Anthony Brower, City Host

A Brother, A Ride, A Reason

Riding Forward

There are moments that split time in two. Before. And after.

Some of those moments are loud enough to be named by history. Others are intimate, and they do not ask permission before they rearrange your life.

Earlier this year, my family experienced one of those moments. My brother Kevin took his life.

Even writing that sentence feels unreal. It still resists being absorbed into the architecture of daily life. And yet here we are, learning how to carry something that does not behave like a tidy story.

Kevin was not defined by the day he ended his life. He was defined by decades of ordinary, vivid, human moments. Shared history. Inside jokes. Rivalries. Loyalty. A presence that felt permanent.

He mattered. He was loved. He belonged here.

Grief Does Not Arrive Clean

When someone dies this way, the first instinct is to look backward. To replay conversations. To search for missed signals. To invent alternate endings.

Grief bargains. It builds hypothetical scenarios. It assigns itself responsibility because responsibility feels safer than randomness.

If you are carrying a version of “I should have known,” I understand that instinct. I have felt it too.

But love does not make us clairvoyant. Caring deeply does not grant access to another person’s private pain. Suicide is complex. It is rarely caused by a single event. It is often the result of multiple risk factors, including mental health challenges that are treatable but not always visible.

Pain can be hidden in plain sight.

Kevin was many things. Funny. Loyal. Competitive. Creative. The kind of person who could walk into a room and improve the atmosphere simply by being himself. He had an uncanny ability to win over our friends when we were kids. We would try to keep him away. He would steal them anyway. And they would choose him.

He was also human. And like many men, he carried things quietly.

The Work I Thought I Understood

For more than a decade, I have been involved with the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride and Movember, supporting men’s mental health, suicide prevention, and prostate cancer research.

I have spoken publicly about check-ins. About staying connected. About creating safe places for honest conversations. I have told people, “Call me at 3 in the morning if you need someone.”

And still, I did not imagine I would be standing inside this loss.

Advocacy does not give you x-ray vision. It does not grant immunity. It does not mean you can intercept someone else’s breaking point.

What it does offer is direction.

Movember often speaks about becoming a “Man of More Words.” Breaking the tough exterior. Talking openly. Asking real questions.

The truth is, we need more words. More honest sentences. More space for men to say, “I’m not okay,” without feeling like they are failing at something.

Globally, we lose a man to suicide every minute.

That statistic is staggering. It is also not destiny. Suicide is a preventable public health issue. Treatment exists. Support exists. Recovery is possible.

But connection has to come first.

Small Shifts That Matter

One of the most powerful things we can do for each other is surprisingly simple.

Ask.

Listen.

Encourage action.

Check in.

Movember calls this the ALEC framework. It sounds structured, but it is deeply human.

Ask someone how they are really doing.

Listen without trying to fix them immediately.

Encourage them to talk to a professional or take a next step if needed.

Check back in days later. Not once. Repeatedly.

You do not need to be a therapist to show up. You do not need the perfect sentence. Often what someone needs first is permission.

Permission to be messy.

Permission to say the hard thing out loud.

Permission to not perform strength.

In the workplace, this can be as subtle as putting your phone down and giving someone your full attention. Nodding. Holding eye contact. Letting a silence stretch without rushing to fill it.

Those small physical cues communicate something powerful: I am here. You matter. Take your time.

Kevin, Fully Formed

When we were young, I had a Steelers jersey that my brothers treated like a safety tether. They would follow me around gripping the fabric, thumbs in their mouths, dragging behind me like Linus with his blanket. We did not need elaborate systems to feel secure. We needed proximity.

There was a summer when Kevin wore a child harness tied to a stake in the ground at our campground because he had the energy of a small explorer determined to outrun the horizon. It sounds ridiculous now, but it was also so distinctly him. Determined. Loyal to a place once he chose it. Hardwired for intensity.

These are the images I carry. Not the final chapter. The lifetime.

Holding love and anger at the same time is part of grief. I love my brother deeply. I am also angry at the decision that ended his story. Both can exist. Neither cancels the other.

Grief is not linear. It is weather. It shifts by the hour.

Why I Ride

Each year I put on a suit, mount a motorcycle, and ride with thousands of others across the globe for the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride.

It is a strange and beautiful ritual. Vintage bikes. Tailored jackets. A public display in support of deeply private struggles.

For years, that ride has been about advocacy. About raising funds for mental health programs, suicide prevention initiatives, and prostate cancer research through Movember.

Now it is also for Kevin.

It is a way of carrying something heavy forward in motion. Of refusing to let silence win. Of honoring a brother by doing the work that might help someone else stay.

Movember funds programs that improve mental health literacy, support men through crisis, encourage early intervention, and invest in research that saves lives. This is not symbolic. It is practical. It is measurable. It matters.

A Clear Ask

This year, I ride in remembrance of Kevin and in support of every family navigating similar weather.

If this story resonates with you, I am asking you to join me.

Donate if you are able. Your contribution directly funds programs that help men talk earlier, seek support sooner, and access treatment that works.

Beyond donating, choose one action this week.

Call a friend you have not checked on in a while.

Ask a better question.

Stay on the line a few minutes longer.

Encourage someone to speak with a professional.

And check back in.

Connection is not complicated. It is consistent.

If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available. In the United States, you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. If you are outside the U.S., Movember’s website provides international resources.

Reaching out is not weakness. It is strength.

Carrying Him Forward

To my brother:

We love you. We miss you. We are grateful for every shared memory. We wish you had stayed. We wish the weight had been lighter.

We will carry you forward in conversation. In advocacy. In motion.

And to everyone reading this, thank you for being here. Thank you for holding space. Thank you for helping build a world where it becomes easier for men to tell the truth about what they are carrying.

This ride is for Kevin.

And it is for every man who still has time to speak.

Stay connected. Stay human. Stay present.

And if you can, ride with us.