Introduction
May 21, 2020, is a day forever etched in my soul—the day I got the call no one ever wants to receive. The day everything I knew cracked open, and nothing would ever feel the same again. 
This isn’t just a story about loss. It’s a story about love, about legacy, and about finding light in a place I never wanted to walk through: life without my big brother, Billy.
The Johnson Five became the Johnson Four in life—but never in spirit. Even though one of us is no longer physically here, he remains deeply woven into our hearts.
This month marks five years since that devastating day—and I want to honor him and share a little of who he was, and what that moment did to my world. To speak his name. To remember the love, the laughter, and the light he brought to everyone who knew him.
The Moment
I remember exactly where I was. That moment plays on a loop in my mind, like a scene I didn’t audition for—but was cast in anyway.
The phone rang. At the time, I was staying at my parents’ house and had just gotten up to start my day. I can’t even recall the name of the news outlet that called, but a man on the other end asked,
“Are you the sister of William Johnson Jr.?”
I said, “Yes, I am.”
Then he asked if I had anything to share about what happened.
I was confused. “What do you mean—what happened?” I asked.
“You haven’t been contacted by the police yet?”
“No… why? What happened?”
His response was short and chilling:
“You need to call the police.”
And then he hung up.
My heart dropped. My body started shaking. As I tried to walk down the steps to tell my parents, my legs wouldn’t hold me. I felt like the floor was falling out from under me.
When I finally made it downstairs, I saw my mother and my brother Greg sitting there—faces frozen with a look I’ll never forget. I knew then that something terrible had happened.
And my world… shifted. 
It wasn’t supposed to be him. Billy was supposed to be here. Laughing. Talking mess. Checking in. Living.
But that call told me otherwise. And I’ve been learning to breathe through the silence he left ever since
About Billy
Billy wasn’t just my brother—he was my protector, my cheerleader, and the one who could make me laugh even on my worst days. 
He had a way of making people feel seen. He could walk into any room and instantly make it lighter, just by being in it.
He loved hard. He lived loud. He had a heart big enough to carry others—even when his own was breaking.
To know Billy was to love him—and I was blessed to call him family.
One of his favorite sayings was, “Get your mind right!” 
He’d say it with that grin of his when you were in your feelings or acting out. He had wisdom that ran deeper than most people realized. And he had a way of bringing you back to yourself when you needed it most.
I miss him every single day. And I always will.
Life After Loss
Grief doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t come with a roadmap. It just shows up—unexpected, unrelenting, and unfamiliar.
I’ve had to learn how to live in a world where Billy’s voice is a memory, and his hugs are something I replay in my mind. He hugged you so good your heart would feel it. 
But with grief came growth. I’ve cried. I’ve questioned. I’ve collapsed more times than I care to admit.
And still… I’ve evolved.
His absence pushed me into deeper purpose—into spaces where I now speak truth about pain, about healing, and about living a full life even when it hurts.
If you’re reading this and you’ve lost someone too—just know you’re not alone
Why I’m Sharing This
I’m writing this not because it’s easy—but because it matters. Because Billy’s life mattered. Because love doesn’t end when someone is gone.
Telling his story is how I keep him with me. It’s how I honor him. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help someone else feel seen in their grief. Maybe it’ll remind someone to call their brother today. Maybe it’ll spark a conversation that heals.
Billy’s story didn’t end on May 21. It continues in me—and now, maybe, in you.
Billy was working on a book at the time. He’d call and ask questions, and I could tell he had something big on his heart. But when he was murdered by a retired Nashville police officer, that book—and so much more—went with him.
No one in our family had access to his phone. Since it was an Apple device, we were told that after too many failed password attempts, everything would be erased. So the police took it to try and unlock it with a machine.
To this day—five years later—we’ve heard nothing. 
I share this to say: please make sure someone you trust has access to your phone.
You might think it’s private or not a big deal, but your phone could hold the last clues to your life, your dreams, your story.
Let someone in. It could mean everything to the people you leave behind.
Your Turn
If you’ve lost someone you love, I see you. I feel you. I honor your pain and your strength. 
Drop a comment and share their name. Tell us what made them special.
Or maybe just call someone today and say what needs to be said.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure…
Life is too short not to love out loud.