For Russ, Who Was Home to Me

I’m writing this as my friend Russell Psota is being laid to rest.

He passed away in his sleep on Christmas night. He was 45 years old, and it still doesn’t feel real.

I grew up just a few blocks from Russ in a small town in Nebraska. We became close in high school and stayed close through college and into our early adult years. He was one of those people who shaped my teenage life in ways you don’t fully understand until decades later; when you look back and realize just how safe, how supported, and how loved you were in moments when the rest of life felt shaky.

Russ’s house was a safe space for me. Truly. His parents, especially his mom, Janet, made everyone feel welcome. Janet always had a smile, always made you feel like you belonged. I can still see her face and hear her laugh if I close my eyes. She passed away from breast cancer in 2012, and I don’t know that Russ ever recovered from losing her. He loved her deeply. That loss broke something open in him, and I think it broke something too.

I moved away from Nebraska twenty years ago; first to California, then to Canada. I’m estranged from my parents, and home hasn’t felt like a safe place for a long time. When I was a teenager, home was my friends. Russ was part of that foundation- one of those people who helped make life survivable when things felt confusing, painful, or lonely.

I’m incredibly grateful that I took so many silly pictures back then. At the time, they felt ordinary: snapshots at his house, my house, our friend Chris’s house. Now they’re priceless. Dozens of photos of Russ laughing, being goofy, surrounded by our small but incredibly tight-knit group of friends. We were lucky. That group was special in a way I didn’t fully appreciate until years later. We didn’t judge each other. We didn’t talk badly about people. We protected one another. We cheered each other on. There was so much kindness in that circle, especially for a small-town high school in the 90s.

Russ worked at Subway in high school, and we spent countless nights just hanging out there so he wouldn’t be bored. We’d sit around, talk, laugh, shoot the shit. Or we’d go to Taco John’s late at night, pile into booths while the place was empty, and just exist together. Simple, beautiful moments.

Russ was a true friend. He had the best crooked smile. A big laugh. A bigger heart. He loved fiercely.

One of our closest friends in high school was gay, at a time and place where it absolutely wasn’t safe to be out. Russ was one of his closest allies before any of us even knew that word. He always had his back, never tolerated anyone talking badly about him., and protected him without hesitation. That mattered more than Russ probably ever knew.

Russ and I stayed in touch after high school and through college, even though we went to different schools. He stayed in band and loved it. Truly loved it. He owned who he was. He wasn’t ashamed. He was unapologetically himself. He built community everywhere he went.

Over time, life happened. I moved away and got married. Russ went through a painful breakup after being engaged. Something shifted in him. He was hurting. He was angry, and I distanced myself.

That’s the part I regret.

I wish I had reached out more. I wish I had asked how he was really doing. I wish I had tried harder to be there when he was clearly struggling. Now I’ll never have another conversation with him. Never hear him say “love ya, hon” the way he always ended his messages.

That reality hurts more than I can put into words.

As I sit with this loss, I’m holding both grief and gratitude. Grief that his life ended too soon. Gratitude that I got to know him at all. That I got to grow up with someone who showed me what loyalty, kindness, and unconditional friendship look like.

Russ was larger than life. And the love he gave me, and so many others, doesn’t disappear just because he’s gone.

As I finish writing this, I’m aware that grief doesn’t wrap itself up neatly. There’s no lesson here, no silver lining that makes losing someone too young make sense. There’s just remembrance, and love that doesn’t disappear just because someone is no longer here. Writing this is my way of sitting beside that love.

If this piece stirs thoughts of someone you’ve lost, or someone you haven’t checked in on in a while, I hope it nudges you gently; not with guilt, but with tenderness. We don’t always get to say everything we wish we had. Sometimes all we can do is remember honestly and love loudly in their absence.

Russ, you mattered. You still do, and I’ll carry you with me. Rest well, my friend.