Help Me Find My Brother Matthew—And Help Save His Life

Fresno, in those days, stretched wide and flat like a half-finished thought. The summers bled across the sky, slow and golden, and everything smelled faintly of dry earth and hose water. The sidewalks shimmered under the sun like they were just barely holding together. Time didn’t move forward so much as expand outward. And we—me, Matthew, and Sarah—floated in the middle of it all like dust motes in a beam of light, suspended in a kind of childhood that never quite felt like it belonged to us.

We were siblings, yes. But more than that—we were a tiny, loyal nation of three. Self-governed. Half-feral. Brave in the way that only neglected children can be. Our parents were more rumor than reality—present enough to give us names, but too absent to give us rules. So we raised each other with what little we had: mismatched blankets, Kool-Aid in old jelly jars, and stories we told ourselves to survive.

Matthew was two years younger than me, but he carried something ancient in his bones. Some stardust memory of another life where he’d been a queen, a comet, a Broadway star. He was flamboyant long before we had the language to call it anything but Matthew being Matthew. And it was never a costume—it was who he was, who he insisted on being, even when the world told him not to.

He was always Storm. Always. He claimed her the way a child claims their own name. Not shyly or playfully, but with a kind of sacred certainty. While I rotated through Wolverine and Cyclops, trying on masculinity like it was a clearance rack hoodie that never quite fit right, Matthew knew exactly who he was. Bare-chested, ashy-kneed, wrapped in a belted white sheet that flowed behind him like justice, he’d twirl into our bedroom, arms raised, shouting, “WIND! TORNADO!” like he could change the weather if he just believed hard enough.

And somehow, I believed he could.

Sarah—our baby sister—was always Mystique. Always watching, always adapting, already wise beyond what the world would let her be. We were a ragtag X-Men squad, storming the Mormon kids' yard at the end of the street. Our battles were choreographed chaos, full of laughter and declarations shouted into the wind. Those moments live somewhere just behind my ribs now, beating steadily alongside everything I’ve ever loved.

But even joy like that has a breaking point.

Centennial Elementary was where reality started to fray the edges of our fairytales. Beige walls, linoleum floors, the stale smell of milk cartons and anxiety. It was there, in the dusty auditorium with its flickering stage lights and cheap fold-out chairs, that Matthew decided to enter the talent show.

He was in third grade. I was in fifth. And I still believed in him with a kind of full-hearted certainty that felt holy.

He picked I Have a Meeting in the Ladies Room by Klymaxx. A disco song we didn’t fully understand but felt in our bones anyway. The lyrics were too adult, too sharp around the edges, but somehow the grown-ups let it slide. Maybe they thought it was funny. Maybe they weren’t listening.

Matthew danced like he’d been waiting his whole life for that stage. The week leading up to the show, he practiced with feverish intensity. Cartwheels. High kicks. Improvised twirls. And a final move that felt like a full sentence: a proud, perfect split, arms raised to the heavens like he was offering himself up.

Every day it changed. The choreography. The costume ideas. The way he flipped his wrist or spun across the stage. I offered suggestions, believing—knowing—that we were going to win. I bragged to my friends. I imagined us holding some kind of trophy. I thought love meant confidence. I didn’t know it also meant protection.

The night of the show, we cobbled together a costume from castoffs and treasure: purple shorts, a cut-up purple shirt, sequined wristlets and ankle cuffs, old socks, and unmatched dreams. He looked like a galaxy. And I thought the world would finally see what I had always seen.

But when the curtains opened and the beat dropped, the audience didn’t clap. They laughed.

And not kindly.

Not the laughter of delight, but something closer to mockery. Their amusement bounced off the walls and hit me square in the chest. And in that instant, I felt something crumble.

I should have run onstage. I should’ve cheered louder. I should’ve screamed at them to shut the hell up and just watch. But instead, I folded. I didn’t understand what I was feeling—shame, confusion, fear, the ache of knowing the world didn’t see him the way I did. And instead of shielding him, I retreated. I let that seed of discomfort take root. And I started pulling away from him—not just that night, but little by little, in the days and months after.

By the next year, Matthew wanted to try again. Fourth grade. Whitney Houston this time. Shoop. The Waiting to Exhale year. He stood on that stage with a stand-up mic, his voice shaking but still shining. And I—I didn’t help him. I didn’t hype him up. I didn’t make his costume or help him rehearse.

I sat in the front row. And I mocked him. Made faces. Tried to distract him. Tried to make him laugh.

And he did.

Mid-song, he caught my eye. Maybe hoping for encouragement. A thumbs-up. A grin that said, You're doing great, Matthew. I'm proud of you. And what he got was my smirk, my distorted expression, my betrayal. He laughed. A little burst of it slipped out, and he tried to catch it, reel it back in. He tried to keep singing. But I had broken something in him. Or maybe just chipped at it in a way that confirmed what the world had already started whispering.

At the time, I felt victorious. Like I’d won something. Like I had power.

But the better part of me—the part that still believed in bedsheets and windstorms and sequins—knew I had lost something I would never get back.

I think about that night more than I care to admit. About the look in his eyes when he realized the person he had trusted the most had chosen to join the laughter instead of silence it. I wonder what it taught him. What it cemented. I wonder if that was the moment he stopped expecting love to be safe.

I was his brother. His biggest fan. His first betrayal.

And I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.

We grow up thinking childhood fades. That the past becomes blurry. But it doesn't. Not when it matters. The moments we wish we could redo are the ones that stay sharpest.

If I could go back, I’d do it all differently. I’d be the shield instead of the sword. I’d sit front row, yes—but I’d scream his name with my whole chest. I’d stand up for him. I’d tell the world to sit the fuck down and watch.

But I didn’t. And that’s mine to carry.

I just hope, wherever he is now, he knows that I'm still his brother. And I’m still trying to find my way back to him.

My name is Anthony, and I’m reaching out with a heart full of hope and a soul heavy with urgency.

When I was 10 years old, my little brother Matthew, my little sister Sarah, and I were torn apart by the foster care system. Less than a week—that’s all the time we had left together before we were split up. No goodbyes, no time to understand what was happening. Just silence, strangers, and separation. Childhood, for us, was not soft. It was abandonment, neglect, survival. The kinds of wounds that don't bleed, but never stop aching.

Now we’re grown. I'm 40. Matthew would be 39.

But somewhere along the way, life broke Matthew in ways he didn’t have the tools—or the support—to mend. As a child, Matthew was brilliant, radiant, unforgettable. He twirled through our living room in bedsheets and sequins, summoned tornados like Storm from the X-Men, and sang Whitney Houston into a standing mic like the world was already his stage. He had courage most grown men can’t comprehend. But he also had pain no child should carry.

Today, I don’t know where he is. He may be homeless. He may be alone. I fear he's not receiving the mental health care he so desperately needs—care he’s needed since we were children locked out of our own home, spiritually and literally.

I don’t know where to begin. I don’t have all the answers. I just know I have to try. I have to find my brother. I have to get him shelter, food, medication, a warm bed. I have to remind him what love feels like. That he’s not forgotten. That he matters.

This isn’t a campaign for a project. This is a campaign for a person. For my brother’s life.

Every dollar will go toward:

Locating and reconnecting with Matthew

Emergency shelter and clothing

Psychiatric care and medication

Food, hygiene, and stability

A long-term plan to get him the care and peace he deserves

I know we live in a world exhausted by need. But if you’ve ever loved someone you couldn’t reach—if you’ve ever felt helpless watching someone you adore fall through the cracks—then I’m asking you, humbly and urgently: please help.

Even a small amount gets me closer to finding him. Closer to bringing him home. Closer to reminding Matthew that he’s never been alone, even if it’s felt that way.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping me try.

–Anthony White