We met on a quiet afternoon at my home. Sitting across from me in my living room was Jennifer Levi—poised, beautiful and impossibly strong. Yet behind her gentle smile lives an ache that no parent should ever have to bear.
Her son, Braun Levi, an 18-year-old Loyola High School tennis star, was struck and killed by a suspected drunk driver while walking home with friends along Sepulveda Boulevard in Manhattan Beach in May. He was just about to graduate from high school and was headed to the University of Virginia in the fall.
The entire South Bay and beyond grieved together. We cried for a family shattered, for all of his friends who loved him. For many of us with children out that night, waiting for our kids to come home and then hearing the news of Braun’s death forged an instant connection to that family—and with it, the sobering realization that it could have been any one of us.
“He was magnetic. He was beautiful, curious, inclusive … and mischievous.”
When I ask Jenn how she’s doing, she pauses, takes a breath and says softly, “It depends on the minute, the hour, the day. It’s a crazy roller coaster. There are days I’m so deep in grief, it feels inhumane. And then there are other days when I feel inspired and energetic to make change, to keep Braun’s legacy alive. I almost feel like I’m being led by him.”
That sense of being led by Braun has become her compass. In the months since his passing, Jenn has turned unimaginable pain into purpose, channeling it into advocacy, education and even joy. Her every move now is rooted in the desire to help others live a little more like her son did—with compassion, curiosity, humor and heart.
If you talk to anyone who knew Braun, the stories tumble out—stories that make you laugh through tears. “He was magnetic,” Jenn tells me. “He was beautiful, curious, inclusive … and mischievous.”
He had that rare energy, the kind that filled a room. Teachers still share stories of his kindness, like the day he paired up with a quiet teammate who usually sat on the bench and made him feel like the most important doubles partner he’d ever had. “That was just who Braun was,” Jenn says. “He liked everybody.”
Friends remember the handwritten notes he’d slip under windshield wipers, the jokes, the random acts of kindness. He once mailed gag gifts to adult family friends with opposing political views just to make them laugh. He could bridge any divide effortlessly.
Even after losing their home in the Palisades Fire, Braun turned displacement into connection. “We lost everything,” Jenn shares, “and right away, Braun said, ‘We need to do something for the kids who lost their homes too.’”
He organized a small support group, gathering friends from both the Palisades and Altadena who had been displaced. They’d meet at the beach, hang out and talk through what they were going through.
“He was the one checking in on everyone,” she says. “He was like, ‘Let’s go play volleyball, let’s all be together.’ He wanted everyone to feel included, to have somewhere to go.”
That’s how Braun’s Court was born, a volleyball court in front of the Levi home that has since become a community memorial, lovingly decorated by Jenn each week with fresh yellow flowers. “I hate it, and I love it at the same time,” she says quietly. “I hate it because of why I’m doing it, but I love it because when I’m there, people stop to talk. They share stories about Braun. They say his name.”
And saying his name, she says, is everything. “My advice to everyone is don’t be afraid to talk about someone who’s died. We want to keep them alive. We want people to remember them.”
It was supposed to be a simple evening. “He said, ‘Not a big deal, Mom, we’re just having burgers,’” Jenn remembers. “I texted him at 12:15 a.m., told him it was time to come home, and he said, ‘Yeah, I’m walking home.’ I thought, Great, he’s being safe. Kids walk all over Manhattan Beach.”
Twenty minutes later, she got the call every parent dreads. “The officer said, ‘There’s been an accident. Your son’s been hit by a car. Meet us at Harbor-UCLA trauma center.’”
Her husband, Dan, a surgeon, instantly knew. “Halfway there, we got another call. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your son didn’t make it.’”
In the impossible hours and days that followed, Jenn and Dan made a conscious choice: They would not let this tragedy destroy them. “We made a decision early on that we couldn’t have this define us forever,” Jenn explains. “We have a daughter. She deserves parents who are still living, not just surviving.”
That decision is what keeps her moving forward. “Every day, I fight for my own joy,” she says. “And then I’m fighting to make change.”
The driver was allegedly drunk and driving on a suspended license. For Jenn, grief quickly evolved into outrage, and then determination.
“We did everything right raising our kids,” she says. “We raised kind, productive children who gave back. And it was just ripped from us.”
Within days of his passing, the Live Like Braun Foundation was born—a movement dedicated to joy, generosity and justice. “There’s also a Braun Levi Scholarship at Loyola High School that lives in perpetuity,” Jenn says. “Braun loved being a Cub.”
The foundation’s mission is multifaceted: scholarships, public park restoration and DUI awareness. “We want to help students follow their passions, whether that’s college, trade school or something unconventional, just like Braun would have,” Jenn says.
Another initiative close to her heart is improving the very roads that took her son’s life. As a member of the California legislative action team of Mothers Against Drunk Driving, Jenn has found purpose and solidarity.
“MADD has been an incredible support system,” she says. “It’s a sisterhood no one wants to be part of, but everyone there understands the pain and they’re using it to fight for change.”
Jenn is working hard to bring DUI sentencing reform, and she’s making progress with elected officials. “Our current case is still open, but we have full confidence the L.A. district attorney’s office will help serve justice. And we are grateful for the help of the Manhattan Beach Police Department in the ongoing investigation.”
She’s also working to make Sepulveda Boulevard safer, lobbying for new signage at the site of Braun’s accident—not as a memorial but as a warning. Her advocacy has prompted an active partnership between the city of Manhattan Beach, Caltrans and the Live Like Braun Foundation. Since June, the city and Caltrans have met regularly to review data, explore safety measures and expand enforcement.
“Our hearts are with the Levi family,” says Manhattan Beach Mayor David Lesser. “We stand ready to support their mission.”
“There is not a minute in my life where I don’t love and miss Braun so much,” Jenn tells me. “I talk to him. It’s so very painful, and I don’t wish this on anybody ever.”
She misses the way he’d comb his fingers through his hair when he was deep in thought, the easy confidence in his stride, the way his laughter filled their home. “I think about that all the time—the way he would sit and smile, laugh and enjoy stories, and brush his hand through his big yellow hair.”
For Jenn, love now looks like action. It looks like fighting for safer streets. It looks like scholarships and tennis tournaments and yellow flowers placed on the sand in front of their Manhattan Beach home. It looks like waking up every day and choosing to honor her son by helping others live a little more like he did, with kindness, courage and joy.
At Loyola, his classmates started an annual memorial tennis tournament, and the United States Tennis Association honored Braun at the 2025 U.S. Open—a full-circle moment for the boy who once served as Novak Djokovic’s ball boy as a kid.
“When they played the video of him on center court, it was surreal,” Jenn says. “He would’ve thought it was so awesome.”
Even local businesses have joined in. Urban Plates donated an entire week of proceeds during Braun’s birthday and catered his memorial tennis tournament. When they presented Jenn and Dan with a check, the entire restaurant stood and applauded.
“It was so moving,” Jenn recalls. “They didn’t have to do that. But they did. That’s community.”
Everywhere you look in the South Bay, and now across college campuses, on all types of merchandise you’ll see three words that have become both mantra and movement: Live Like Braun. His friends wear those words proudly, spreading his spirit across the country.
So what does it mean to live like Braun?
“It means living your life to the fullest,” Jenn says. “Take chances. Put yourself in uncomfortable positions. Lead with humor, kindness, inclusivity and love. Don’t be afraid to reach out to the person standing alone.”
Braun did exactly that, from volunteering at RAD Camp for people with developmental disabilities to bringing together strangers on the volleyball court. “He wanted everyone to feel included,” Jenn says. “He had this ability to connect with people who didn’t always know how to connect.”
Even now, through Jenn’s advocacy, his impact continues to ripple outward. “People send me stories, pictures, notes from all over the world,” she says. “They tell me they’re doing something differently because of Braun—being kinder, more joyful, more intentional. That’s what keeps me going.”
Jenn reminds us, through her courage and grace, that love doesn’t end. It changes form. It becomes purpose. And through that purpose, her son’s light continues to shine as brightly as ever across the South Bay, the country and in the hearts of everyone who loved him and was touched by him.
To learn more or to support Jenn Levi’s work, visit livelikebraunfoundation.org.
