This year marked 20 years of TWLOHA, 20 beautiful years of people staying alive, stories evolving past their darkest hours into new, hopeful things, and providing the help needed to make that happen. A documentary was made to celebrate this incredible accomplishment, and I’ve been so grateful to be at screenings where I get to continue sharing the hope and hard-earned perspective I’ve found over the years… but at each event, there is a profound awareness that up there on that stage, there should be a chair for my friend David.
He should be here, celebrating with us, reflecting on that sweet and wild time in his townhouse with Jamie and me and all the unexpected and wonderful things that have come from that. If he were here, I know we’d meet up before screenings to ride together; we’d inevitably be late, sipping coffees and smoking one last irresponsible cigarette despite needing to be in the room already, before rushing in. He would’ve started some ridiculously terrible combination of the latest diet and cleanse, started working out, gotten a spray tan and whitened his teeth before filming for the documentary, and I would’ve made fun of him for it all. (And despite all of this, he would’ve also still criticized himself on screen, while teasing us as well.)
These little details matter, because it is impossible to tell the story of TWLOHA without David McKenna. It is impossible to celebrate 20 years of the organization without honoring and celebrating the 21 years since I met him. All of the things that TWLOHA represents: community, transparency, vulnerability, the power of sharing our stories and of showing up for people that are hurting, offering hope and meeting needs in meaningful ways… that wasn’t based on a nice idea in an article; it was exactly what David did for me.
Our relationship is TWLOHA’s origin story.
When I first met David McKenna, I was 18 years old, a full year before the five days that Jamie wrote about from the townhouse they shared in Orlando. I had been stuck in a vicious cycle of escapism that kept leading me to psych ward stints and abuse, and I was desperate to find my way out of it. At my friend Ryan’s request, I had gone to our twenty-somethings ’ group at the church we went to, decked in a new white twirly dress and rainbow sequin shoes symbolic of the new life I was after. I was supposed to leave the following morning to get help at a treatment center. When I got to the church, Ryan took me to a seat and then, to my surprise, he disappeared. People filtered into the room, and I found myself boxed in with strangers on either side of me, one of them sitting on my dress. That white dress kept me pinned to my seat when I wanted to run out, which, looking back, has some undeniable symbolism. A video of David appeared on a screen; it was him sharing candidly about his life. There were so many similarities to mine. I wasn’t prepared to hear myself echoed back from someone else… Initially, I was so caught off guard that I wanted to get far away from his words, but they also ignited a curiosity in me, a spark of reassurance to get a glimpse of what the rest of the story could look like—the parts I was hoping for but hadn’t experienced yet.
The youth pastor, Josh (who later became a friend as well), came onto the stage and did an interview with David after the video ended, and began asking him questions—the typical things one would ask after someone shares their story. Then the questions got more specific, and it was clear that Josh was talking about me. It was a bizarre realization, and the effect was unnerving; I had already felt so exposed and vulnerable, and it magnified that by a million. I finally wriggled out and took off to go outside, where Ryan eventually found me. He explained that he had been reaching out to Josh for guidance to help me because he’d never dealt with the issues I was facing. Josh wasn’t even aware I was in the audience that night. I think that may have been why Ryan didn’t sit with me; he was nervous about my reaction. I didn’t even care, though. All I knew was that I felt compelled to talk to David and asked if that was possible.
We ended up in a private room with Josh and David, and we talked for what felt like hours, David encouraging me with such authority it was easy to believe him. After all, this came from someone who had already established that they had been in my shoes and navigated the climb out of it many times before. He promised me that night that I would not be alone when I came back from my stay at the treatment center, that I would be surrounded by community.
He was true to his word; I completed treatment and stayed another three months in a halfway house until I was mugged outside of my home and returned to Orlando in rough shape. He showed up for me without judgment or shame, without attempting to fix or save me, but he didn’t give up on me either. Instead, he answered my calls at 2 am and would send texts checking in on me. That’s not to say he was permissive; he would absolutely hold the mirror up to me. We had some hard talks when he shared his fears about me dying. Once a week, he had a group meet at his townhouse, which is where I met one of my best friends, Erin. Each week she would pick me up, and on our way, she’d take me through the drive-thru to get food, knowing I hadn’t eaten and often couldn’t afford to, and she’d get us coffee and cigarettes, too. We’d talk and laugh and listen to music; I felt so unconditionally seen and cared for. Everyone in that group was so kind and welcoming. During that time, David also built a deeply special relationship with my parents. He would call and check on them and encourage them as well, acting as a lifeline between us. He had such a way of caring powerfully.
Things came to a head after a particularly hard night; in utter despair, I entertained ending my life to escape the horror. In one hand, I held the desire to end it. In the other, a seemingly unreasonable hope remained, so I decided to make one phone call. One last effort to entertain another option, and that call was answered by David. In a moment, he had orchestrated coming to meet me; from there it was finding me help. At one point, he was going to try to pay for my rehab himself. When the treatment center he took me to told me to come back in five days because they were not equipped to deal with detox, instead of sending me to a facility, he offered to be responsible for me and bring me to his home instead until I was cleared to come back.
This is where I met Jamie, where the late nights and long talks led to a request to write an article about my story. That was an easy yes. Little did he know my heart had longed to transmute my pain into healing and hope for others; it was the only thing I held on to at times, before I could find enough purpose in my own healing. I had experienced the impact of what that could do when I heard David share. This profound yet simple friendship is the entire foundation TWLOHA is built on.
It is a daunting task to attempt to encapsulate all that David was to me. He was larger than life. His presence was undeniable in any room he entered; he was flashy and loud and hilarious, and anyone who knew him would agree he had the most wonderful, infectious laugh. He was an incredibly shitty businessman and a wonderful friend, and he loved me. He fiercely believed in me, championing my heart and dreams, always pushing me to do more, to reach higher, and cheering at every victory. In his absence, I have had the challenge and bittersweet gift of learning to be the things he was to me, for myself. I know he would be proud of that.
He promised when we first met that he would be in my corner, and not only did he fulfill that promise, but he also continued showing up for me in different ways as I grew and the goals evolved. What began as fighting alongside me to keep me alive became helping me use my story to help others do the same. From publishing my journals to traveling and speaking across the country, to singing and writing my own music, he was there doing everything he could in his own grand, chaotic way to make my dreams happen. It was all so messy and imperfect and so very human.
There was no mediocrity in David’s world, and in true David fashion, a few years later he expressed that his biggest childhood dream was to make a movie… and now he knew what it would be: he wanted to make one about everything that happened. I still remember the giddy childlike joy in his voice when he told me. The excitement at the opportunity to fulfill that desire in a meaningful way, increasing the impact and reach of this redemption story to reach even more people (and, let’s be real, hopefully get to experience the extravagance of red carpets and famous actors and the shiny things he loved that Hollywood movies offer. Lol). The movie alone could have an entire book written about it; it was no easy feat, and I’m sure we’d all do it so differently if we could, but nonetheless it happened. It finally happened, and he never got to see it finished. On December 14th, 2012, David passed away unexpectedly, and my whole world was shattered.
There have been countless moments he would’ve been so proud to see and be a part of. I’m sure he would’ve given a captivating interview in the documentary, told terrible jokes off-screen that had the whole crew laughing the entire time, and he would have adored my son and would have been shocked to see me, a lifelong dog person, end up owning a cat. The pictures of Jamie and I revisiting the townhouse would’ve felt so complete with him in them. As anyone who has ever lost a loved one can understand, there are just so many moments he is missing from, and the devastating fact is that I can’t change that… but what I can do is ensure that he is not forgotten, that he isn’t missing from this story, the one that he lived with me. When we celebrate TWLOHA’s birthday each year on March 30th, it is also a celebration of August 6th, 1979, when my David was born, a day that altered the course of so many lives, and that I will forever be grateful for. It is my honor to carry him with me and to ask you to remember.
