Ryan began writing this memoir as a way to make sense of his grief. When he shared it with The Hustle Legacy’s Discord community, members told him how much it meant to read something that put the experience of loss into words so honestly.
That’s how a piece Ryan first wrote for himself found its way from Discord to The Hustle Legacy blog. He told me that this piece was written to one day help others process their own grief. He believed this piece could help anyone grieving someone they love, especially those who are still looking for words for what they’re feeling. His hope is that reading his story might help them feel a little less alone in their own.
So, I asked him if I could publish it here. Thank you, Ryan, for sharing your vulnerability with The Hustle Legacy community. Your words will help many 💜💎
Some people come into your life and become important because of the things they do, some people become a part of your life because God placed them as your family members so you’re kinda forced to interact. And then there are people who become part of who you are - effortlessly, gracefully, just because they care.
Nali was that person for me.
She was my cousin by blood, but calling her my cousin never felt like enough. She was an older sister. She was a protector. In so many ways, she was a mother to me. I always said my mother gave birth to me, but Nali raised me. And there is a difference between those two things that is difficult to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself.
Nali didn’t simply love me because we were family. She chose me over and over again. She made me feel like I belonged somewhere. Like there would always be somebody in my corner. Like no matter how old I got, I would always be her kid.
She was the person who helped teach me what unconditional love looked like. I’m not sure if you guys have ever experienced what that truly is, but it’s a love that I would die for just to feel it from her, even if it was for a moment.
And she had a way of making ordinary moments feel like they were exactly where I was supposed to be.
I’d go over to her house, say hello to the kids, and before I could even settle in, I’d hear her yelling from upstairs for me to make us both a drink before seeing her.
That was Nali.
She didn’t need some elaborate invitation. She didn’t need to say, “I’m happy you’re here.” Her version of saying it was more like, “Babe, make me a drink.” And somehow, I always knew whatshe meant. She wanted me there. She wanted me around. She wanted me to be part of her world. That’s something I never want to forget.
Nali had this incredible ability to take care of people while making it seem completely normal. She could be tough. She would yell. She would call me out and cuss me. She could make you feel like you were absolutely ridiculous when you needed to hear it. But underneath all of that was love. Real love.
The kind where she could be angry with you and still make sure you were okay. The kind where she could bully you one minute and protect you the next. The kind where she didn’t just tell you that she cared. She showed you. And sadly that’s something that people rarely ever do these days.
There are memories that seem small when you’re living them, but they become enormous when you look back at what you’ve lost. One of those memories was my 25th birthday. I had asked my mom for my first surprise birthday. I helped make the guest list, thinking I knew what was going to happen. I didn’t. Nali helped my parents pull the entire thing off.
She pretty much kidnapped me so I wouldn’t find out. She took me to the casino and pretty much let me loose into a place I’ve never been before. Sadly that was a huge mistake because not only did I lose my money, I lost hers as well. She kept me distracted. She played her part perfectly, just as she always did.
And when the surprise finally happened, she was part of the reason it was possible. That’s the kind of person she was. She didn’t need the spotlight. She was perfectly happy helping create a moment that would make somebody else happy. And that’s something I saw in her again and again. She loved making memories for people. And honestly I feel like that’s where I get it from.
I don’t sing in hopes of becoming famous one day, I do it to make people smile. I’m an ordinary guy, but if I can make someone smile, I feel as if I already won in life and became who I was
meant to be.
Then there was Costa Rica. That trip had everything. The ridiculous moments, the funny moments, the moments where things could have gone very wrong. the moments that became stories that we should’ve laughed about forever.
I remember being sent to get drinks from the lobby while my niece wasn’t feeling well.
I remember my mom calling my phone cuz I disappeared without a trace, and Nali joking that I had run away with a girl and immediately hanging up.
I remember the ATV accident.
The brakes failed near a cliff, and suddenly something that was supposed to be fun became terrifying. I flipped on it several times and nearly fell off of that same cliff. The ATV ended up landing on my ribs. And all I could hear was her yelling at the top of her lungs.
My hands were cut up and sprained. And Nali, the protector that she was, immediately became concerned. She wanted to check on me. She was worried. Even in the middle of chaos, that instinct in her came out, “Are you okay?”
That was Nali.
She could be having the time of her life, but if somebody she loved was hurt, everything else stopped.
Even horseback riding became a story. Her horse wouldn’t listen, which was perfect because she never did either. And the zipline? She got stuck because she pulled the brakes for no reason. Looking back, those moments weren’t perfect. That’s exactly why I love them. They were ours. They were real. They were the kind of memories that don’t need to be beautiful to be precious.
One of the things that made Nali so special was that she wasn’t afraid to stand up for me. When I was around twenty, there was an ex she didn’t like. Nali called me literally at 2am and started getting upset with me. She wasn’t afraid to tell me what she thought. At the time, maybe I didn’t appreciate every bit of it, cuz who wanna get yelled at?
But that’s what she did. She protected the people she loved. She wasn’t going to sit quietly and watch somebody hurt me just because it would have been easier. She cared too much for that. And clearly you guys can see where I get that part from. And eventually, I understood something, sometimes love doesn’t sound gentle. Sometimes love sounds like somebody telling you the truth when you don’t want to hear it. Nali was willing to be that person for me.
She also had a place for me in the biggest moments of her own life.
She wanted me in her wedding party. That means something more to me now, than it ever did back then cuz I was pretty little then. Weddings are supposed to be about the people who matter most. And she wanted me standing beside her. She wasn’t simply inviting me to attend. She was asking me to be part of the moment. Part of her story.
That was Nali’s way of telling me:
“You’re important to me.”
She didn’t always need to say those exact words. She found other ways.
Then came the moments when I got to see another side of her. The side that didn’t always want to be taken care of. Nali was a caregiver, she was used to being strong, used to helping everyone but herself, used to knowing what to do.
So when she received her diagnosis, she called me upstairs. All she said was, “Babe... can you come up here?” And she gave me the green folder. On it was the word: ONCOLOGY.
She told me it was early. She told me she’d update me. And I kept it to myself like a good little brother. I checked up on her. I paid attention to her medications and appointments. I worried about her. But I also understood that Nali didn’t want to feel helpless. She didn’t want to be somebody who needed everyone else.
She was still Nali. Still strong, still herself, still the person who wanted to take care of everybody else. And I respected that.
Then there was Jamaica. She was sick during that vacation and spent a lot of time in the room. There were dinners, There was the lobby. There was that Smirnoff cranberry drink she only took a sip of. Even when she wasn’t feeling well, she was still there, still making memories with me even though we both knew she was physically going. And then, after we got back, she told me that Christmas was going to be extremely busy and she wasn’t going to have time to hang out.
Two weeks later, she called my parents and insisted that I spend time with her. I spent four days with her after Christmas. Four ordinary days. Four days that, at the time, were simply just four days with Nali. We went to her favorite sushi spot, had one last drink together, watched movies and laughed nonstop together. And that’s how I choose to remember those last few days with her. Not because of what I know now. But because of what they meant to the both of us in that moment. They were four uninterrupted days with her.
They were conversations, they were being around somebody I loved. They were four more days of being Nali’s soldier.
When I think about Nali, I don’t want the first image in my mind to be the hardest one, I want to remember her voice from upstairs. I want to remember her telling me to make her a drink. I want to remember her laughing. I want to remember her yelling at me because she cared. I want to remember her protecting me. I want to remember her trusting me with things that mattered most to her. I want to remember the birthday surprise, Costa Rica, the horses, the zipline, the ridiculous stories, the wedding, the green folder, Jamaica, Christmas. The ordinary days that never felt like they were going to become extraordinary memories so soon.
I want to remember the woman herself. Because Nali wasn’t defined by the hardest thing she ever went through. She wasn’t defined by sickness and disease. She wasn’t defined by what happened at the end of her life. She was defined by everything that came before it.
By the people she loved. By the people she protected. By the children she cared for. By the family she held together. By the memories she created. By the way she could walk into a room and somehow make you feel like you belonged there. And by the way she loved me. Just some kid that was blessed enough to have known her.
She was my cousin, my older sister. My protector, and in so many ways, my mother.
And I was her soldier. Not because she needed me to fight for her. But because she taught me how to stand. She taught me how to care. She taught me that loving somebody means showing up no matter how much of a front they put up. And she showed up for me. Again and again, more than anyone had ever showed up for me my entire life.
That’s the Nali I want to remember. Not a goodbye. Not a final moment. Not an ending. Just simply Nali.
She’s probably up in heaven watching me saying “Babe go make me a drink. But wait a while to come upstairs, enjoy it down there for a while.”
And for all the years I was lucky enough to have her, the only place I ever wanted to be, was in her arms because I knew I was safe, I was loved, but most importantly, I was enough.
