Just over two years ago, on July 20, 2023, around 11:30 p.m., my sister, Jazreanna Sheppard, walked into the Park Street MBTA Station after a long shift at work. She was just 21 years old, full of life and dreams. That night, in the heart of downtown Boston, she was stabbed seven times. She was rushed to a nearby hospital with life-threatening injuries and died two days later.
But Jazreanna wasn’t just a headline. She was a real person who made a difference. Her personality — her energy, her way of showing up for people — did so much for the community.
She lifted others up even when she was struggling herself. She brought light into every room.
She didn’t deserve to die that way.
I’m not writing this to relive trauma or to focus on the person who did this. I don’t want to center them. What I want is for people to understand what happened — not just the act, but what came after. What it felt like.
When I saw her lying in the hospital, she didn’t even look like herself. She was cold. Swollen. Gone. Her beauty, her life, her light — it had all been stripped from her. That image haunts me. I didn’t understand how someone so alive could become a body. I didn’t understand how this could happen so fast.
That moment changed me. Life has not been the same. You’re expected to keep living, to keep functioning, even though you’re carrying the weight of trauma. That day became a dividing line in my life — everything before, and everything after.
I’m writing this not only for Jazreanna, but for everyone who has lost someone to violence. Too many people say, “That’s just how it is.” But it doesn’t have to be.
Violence doesn’t just fall from the sky. It isn’t fate — it’s a chain reaction of choices. And we can interrupt it. We can choose to treat others with care instead of cruelty, to come together instead of pulling apart.
Weapons are not the answer. Hurtful words are not the answer. Going viral on social media is not the answer. Instead, we need to build something real and lasting — respect, connection, safety and love.
I am only 17, and I’ve seen too much already. In the past five years, I’ve watched my city change. I’ve seen people ready to fight with knives, guns or whatever they can grab. I’ve seen people act like human life doesn’t matter — as long as it’s not theirs. That mindset is not just selfish. It’s dangerous.
People want respect but forget that it must be mutual. You don’t have to like someone to treat them with basic human dignity. That one small act — respect — could prevent a life from being lost.
Grief hits differently when it comes from violence. I’ve lost family, friends and people I thought I’d grow old with. But losing my sister in this way shattered something in me. It made me feel empty. People might say I’m too young to feel this way, but feelings don’t have an age. Grief doesn’t wait until you’re “old enough.” It finds you, and it changes you.
Losing my sister in such a violent way devastated my mental health. Grief like this is overwhelming. The shock, confusion, sadness and anger can make you feel hollow. Some people think teenagers can’t feel that kind of pain — but we do. Despite everything, I try to stay grounded. I try to keep love in my heart, stay wise-minded, and walk with purpose. But the trauma never leaves. It becomes part of how you move.
I’m not the only one. So many young people in Boston deal with trauma every day. To protect themselves, they carry weapons — but that spreads the cycle of violence even more. When fear leads the way, no one is safe.
Boston is full of opportunity. We could make powerful changes if we worked together. There are many groups working for positive change. I was lucky to find the Center for Teen Empowerment, a youth-led organization committed to building stronger communities. They hired me and helped me grow. They taught me how to be a leader, how to use my voice and how to channel my pain into purpose. I learned that wanting to be better isn’t just for yourself — it’s for the people around you, too. At Teen Empowerment, I found a space where young people support each other and create solutions. We learn how to listen, how to lead and how to love.
My sister Jazreanna deserves to be remembered — not just in sadness, but in action. She lived with heart. She cared for her people. She tried to live with purpose. Now, I carry that torch for her.
Flowers may wilt. Candles may burn out. But our voices must never go silent. We must speak her name. We must demand change in her honor — and in the name of every life cut short by violence in this city.
My message is simple: Stop the violence. Be accountable. Choose love, not hate. Protect our youth, our communities and our future. We owe it to the past. We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to the next generation. Because we are the next generation.
Edalis Analysa Soto Garcia is a former youth organizer at the Center for Teen Empowerment.
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