If you knew D.J., you knew love . He had a heart that stayed true … to his family, to his friends, to the things that made him feel alive. He was the kind of person who made his presence known not by being the loudest, but by being steady. Reliable. Real.

And if you really knew him, you knew about his Packers. That kind of devotion wasn’t just about football; it was about something deeper. Commitment, passion, the refusal to give up on something even when times got tough. It was a reflection of who he was. He was someone who stuck by the things he loved, no matter what.

Then there was skating. If you ever saw D.J. on wheels, you saw freedom. He didn’t just skate he glided, like gravity had less of a hold on him than it did on everyone else. He moved with rhythm, with ease, with a confidence that made you stop and watch. Skating was joy in motion, a place where he didn’t have to prove anything.

ut beyond the Packers, beyond the skating, beyond all the things that made up his day-to-day, D.J. was somebody’s son. A son who was loved beyond measure, whose absence has left an ache that words cannot touch.

"I would give my son the hug and kisses."

That’s what his mother would do if she had just one more moment. Just hold him. No grand speeches, no need for anything more than the closeness, the reassurance that love never wavered, never lessened, never broke.

"I love you so much."

If love could have kept him here, he would have never left. If devotion alone could have saved him, he would still be lacing up his skates, still talking about his team, still standing in the lives of those who miss him now.

D.J. should still be here. And though the world has lost his presence, his impact remains. He is in every story told, in every memory that makes his family smile through their tears. He is in the unwavering love of a mother who will never stop carrying him in her heart.

Some people leave, but they don’t go.

And D.J.? He’s still rolling. He’s still laughing. He’s still here.