This Is Why We Are Here

Before the website, before the advocacy, before learning words like policy and reform, there was simply my baby brother and me. There was our family, our ordinary days, and the quiet rhythm of growing up side by side.

There was Shane.

Not a cause or a case or a statistic. Just my brother.

When he was born, my mom used to say that was the day he got two mommies, because all I wanted to do was hold him and take care of him. I hovered close, always wanting to help, always wanting to protect him. Somehow that instinct never faded. Even as adults, even as life grew complicated, all I ever really wanted was to make sure he was okay.

Shane wasn’t easy to describe in a single sentence because he was never just one thing. He had an infectious smile and a laugh that could pull everyone else into it. He was thoughtful and curious, a little bit of an old soul. At eighteen, he would sneak off early for coffee just to sit and read the morning paper like some retired gentleman starting his day slowly. He could talk to anyone, anywhere. Part wanderer, part social butterfly, completely himself. But underneath all of that, he was family to his core.

He was a proud mama’s boy who adored our mom and shared a special, quiet bond with our grandma, Mema. Home was always where his heart returned. And when he became a father, everything else seemed to fall into place. His children weren’t just part of his life, they were the center of it. Being present for them mattered more than anything. He showed up with his whole heart, every single time, determined to give them the steady, loving dad he wished every child could have.

If you knew Shane, you never questioned how deeply he loved those kids.

What many people didn’t see was how much he carried inside. He wasn’t someone who talked through his pain or laid his worries out loud. When life felt heavy, he handled it quietly on his own. He was incredibly hard on himself, always trying to be better, do better, be enough for everyone around him. He felt everything deeply and kept most of it tucked away.

Over time, that quiet weight began to stack up.

During the divorce, harsh words started appearing in public legal filings, descriptions that didn’t reflect the man we knew or loved. Seeing someone you care about reduced to lines on a document that anyone can read is a kind of heartbreak that’s hard to explain. Shane cared deeply about his integrity, and knowing those words existed in the world quietly chipped away at his spirit. Layered on top of everything else he was already carrying, it became heavier than he ever let on.

And sometimes, when someone carries too much for too long, it simply becomes too much.

On January 21, 2026, our family lost Shane. Mom and I lost a son and a brother. Five beautiful children lost their dad. The world lost one of the gentlest, most devoted fathers I have ever known.

Nothing can fix that. Nothing can bring him back.

But love doesn’t disappear when someone is gone. It has to go somewhere.

So mine turned into this.

Into telling his story. Into protecting other families. Into working toward something better through Shane’s Bill.

Not out of anger, but out of love 🫶

Because no child should ever lose time with a parent who adores them, and no family should have to carry this kind of pain alone.

If you are here, thank you for taking the time to know the man behind the mission. We are turning pain into purpose.

And this is why we are here!

With Love,

Kirsten Jean