When Phillip was little, he moved through the world with an energy that felt almost inexhaustible, as if everything around him was something to be discovered.

He wasn’t content to simply notice things — he wanted to understand them. You could see it in the way he asked questions, not quickly or casually, but with a quiet persistence that meant he wouldn’t let go until something truly made sense.

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As a little boy, he loved dinosaurs and space — the vastness of it, the questions it held, the invitation to look closer and think deeper.

He could watch the same movies over and over — Apollo 13, Jurassic Park — completely absorbed, not just in the story, but in how things worked — how they were built, why they made sense.

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That love of science wasn’t something he grew into.
It was already there. But he wasn’t only serious or analytical — there was a lightness in him, too, something warm and easy that lived right alongside that depth.

Phillip had a beautiful imagination, and a natural sense of humor, and he laughed easily then — a full, unguarded laugh that filled a room and made everything feel lighter.

He could make other people laugh in a way that felt effortless — noticing the small, unexpected things and turning them into something that caught you off guard and stayed with you long after.

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He was also deeply perceptive in a way that wasn’t always visible.

He noticed things other people moved past — small shifts in tone, in energy, in the way someone held themselves. He could feel when something was off, even before a word was spoken.

He didn’t just understand how things worked — he felt people too. And he carried what they felt, often without realizing it.

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In the summer, the water drew him in.

We would spend hours at the lake, and no matter how long we stayed, it was never enough. He would dive, swim, come back in, and then go out again, always for just a little longer, as if he didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

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His bike was part of him in that same wholehearted way.

He was riding without training wheels before he was three, fearless in a way that felt so natural it didn’t even occur to him to be otherwise.

As he grew older, that love never left him — it deepened.

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As an adult, he would ride in the middle of the night when the streets were empty, attaching a camera to his handlebars and later showing me the footage — speeding down steep hills in a way that made my heart catch every time I watched.

He would spend hours working on his bike, taking it apart and putting it back together, fixing his friends’ bikes too — never in a hurry, always wanting to get it right.

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That part of him — the curiosity, the focus, the care — only deepened with time.

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As he grew, that curiosity found a natural home in science. It wasn’t just something he was interested in — it was something he trusted.

He wanted to build a life inside it, to understand the world in a way that felt true and grounded.

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Animals were always a part of his life—they seemed drawn to him.

When he was little, we had a small orange cat named Yoshi. Each morning, she would walk him to the bus. And in the afternoon, she would be there waiting—hovering near the stop, watching for him, as if she knew the exact moment he would return. He would always look for her, and the instant he saw her, his face would light up.

Then she would fall into step beside him and walk him home, staying close the whole way, as if she needed to see him safely back.

He loved that cat.

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Later, as an adult, there was Max, his dog.

He would take him to the park and just watch him run, laughing when Max stole a frisbee from the other dogs with complete confidence.

“Max is a badass,” he would say, half proud, half amused, always smiling.

That way of being — fully present, paying attention — carried into everything he did.

On the water, taking his kayak out onto the lakes, moving quietly across the surface, taking photos of things others might have missed.

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And in the kitchen, he cooked with the same kind of care — not casually, but with intention, knowing his spices, paying attention to how things came together, taking his time with it the way he did with everything that mattered.

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And when someone he loved needed him, he was there.

Not halfway, not uncertain — fully there.

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There was something steady in him in those moments, something strong and unflinching. He did not turn away from what was hard when it mattered.

If anything, that was when he stepped forward.

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Phillip carried more than most people could see.

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He moved through the world assuming that others felt as he did — that people were honest, genuine, and kind.

It wasn’t naïveté. It was trust.

And when that trust met something else, it didn’t roll off him. It stayed. It settled somewhere deeper.

The care and sincerity Phillip gave so freely were not always returned in kind, and that absence — that mismatch — hurt him in ways that accumulated over time.

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It changed him.

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He lived with depression and anxiety for much of his adult life, and he did everything he was told would help — he reached out, he stayed in treatment, he kept trying.

He showed up to appointments, followed his therapist’s advice, took the medications, endured the changes, the side effects, the waiting.

There was always waiting — for the next appointment, the next adjustment, the hope that this time something would finally help.

He stayed with it. He believed in it. He trusted it would help him.

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At the same time, he was building a future.

He worked as a paramedic, and he cared deeply about doing what was right for the patient — not what was easiest, not what was most profitable, but what was right.

That mattered to him in a way that was non-negotiable, even when it cost him.

And it did cost him — more than it should have.

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He talked about what was ahead.

He was preparing for medical school.
He was still reaching forward, still reaching for a life that felt true to who he was.

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We lost Phillip in August 2015.

His funeral was held one day before his 31st birthday. 

 

It is impossible to hold that without something breaking open inside you.

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In a message he left, he wrote:

“Empathy is perhaps the greatest tool we possess as humans, and possibly something we employ the least.”

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His life was far too short to hold all that he was.
And it is easy to let that be the thing that defines him — the brevity of it, the loss of what could have been.
But that is not the truest thing about him.

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What is true is that he was deeply curious, thoughtful, and quietly determined.

He showed up for the people he loved with a devotion and steadiness that made them feel safe.

He loved animals, science, and the water.

He believed in doing the right thing — even when it was hard, even when no one was watching.

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Phillip fought for his life.
He loved deeply, and he was deeply loved.
He is still loved.
And he is deeply missed.

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And because he loved and lived the way he did — fully, sincerely, without turning away —
he is still here.

In the way we remember him.
In the way we speak about him.
In the way we refuse to let his life be reduced to its ending.