Police Academy — one of the toughest in the nation — and conquered it with a level of grit most people can't imagine. She could make a grown man cry in training and then laugh about it afterward. She earned respect by outworking everyone around her.
As Officer B, she served Detroit with heart and humanity. She listened to people, understood them, met them where they were, and never judged anyone by a single moment. She helped people through the worst days of their lives and sometimes received gratitude from those she encountered. She saved lives. She changed lives. She restored dignity in places most people overlook. That was who she was — steady, compassionate, real.