Peter Nicastro

My fondest memory of Uncle Pete starts when I first started at a new high school and had to do a project. I was put with some people who I knew somewhat, not total strangers but still sort of an outsider to them, and we were assigned to do a project for our English class, discussing a topic amongst ourselves and with a guest speaker. Our topic, strangely enough, ended up being about our mortality, and how we as humans naturally try and handle that and how we live our best lives despite that never ending pressure. Uncle Pete was our guest speaker that we interviewed and talked to about this, and I learned a lot about him that I didn't know because I had never been super close or had one on one talks with him like that before. The biggest thing I took from that was even if we know that today could be our last day on this Earth, just live as best as you can. You don't have to be an amazing person who does amazing things like skydiving or cliff climbing or things like that, you just have to live as best as you can and be there for those around you to live a good life. You just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other even as things get hard or if you're uncertain of the future, because you can't stop, no matter what.

Peter was always a math whiz and a fantastic teammate to all who were fortunate to be on a team with him!

I spent a long time trying to find the “perfect” memory to share, something that truly encapsulated the relationship I had with Uncle Pete. That search is part of why I waited so long to write this, but I realized that what matters most isn’t finding one perfect moment, it’s sharing what Uncle Pete taught me through his consistent involvement in my family. For as long as I can remember, Uncle Pete was a constant presence in my life. He was there for holidays, birthdays, and so many of the moments that make up a family. Over time, he and his family became woven into our own traditions and celebrations. They became part of our family. That didn’t happen by accident. Pete cared deeply about the people in his life, and he made the effort to turn friendship into family. He had a way of making people feel seen, valued, and genuinely cared for. What began as a friendship between him and my dad grew into something much larger, a lasting bond between families. That is what I will carry with me. I want to build the kind of relationships he did, to make the friends in my life feel like family. Uncle Pete taught me that, not through a single conversation, but through the example he set simply by always being there.

A Gift and a Blessing

In 2014, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Pete Nicastro was one of the first people I told. I called him on a Saturday afternoon, the day after my diagnosis, while he was driving with his wife and twins. I shared the news: thirty eight lesions on my brain and spine. MS at thirty seven years old.

When I finished, Pete simply said, "Okay. Is there anything else?" I said no. He replied, "Okay. Well, I'll catch you later," and hung up.

A day or two later, Pete did something unusual. He invited me to dinner, just the two of us. This wasn't typical. We'd shared meals before, but usually by circumstance. This was intentional. Deliberate.

I arrived at the restaurant to find Pete already seated. As I approached the table, he started clapping. I was confused. There were no televisions on, no obvious reason to celebrate anything. Pete looked at me and spoke words I have carried every single day since:

"Congratulations. Your life isn't what you thought it was going to be. You better go figure out what you want it to be."

Then he continued. "Matthew, you're going to have good days, and you're going to have bad days. That's what it is. I don't care. Your wife doesn't care. God doesn't care."

He paused. "I'm not supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to meet me."

Pete had been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis as a child. The average life expectancy was thirteen. He was nineteen when we met. Yet here he was, living a full life, choosing to show up for his friends.

"But no one cares, Matthew," he said. "Today is a gift. Today is a blessing. I'm not supposed to be here."

Then came the words that have anchored me through every difficult moment since:

"The moment you think, 'Why me? Why any of this?' and you rack up too many of those days in a row, then we're done. This friendship is over."

Today would have been Pete's fifty first birthday. The man who had the motto "Do Better Today." told me exactly that. It has shaped how I face every single day. His words have been my north star through the weight of this disease. I would not be where I am today without him.

Because at the end, Pete was telling me something simple: I needed to do better today. And those words have been telling me to do better today, every day, ever since.