What My Brother Ian Taught Me

I didn’t really want to go to the hospital that night. I was seven years old, Full House was on, and the doctor had said Ian was getting better. He was supposed to come home soon. But I went anyway—because that’s what I did.

From the moment Ian was born, I understood— instinctively—that it was my responsibility to protect him. As his older sister, I took it upon myself to be his shield —his comfort —doing whatever I could to make the world feel softer, safer, less overwhelming for him.

Me and my sweet baby brother

So I went to the hospital with my dad and grandpa, like I had so many times before, ready to cheer him up. We played in the children’s room, rolled a ball back and forth, and I kept my usual watchful eye on him, always alert for any signs that he might need to rest. Later, we all sat quietly by his crib, watching his chest rise and fall while he slept, his red hair bright against the white sheets. It felt like a regular visit—simple, calm, routine. Everyone was quiet and tired on the drive home. Grandpa offered a few reassuring words, telling dad that Ian seemed much better.

It came as a shock when we got the call the next morning: Ian had died overnight, one week before my eighth birthday.

From the minute he was born—when I was just five years old—Ian changed me completely and forever. Something in me shifted the moment I met him; my heart rearranged itself to make space for a kind of love I didn’t know existed yet.

Ian was born deaf and with Down syndrome, but that’s never what I think of first. What I remember is how deeply he shaped me. Even though I only had him for a few short years, having Ian as my brother influenced everything about who I became. He taught me how to love fully, without needing anything in return. Showing up intuitively by paying attention and being there in the way someone might need, even if they can’t say it out loud. How to slow down and pay attention to the small details that others miss. He reshaped what I value, what I notice in people, how I define strength, and how I understand connection.

Besties - his fingers say “I Love You”

Ian taught me that love doesn’t need words. He couldn’t speak, but we didn’t need language to understand each other. We had our own way of communicating—through signs, shared looks, silly games, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t require explanation. I learned sign language for him. I went to his doctor’s appointments. I knew when he needed space, and when all he needed was someone to sit beside him and rub his back or sing his favorite song.

He was joy in human form. He clapped every time someone walked into the room, like your presence alone was cause for celebration. He laughed with his whole body—head thrown back, shoulders shaking—until he tipped over with delight. He looked at people like they were magic, like just being near them made his day. Ian loved music, soft blankets, funny faces, and being held. He hated when people cried and would get visibly distressed until you stopped—until everything was okay again. He was a love bug.

Ian was infectious in the best possible way—not just his laughter, but his energy, his spirit, the way he made you feel seen and celebrated just by being near him. Being around Ian felt like stepping into a warmer, softer, cuddlier world—one where joy was immediate, love was unconditional, and nothing mattered more than the moment you were in together.

To this day, Ian is the person I’ve loved the most, thought about the most, and missed the most—the one who makes my heart ache and swell at the same time.

His name is stitched into every chapter of my life, mostly the ones he never lived to see. When something wonderful happens, I always find myself wishing I could thank him, knowing in some way he played a part. When I feel lost, I still ask for his guidance. All these years later, he remains the emotional center of me—my compass, my softness, and my strongest inner voice.

Ian taught me that joy isn’t something you earn. He woke up joyful. He found delight in the smallest things—a balloon, a song, someone entering the room. It was unfiltered, sincere, and unforgettable. I carry that with me. I notice joy more easily because of him.

I will never fully recover from losing Ian. But I also know that having him—even for such a short time—was the greatest gift of my life. He made me wiser, more aware, and more fiercely protective of anyone the world overlooks. He gave me a strength I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

I’ll miss him forever—and I’ll always be grateful I got to be his big sister.