Christian M. Rhymer

Christian Rhymer, 28, of Independence, Kentucky, passed away on December 2, 2025, in Cincinnati, Ohio, surrounded by the love of his family, his life partner, friends, and all those closest to him.

He was the same bright, steady soul from the time he was a child to the day he left this world. That rare spirit — the humor, the stubborn hope, the gentleness wrapped in grit — it never faded. He grew up, he lived, he loved, he changed, but that core of who he was remained unchanged. Everyone who knew him felt it: Christian was simply Christian — extraordinary, incomparable, and unmistakably his own.

He had a wicked, dark sense of humor — the kind that made you laugh when you absolutely shouldn’t — and a contagious, ridiculous laugh of his own that no one could ever forget. Even people who only crossed paths with him briefly walked away with stories about how kind he was, how funny he was, how genuine he felt. His presence stayed with people long after he walked out of a room.

He moved through the world with an easygoing steadiness that made everything feel less heavy. He didn’t take life too seriously, even when life took everything from him.

“It’s not that deep,” he’d say — not out of dismissal, not because he didn’t care, but out of this quiet wisdom that the small stuff wasn’t worth losing peace over. He saved his energy for living, for laughing, for the people he loved.

And he lived — fully. Even when he got sick, even as the years grew harder, Christian never stopped showing up. He still went to concerts and music festivals. He still traveled when he could — including a Florida trip and a Chicago trip earlier this year. He still made time for his friends, still showed up for family, still planned for the future he desperately hoped he’d get. He didn’t stop working. He didn’t stop loving. He didn’t stop being himself. His illness slowed his body, but it never once dimmed his spirit.

Each moment he lived carried the full weight of who he was, vibrant and undiminished, even when the world tried to slow him down.

He remained endlessly selfless. And if he loved you, you knew it — not because he said it all the time, but because he proved it. His actions spoke louder than any words he could ever have articulated. He might not have always been the best with words, but he showed it to you. You didn’t even have to question it. You didn’t need to hear him say it in words. You felt it in every action, in every act of love, in every way he showed up for you.

He worried about the people in his life more than he ever worried about himself — even when he should have been focusing on his own well-being, his loved ones always came first. He protected the people he loved. He cared deeply, fiercely, and consistently. He’d give you the shirt off his back, the last dollar in his wallet, his time, his strength, his focus. That was who he was — until the very end.

Even in his final days, when his body and mind were failing him, Christian’s instinct was still to care for others. In one of his last lucid moments, he made sure his life partner — the person he lived beside, grew with, and built a life with — was safe. He thought of her comfort before his own, even as everything in him was shutting down. And in those last conscious moments, it’s something that will never be forgotten. It was Christian in pure form: protective, loving, selfless, steady — even at the end.

That protective, loving spirit reached beyond people, shaping the bonds he shared with the animals he adored and nurtured.

He loved his animals more than anything, each one holding a special place in his heart, each with their own quirks and personalities that brought him endless joy and comfort. He delighted in their company, in the simple, quiet moments of play, cuddles, and shared routines. He was proud of them, proud of the way they thrived under his care, proud of the home he had created — warm, lively, and full of love. He was proud of the life he built, proud of the resilience it took to keep going through things most people could never imagine. Proud of the laughter and love that filled his days, even in the hardest times, and proud of the small, everyday joys that made life with them so rich and meaningful.

The love that guided his home, his life, and his animals naturally flowed to his family, grounding him and giving his life even deeper meaning.

His love for his family was deep and abiding — his mom, his dad, his stepmom, his siblings, his grandmothers, his nieces and nephews, even the ones not by blood. And although he sometimes struggled to check in or answer the phone, his care never stopped. He talked often about how much they meant to him, sharing so many stories with his life partner of his days growing up, passing along memories that revealed how proud he was of them, the ways they guided him, and how central they were to the person he became. No matter how old he got, he remained proud of the people who raised him and the family that shaped him. He might not have said it enough out loud, but he hoped they knew how much he loved them, and how much he cherished every moment with them.

Just as his family shaped him, the people he worked with and befriended became an extension of that love, supporting him and standing by him through life’s challenges.

He felt incredibly fortunate to have his work family — the people who became his chosen family. They were the steady presence he could always count on, the ones who celebrated his successes, shared in his frustrations, and made even ordinary days brighter. Through their laughter, support, and camaraderie, he found a sense of belonging and joy that enriched his life in ways that went far beyond the workplace. Their friendship and loyalty reminded him daily of the impact he had on others, and of the importance of showing up, caring, and letting his loyalty and warmth ripple through every friendship, every bond, every connection he held dear.

He created community everywhere he went — not by trying, but simply by being himself. His kindness, his humor, his gentleness, his loyalty… it drew people in. It made people feel safe. It made people feel seen. And the way both his family and chosen family showed up for him in the end is proof of how deeply he loved and how deeply he was loved.

Selfishly, all of us wish he were still here. We wish he had more time. We wish he had gotten the healing he fought so hard for. He wanted to live — he was ready to live. But the kind of healing he didn’t get here, he now has in peace. He is no longer in pain. He is no longer sick. And though that doesn’t erase our immense grief, maybe someday it will bring us some measure of comfort.

We feel him in small things now: a laugh that bubbles up, a familiar comfort in a room, the echo of a kindness that keeps returning to us.

Even now — especially now — we know he is with us. In the choices we make. In the steps we take. In the little signs that keep appearing. In the way we suddenly feel protected or guided. In the way we catch ourselves laughing at something he would’ve found stupidly funny. In the way we carry the best parts of him forward: his selflessness, his humor, his calm, his strength. We will think of him on every holiday, every single birthday of his; We will celebrate it as if he were here, because we know it was a big deal to him. And we will miss him on the mundane days, just as much as the monumental ones.

Who he was cannot be undone. His soul didn’t vanish when his body did. It’s still here, wrapped around us, threaded through each of us, showing up in the quiet moments, the noisy moments, and every heartbeat in between. His presence lingers in the ways we laugh, the moments we care for one another, and the love that continues to guide and sustain us, a living reminder of the remarkable life he shared with each of us.

Christian left this world deeply loved by family, by friends, by his chosen family, by his partner, by everyone who ever had the privilege of knowing him. The world is dimmer without him. The air feels different, quieter, somehow heavier. Spaces he once filled with laughter, warmth, and presence now carry the subtle weight of his absence. Even the ordinary routines of life feel off-kilter, as if the world itself has shifted, each day touched by the void he left behind. Every glance, every sound, every fleeting moment reminds us that he is gone, and that is the truest testament to the man he was — that we could feel the world tilt without him,

as if something essential slipped from the earth, and a color we’ll never get back faded the moment he left.

But his impact endures in countless other ways. We will miss his laughter, his dark humor, his presence, his warmth, and the sense of safety he brought to every room. Every part of him left a mark — in the joy he sparked, the comfort he offered, and the way he made life feel fuller and more alive. Though he is no longer with us, the love he shared and the lives he touched continue to ripple outward, reminding us of who he was and the light he brought into the world.

He is survived by his parents, Kim Mains, Jerry Rhymer, and Amanda Rhymer; his life partner, Jess Collins; his siblings, Dylan Rhymer, Lacey Rhymer, Bentley Rhymer, and Cierra Mains; his paternal and maternal grandmothers; his nieces and nephews; his best friends/chosen family, Dylan Perkins (his big pookie), Destiny Parker, Ben Webster, Ezekiel Cooper, Maddison Harris, and Adam Harris; and many other beloved family members and friends.

His devotion to those he loved extended to all the animals in his life. They were part of his family, and he cherished every moment with them.

He he had many beloved pets, Lennon Binx Rhymer was his soul cat and constant companion, a true life partner in every sense. They were inseparable, always side by side, and Lennon is mourning this loss deeply. His other pets—Grahm, Wednesday, Angus, Ruffles, Freya, Ozzy, Stella, Chiquita, and Opal—also carry his memory in their own ways.

At the center of his life was his life partner, Jess Collins, who shared his days, his hopes, his dreams, and his quiet, unspoken moments. Their bond was profound and steadfast, a source of comfort, trust, and mutual devotion that lasted over a decade, though it was always meant to last a lifetime. She remained by his side throughout his illness, caring for him and supporting him through every challenge, every fear, and every moment of vulnerability. Their loyalty ran deep. He treasured her as much as she treasured him, and the depth of his love for her shaped every part of the life they built together. He was the kind of person who always found a way, who made things work, who steadied her through every hardship they endured, and whose love carried him — and her — through everything.

(We’ll meet again someday, Christian — I feel it in my bones. Save a place for us in that warm, endless light. We’ll find our way back to you)

In loving memory of Christian, contributions may be made to The American Diabetes Association . Funeral Ceremony will be 3:00 pm Saturday, December 13, 2025 with a visitation from 1:00 pm - 3:00 pm at Newcomer Cremations, Funerals & Receptions - Northern Kentucky Chapel, 4350 Dixie Highway, Erlanger, Kentucky 41018.

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