Remembering Michelle: The Three Days That Changed Everything

By Trinity Barnette

May 23rd, 2023. I was in my room eating Wendy’s when the moment that would change my life forever came knocking—softly, like a warning. I went to throw away my trash when my mom pulled me aside. Her voice was low but urgent.

“She shot herself,” she said.

The words barely made sense, even though I heard them. She meant Michelle—my aunt. My aunt who used to paint with me. My aunt who used to take me to Olive Garden and order shrimp Alfredo like it was our little tradition. My aunt who I hadn’t spoken to in months.

We needed to get to the hospital. Now.

We drove an hour to Sarasota Memorial, and for the next three days, it became our second home. The waiting room became familiar. The sterile walls, the overly bright lights, the feeling of time stretching and stopping all at once. We waited for four hours before we were allowed upstairs. The moment we were finally called back, they didn’t take us to her. They sat us in a room—with another grieving family, no less—and gave us the kind of news that rips reality out from under you:

“She’s brain dead.”

It was straight out of a movie—the way we all burst into tears at once, the sound of grief exploding in a room full of people trying to stay composed. But this wasn’t fiction. This was our life now. And Michelle, the loud, chaotic, creative woman we had all known, was gone… but not gone. Her body was still alive. Her mind wasn’t.

We Weren’t Always on Good Terms. And That’s What Makes It Worse.

The truth is, I hadn’t talked to Michelle since January. She had bipolar disorder, and when she felt wronged or upset, she could become cold and detached—sometimes even cruel. That’s what happened with my grandma and my mom. Michelle cut them off, and out of love and loyalty, I cut her off too. I couldn’t stomach the way she treated my grandma—the woman who’s always been there for all of us, who has sacrificed everything and still shows up with love.

One night, Michelle took me to my favorite restaurant—Olive Garden. We ordered our usual: shrimp Alfredo. But when I looked at her, all I could think about was how she got the money for that meal. She had been pressuring my grandma for money, manipulating her emotionally, and it made me sick to my stomach. I told her to take me home. I didn’t even want the food anymore. I left it in the car. That moment changed everything for me. It was like I couldn’t unsee the damage anymore.

And yet… she was still my aunt. She was still Michelle. And when I heard what happened—how she used a firearm, how the bullet went straight through, how there was no hesitation—I didn’t think about the fights or the distance. I just felt shattered.

What It’s Like to See Someone You Love on an Operating Table

After they told us she was brain dead, they let us see her. I’ll never forget that moment. I had never seen a dead body before—at least not one still technically alive. Michelle was laying there on the operating table, hooked up to machines, her chest rising and falling with artificial rhythm. She didn’t look peaceful. She didn’t look like herself. The bullet had gone straight through. There was no hesitation, no second chance.

Everything about the room felt sterile except the grief hanging in the air. I remember thinking how surreal it all was—how just a few months ago we were at Olive Garden, not speaking, and now I was staring at her body in an ICU. I didn’t know how to feel. Anger, guilt, sorrow, disgust, love—all of it hit at once. This was someone I had once been so close to, someone I had shared paintbrushes and late-night crafts with. And now all of that was over. She was leaving us, and all we could do was watch.

Sarasota Memorial Became Our Home for Three Days

For three days, we lived in that hospital. We learned its hallways. We spoke to its nurses and doctors like they were old friends. We sat in waiting rooms like they were living rooms. There’s a strange kind of limbo that happens when someone you love is brain dead but still breathing. You don’t cry all the time. Sometimes, you laugh. You eat vending machine snacks. You make uncomfortable jokes to try to pretend it’s not happening. But it is. It’s always happening.

Michelle was an organ donor, and that meant we had to wait. They scheduled this process—something I can barely describe. They put us in hazmat-type suits (I swear we looked like we were in Contagion) and led us into a cold, clinical operating room. Her favorite music played in the background while we waited. And waited. And waited.

We thought she would die that night. But she didn’t. Her body held on longer than expected, and they had to move her back to the ICU. It wasn’t until my grandma—the woman Michelle had once cut off—was ready that they finally pulled the plug.

Michelle died naturally. I was there. We all were. And right before she passed, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

One tear.

That moment haunts me.

There’s So Much More to the Story Than Just Her Death

Michelle didn’t leave us because of one bad day. What happened to her wasn’t a random moment—it was the result of years of pain, trauma, and silence that piled up until it became too much.

She was sexually assaulted when she was 12, during a sleepover at a friend’s house. That wound never healed. It was one of those quiet traumas—the kind no one talks about, but that changes a person forever. It’s Sexual Assault Awareness Month as I write this, and I need to say this clearly:

That kind of trauma doesn’t fade.

It lingers. It rewires the brain. It changes how you see yourself, how you connect with people, how you survive. And sometimes, like with Michelle, it becomes one of many heavy things that eventually break you.

Michelle also had bipolar disorder. Her brain worked in highs and lows that most people couldn’t understand. In the days before she left us, her medication had been switched—and she wasn’t sleeping. For five days straight, she couldn’t rest. Her body was running on empty, and her mind was spiraling. Sleep deprivation does scary things to a person. It can push anyone to the edge—especially someone already fighting internal battles.

Jeremy, You Made Things Worse

Her relationship wasn’t helping either. I wasn’t close to him, but I saw the aftermath. Jeremy, her boyfriend at the time, treated her badly. He once kicked her out of her own bedroom. Who does that? He encouraged her to cut off our grandma—the woman who raised her, helped her, loved her no matter what.

After Michelle passed, I inherited her MacBook. I read a few of her journal entries. They were heartbreaking. She wrote about feeling worthless. She wrote about being mistreated. She wrote about how isolated she felt—how small he made her feel in her own home. That wasn’t love. That was control. That was manipulation. That was emotional harm dressed up as a relationship.

I truly believe that relationship contributed to her breaking point. When you’re already dealing with trauma and mental health struggles, being with the wrong person can make you feel completely alone, even when someone’s lying next to you.

She Was So Much More Than the Way She Left

Michelle was artsy, intense, complicated, bold. She could be difficult—but she was alive in every way that mattered. When I was younger, she was one of my favorite people. We’d paint, make crafts, build things. She made me feel creative and seen. Even when the chaos hit later in life, those memories stuck.

I still remember her body in that hospital. I still remember the moment they turned off the machines. I remember the single tear that left her eye right as she passed. One tear. That was all. But it felt like it carried a lifetime.

If You’re Struggling, Please Don’t Do It Alone

This post isn’t just a tribute—it’s a wake-up call. If you’ve experienced trauma, if you’re dealing with mental health struggles, if you’re in a relationship that makes you feel small or scared—please talk to someone. Don’t carry it by yourself. You don’t have to.

Michelle wasn’t weak. She was hurt. She was tired. And too many systems failed her.

I’ll never stop telling her story. And I’ll never stop fighting for the people who feel like they don’t have a voice.

Happy Birthday, Michelle. You deserved more time. You deserved peace.

I miss you.