The Eulogy I Never Wanted to Write.

Patrick and I had a storybook romance. The kind that lives inside you forever.

I first saw him in Colorado Springs.

He was standing on a street corner, about to join the Jack Quinn’s run club.

I was on my way to work—bartending at the time. I looked at my friend and said, “I’m going to marry that man.”

And eventually, I did.

That wasn’t the day we met.

We met a few weeks later at another bar. He walked in with a very pretty blonde. I saw him, looked at her, and thought—unless they’re married, it’s game over for her.

Luckily, it was Carrie.  His sister.

And from that point on, Patrick and I were inseparable.

Carrie too.

I knew we were soulmates the moment I saw him—not in the way movies cheapen it—but in the kind of way where you know that person was meant for you. 

We made a commitment to each other: not just to love, but to walk through fire together. To challenge each other. To choose one another, in this life and any other.

Seventeen days after we met, he left for his tour in Afghanistan.

And when he came back, he wasn’t the same man.

But I wasn’t the same woman either.

We had spoken almost every day during his deployment.

I knew what he had been through.

And somewhere in that time—before either of us realized it—

he had given me something precious to carry.

His heart.

Patrick never considered himself a hero. Because he remembered the brothers who didn’t return.

After the Army, we moved to New York City for a brief time—long enough to realize it wasn’t for us.

Because what we wanted most wasn’t the noise or the rush.

We longed for purpose, for community. For a life that meant something beyond ourselves.

So we built that life.

Over the next ten years, we created something beautiful—a community, a family, slow mornings with coffee, long walks, conversations that changed the shape of us.

Our work was meaningful.

And he was finally doing what he was made for.

I got to build that with him.

I got to be his partner in his calling.

To the outside, it looks like a gym.

But it’s not.

Yes, we lift weights and run classes.

But what Patrick spent the last decade doing—what became his true life’s work—was this:

He created the kind of space most people never find—

One where you felt safe enough to become who you really are.

Where you could face the hardest parts of yourself without shame.

Where healing wasn’t something to hide, but something to fight for.

Patrick didn’t just see people—he knew them.

And he never let them forget their strength.

Mentally, physically, emotionally—so many of us are closer to our truest selves because of him.

He built a home for transformation.

A place where mental illness could be met with compassion.

Where people were loved fiercely.

And where being fully seen was the starting point, not the reward.

And in doing so he became the man he always wanted to be.

He was playful—his many hairstyles should prove that.

And he had the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing who you really are.

He taught me how to love.

It was the greatest gift I have ever received.

And his love for me—the way he shared it—is what carries me.

I know these circumstances of how we lost him are unimaginable.

They are cruel. Violent. Evil.

And the question why is one I’ve fought with.

You may be fighting with it too.

But I’ve come to understand something:

That question only distracts us.

It keeps us circling the pain, instead of carrying forward the love, the light, the essence of who he is.

I won’t tell you what to believe—or maybe I will, because that’s more my style.

But Patrick wouldn’t tell you what to believe.

He’d simply offer something wise, something solid, and let you take it or leave it.

So this is what I’ll offer:

There’s a Buddhist teaching that says everything is predetermined to a degree.

That when we fulfill our karma, we are released from our obligation.

We achieve Nirvana.

We return—or we move on.

Our soul is freed.

And when I look around this room—when I hear your stories—I see a man who fulfilled an extraordinary purpose in a short amount of time.

He is not gone. Not really.

His vessel may be.

But he lives in each of us—carried forward through memory, love, and action.

So I ask you to keep talking to him.

Keep seeking him.

Keep loving him.

Remember what he taught you—and embody it.

That’s how he lives on.

I want to leave you with one last story.

This is the most intimate one I will ever share—not to sensationalize it, but because it is the greatest act of love I have ever known.

The night before he died, I asked him to rub my feet and tuck me into bed.

I told him to go ahead and take his shower—not to worry about me.

He always took his time with the little things, because he truly enjoyed them.

He was present.

He loved his life.

But that night, he wanted to rub my feet first.

He didn’t want me to stay up too late.

We didn’t say much.

We didn’t need to.

He rubbed my feet.

We made love.

He tucked me into bed.

And the next time I saw him, he was saving my life.

He stood between me and a form of vile evil that meant to take my life.

And in doing so, he gave me the last gift he had—his life.

He made sure I lived. That was his last act.

And whether he believed it or not—that is what makes a hero.

So today, we celebrate a great man.

A hero.

A son.

A brother.

One of the Four Horsemen.

A coach. 

A mentor.

A warrior.

And my forever

love.

Patrick had a rare gift. He saw people—really saw them.

And when he looked at you, you believed you were capable of more.

Because he believed it first.

He held the standard high—not out of ego, but out of love.

Because he knew we were built for more.

And he wouldn’t let us forget it.

His last words to me, as I held him, were: “Stay fighting.”

So that’s what I’ll do.

And that’s what we’ll do.

We stay fighting—

for the people we love, for what we believe in, for who we were meant to be.

Patrick’s legacy isn’t just in the life he lived.

It’s in the fire he lit in each of us.

He may be gone from this world,

But he will never, ever be gone from us.

We stay fighting.

And in doing so—he never dies