Justin Wright: Help Him Hold On to the Memories That Matter

Hi, my name is Emmalee, and I’m writing this for my dad, with a heart that’s hopeful, grateful, and just a little broken.

My dad, Justin Wright, has always been the heart of our home and family. Over the past year, a serious neurological condition has stolen pieces of his memory, his independence, and his sense of self. He now faces a life-changing treatment far from home, and our family needs support to be by his side.

My brother Gaven and I grew up in a home where love wasn’t just spoken, it was shown. Our parents believe that a family can be chosen and that love is created by opening your heart and your doors. Truly, my mom and dad began their journey as parents by opening their hearts to Gaven and me, choosing us and making us theirs.

Our house has always been a place where people could land safely, whether they needed encouragement, a meal, help with school expenses or rent, or simply someone to sit with them when life felt overwhelming.

I’ve watched my parents give in ways that have shaped who I am as a person. They have turned their own sacrifices into someone else’s survival, holding yard sales to raise money for a sibling who suddenly lost his job, quietly paying for a sister-in-law’s tuition so she could keep attending college, providing money to a sibling caring for the twins of an ill family member, stepping in to buy tires, eyeglasses, and tools so others could stay safe, get to work, and stand on their own again. I’ve seen my dad give away his own car to a coworker’s daughter who had no way to get to her job, never once questioning whether he could afford to do without it himself.

My parents have also opened their home to youth in crisis who needed a safe place to stay, and even welcomed a cousin and her daughters when they had nowhere else to go. They pull furniture straight from their own home to help someone start over, provide technical help, build websites, offer free graphic design services, repair other people’s homes and appliances, and even create watercolor portraits of loved ones who have passed away so grieving families can hold onto something beautiful. These acts of generosity often happen in the quiet hours of the night, carried out humbly and without expectation of return.

When a family in our community was in danger of losing their home to devastating flooding, my parents didn’t just help once, they organized fundraisers, gathered resources, showed up again and again, and stayed long after the attention faded so that family would not feel abandoned. And week after week, they sit with people in a local support group at Switchpoint, listening to stories of grief and loss, holding space for pain, and offering steady hope. Not to mention the countless times my mom and dad have sacrificed everything for Gaven and me, rescuing us from difficult moments, holding us close when life felt overwhelming, and giving us the love and support we needed even when we didn’t realize we needed it.

These are only the moments I can put into words, but this kind of giving has been the heartbeat of our home for as long as I can remember. That’s who my parents are. That’s the example Gaven and I were raised with.

This past year, everything changed. My dad’s health declined rapidly and without warning, turning our world upside down. A brain condition doctors had been monitoring for years suddenly became critical, and almost overnight he struggled to keep up with life the way he always had. My dad, a courageous cancer survivor whose chemotherapy and radiation treatments had saved his life, now faces the lasting effects those life-saving therapies had on his brain. With significant neurodegenerative disease playing a role, Dad began to lose pieces of himself, his memory, his clarity, his confidence, his sense of who he was, and with that came a devastating loss of hope. In late October, as his condition continued to worsen, my dad reached a devastating point of desperation and tried to take his own life. This moment was not born from a lack of love or will to live, but from the overwhelming weight of neurological illness and the loss of hope that came with it. With a long hospitalization and a lot of support from friends and family, he survived, and that survival is part of why we are holding so tightly to the possibility of healing now.

Watching someone who has always been quiet, steady, thoughtful, and deeply present begin to slip under the weight of serious neurological and medical challenges has been one of the hardest experiences our family has ever faced. Through it all, my mom, his companion of 33 years and his best friend, has remained constantly by his side, navigating appointments, advocating for his care, and carrying the emotional weight of loving someone through profound uncertainty. There were moments filled with fear and confusion, moments that broke our hearts, but even in the darkest stretches, there were still flashes of hope pushing through, reminding us not to give up.

Right now, my dad is no longer able to work or provide for our family as he once did, and everything depends on his ability to receive a life-changing treatment that could give him a chance to heal and reclaim his life.

After a series of hospitalizations, including a recent extensive long-term stay, and countless rounds of testing and care, my dad’s doctors have recommended a specialized neurological and brain-focused treatment that offers real hope for healing and stabilization. This treatment is intensive and requires him to be hospitalized 350 miles from our home for approximately one month, making every visit, every moment of family support, absolutely vital. The distance, the time away, and the mounting expenses have placed a heavy emotional and financial strain on our family, and we feel the weight of every day apart. This treatment is more than medical care, it is a life-changing opportunity for my dad to reclaim his health, his independence, and his sense of self, and it gives our family hope that the man who has given so much to others can finally receive the care he needs. We are reaching out to our community for support so we can be there with him, every step of the way, and help make this healing possible.

We truly believe this treatment is a turning point, but it comes at a cost our family didn’t anticipate.

During this time, we are facing significant expenses related to:

• A major and unexpected loss of income

• Out-of-pocket costs to maintain our current health insurance coverage

• Ongoing household and living expenses while waiting for private disability benefits to begin

• Long-distance transportation to and from the hospital

• Temporary housing for family members to stay nearby during treatment

• Travel and meals during visits

• Medical costs not fully covered by insurance

Being able to be present during his healing matters. Sitting with him. Reminding him who he is. Letting him feel the same love he has given so freely to others. For my brother Gaven and me, presence isn’t optional, it’s how our family heals.

Asking for help doesn’t come easily for my parents, so I’m doing it for them. They’ve spent decades being the ones who show up, especially for people who feel forgotten or overwhelmed. But right now, they’re learning what it means to let their community show up for them.

If you’re able to donate, share this page, or simply send encouragement, please know that your support carries more weight than you realize. You are helping our family focus on healing instead of logistics. You are giving us space to breathe. And you are becoming part of a story rooted in compassion, resilience, and hope.

Thank you for standing with our dad and with our family during this incredibly important season. We are deeply grateful.

With love and hope,

Emmalee

Venmo: Dawn Wright

https://venmo.com/u/Dawn-Wright-14