Damn It, Chad! (And Other Loving Memories of a Life Lived Loud)

A blog about my brother, mischief, and the joy of growing up with chaos and care.

You never forget the soundtrack of your childhood. And for us, it was mostly: “Damn it, Chad!”—on loop.

That phrase echoed through our house so often, it may as well have been a family mantra. It was our unofficial theme song—so much so that when US3’s Cantaloop (Flip Fantasia) came on the radio, our family swore the background horns were yelling “CHAD!”

If you grew up with a brother like mine, you know what I mean. He was hilarious. He was unpredictable. And he was constantly one idea away from getting grounded.

There was the time he excitedly counted his allowance, burst into the bathroom with, “We’re about to have a hundred bucks!”—and someone promptly responded with a fart loud enough to register on the stock exchange. (Identities remain classified for obvious reasons.)

There was the slightly-too-rocky rocking horse incident that shattered our sliding glass door. 🐴 The sprinkler that somehow made its way into the house. 🤷 And let's not forget Chad’s rooftop rock toss—a bold science experiment conducted over the hood of our brand-new family vehicle. 🪨 (Pro tip: always time your chaos for when Dad’s mowing.)

As we got older, Chad wasn’t exactly thrilled about me tagging along with him and his friends. Which, fair—I was annoying. I tattled (often). My parents didn’t even have to interrogate me after date nights. I proudly offered up the intel: “Yes, they watched A LOT of Beavis and Butthead.” Case closed.

There was also that time at Grandma’s house when he didn’t want to hang out, so I sprinted upstairs, flipped the basement light switch, slammed the door, and left him in the dust.

He was afraid of the dark.

I was the worst.

(And yes, this was the same house I crashed at with our oldest brother decades later.)

But here’s the thing about Chad: For all the mischief and mayhem, he’s one of the most dependable, loyal, and good-hearted people I know.

In high school, Chad was a standout wrestler who worked his butt off for every medal. This actually worked out great for me because when I needed a dance partner for ballet recitals, I snagged myself a strong, disciplined athlete or two from his wrestling team. He even partnered with my ballet bestie more than once. Because that’s who he is.

When he got his first tattoo, he tried to hide it from our parents (as one does). And when I told him I wanted one too, he gave me the big sibling nod of approval—even though Mom most definitely did not.

He’s always had a watchful eye—whether he was screening my high school suitors or making sure any guy taking our mom out knew there was a very present, very jacked son waiting at home. I vividly remember my friends and I hiding behind his legs at the front door when a couple of (surprise) boy visitors showed up. ✋ Sorry, fellas - denied at the door.

In college, I loved visiting him at CMU. We’d scrape together our money, walk to BDubs, crush wings, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day like legends. We pushed each other to keep going when classes got hard, and we made some of my favorite memories in those weekends away from reality.

And then there was my 21st birthday—a night that had all the makings of a dramatic indie film: laughter, chaos, emotional whiplash (thanks, alcohol), and one extremely supportive older brother.

At one point, I realized I had left my giant, blinged-out gold purse at the bar. Without hesitation, Chad strutted back through the city to retrieve it—zero shame, full confidence, and a level of swagger that suggested he’d been carrying gold accessories his whole life. He returned like a runway model-turned-bodyguard, purse in hand, absolutely owning it.

Later that night, we were playing cards when he said something so stupidly funny that I laughed so hard I threw my head back, then whipped it forward mid-cackle—and cracked my front tooth on a beer bottle. (It was Red Stripe.) Honestly? Worth it. Instant classic.

And of course, there was The Great Mac and Cheese Mystery—we had brought home leftovers from the restaurant, and I woke up the next morning absolutely devastated that the creamy, cheesy goodness was gone. I was convinced Chad had eaten it in the night, despite his repeated (and surprisingly passionate) denials.

Then I flipped through the photos on my digital camera (because, you know… 2000s), and there it was: a blurry, incriminating shot of me, looking like a raccoon in rhinestones with a scarf tied around my head like Rambo, shoveling down the entire container like it was my final meal.

Case closed.

Apology issued.

I still haven't lived it down.

These days, Chad’s married to a total badass (with a heart of gold), and he's dad to a little girl I’m lucky enough to call my God-daughter.

Fun fact: he once spilled her name to me after a couple of beers—when it was still supposed to be a secret.

Thankfully, I’d had a couple too… and completely forgot it by morning.

Watching him build a life full of love, laughter, and late-night baby name leaks has been one of my favorite parts of adulthood.

Chad is bold. He’s wise. He’s courageous. He’s still hilarious. And he’s the kind of person I’m proud to have by my side as we do this thing called life.

So yes, “Damn it, Chad” will always be part of our family’s greatest hits album.

But so is:

“I love you, man.”

“I’m proud of you.”

And most of all:

“Thanks for being exactly who you are."