On Saturday, March 1, 2025, in the southern Colombian city of Pasto, 20-year-old Erika Deyanira Morales took her final breath. Surrounded by her family, her last words, spoken through assisted communication, were a simple request: peace.
It was the end of a story that had gripped a nation — not because of politics or celebrity, but because of one young woman’s determination to reclaim control over a life that had been stolen from her.
Erika’s story began long before her name became a hashtag, before her case became the subject of debates on television and in Congress. She was, by all accounts, a bright, funny, and artistic girl from Los Andes, Sotomayor, a small town nestled in the Nariño region. Her family described her as “a light in the house” — playful, loyal, and always with a song on her lips. She dreamed of studying design and one day opening her own boutique.
But those dreams ended on a single night that would change everything.
In 2022, when Erika was just 17, she went out with friends to a bar in downtown Pasto. It was supposed to be an ordinary night — music, laughter, a few drinks. But in the early hours, as she entered the bathroom, an argument broke out. Witnesses say that two women, allegedly Glair Gómez and Leidy León, followed her inside. Moments later, shattering glass was heard.
Erika had been attacked with a broken bottle. The blow severed her spinal cord.
She was rushed to the hospital, bleeding and unconscious. When she awoke days later, she couldn’t move. Doctors told her family the news no parent ever wants to hear: she would never walk again.
From that moment on, Erika’s life became a long, punishing test of endurance. Paralyzed from the neck down, she required full-time care — feeding, cleaning, turning, breathing assistance. She communicated through slow, painful eye movements and speech assistance devices, always with her sister Tatiana by her side.
“She was trapped inside her body,” Tatiana later said in an interview. “She could feel everything — pain, frustration, sadness. She couldn’t live the way she used to, and it broke her spirit.”
Erika’s daily reality was a cycle of pain and dependency. Simple infections became hospital stays. Pressure sores, spasms, and respiratory complications became constant threats. But beyond the physical agony, it was the loss of autonomy that tormented her most.
“She used to tell me, ‘I’m dead in life,’” Tatiana said quietly. “She didn’t want to keep suffering.”
By early 2024, after two years of treatment and no improvement, Erika began expressing her wish to die through assisted euthanasia — a right that, in Colombia, has been recognized under strict medical guidelines for those facing unbearable suffering. Yet when her family approached her healthcare provider, Emssanar EPS, their request was denied.
The official explanation cited procedural delays and questions about “eligibility.” In reality, according to her family, it was bureaucratic coldness — forms, waiting periods, and silence from decision-makers who had never seen Erika’s pain firsthand.
Tatiana refused to give up.
She began documenting her sister’s condition and appeals on social media, posting videos, letters, and photos that painted a heartbreaking portrait of a young woman pleading for dignity. “She’s not asking for death,” one post read. “She’s asking for mercy.”
Her fight caught the attention of journalists, activists, and medical ethicists across the country. The story went viral, reigniting a national debate about euthanasia — particularly for young people whose suffering stems from violence rather than terminal illness.
Under mounting public pressure, Colombia’s health authority reviewed Erika’s case. On February 22, 2025, after nearly a year of appeals, her request was finally approved.
When the news reached her, Erika reportedly smiled for the first time in months. “Now I can rest,” she said through her speech device.
Over the following week, her family prepared for her farewell. Friends came from Los Andes to say goodbye, bringing letters, flowers, and photos from happier days. Tatiana spent every moment at her side, holding her hand, reading her favorite songs, and reminding her that she was loved — not for what she could do, but for who she was.
On Saturday, March 1, Erika’s euthanasia was carried out in accordance with Colombian law, under medical supervision and with her family present. She died peacefully in the early afternoon.
Her sister was the first to share the news. On WhatsApp, she posted a short message accompanied by a photo of their hands clasped together:
“Fly high, my beautiful angel. I will love you forever, little sister.”
The image spread rapidly across social networks. Thousands of Colombians sent messages of condolence, calling Erika “a warrior,” “a symbol of dignity,” and “a voice for the voiceless.” Many saw in her story not only tragedy, but courage — the willingness to confront unimaginable pain with clarity and conviction.
Still, her death reignited old tensions in the country’s ongoing debate about euthanasia. Colombia was the first Latin American nation to decriminalize the practice in 1997, and it remains one of the few where it is legally protected. Yet every case exposes the moral divide — between those who see euthanasia as compassion, and those who view it as surrender.
Religious groups condemned the approval of Erika’s request, calling it “a failure of faith.” But human rights advocates countered that forcing her to continue living in agony would have been far crueller.
In a statement following her death, Tatiana Morales addressed both sides:
“My sister did not die because she gave up. She died because she fought — for her right to choose peace over pain. If you saw her suffering, you would understand. This was not an act of despair, but of freedom.”
For Tatiana, the days that followed were a blur of grief and exhaustion. She said she takes comfort in believing that Erika is finally free — free from machines, free from dependency, free from the endless hospital rooms.
Local media have since reported that Erika had been experiencing medical complications in the weeks leading up to her death, though it is unclear whether those health issues hastened her final decision. What remains undisputed is that she spent her last years fighting not only the consequences of violence but also the slow machinery of a system unprepared to handle such cases with compassion.
Today, her story stands as a haunting reminder of two sides of human fragility: how easily a single act of cruelty can destroy a life, and how much strength it takes to face that destruction with grace.
In the small town of Los Andes, the Morales home has become a gathering place for neighbors leaving flowers and handwritten notes. On the wall of Erika’s room, her sister has framed one of her last handwritten messages — traced shakily with assistance:
“Don’t cry for me. I’m not gone. I’m finally free.”
And in that small, quiet sentence, the echo of her fight remains — not as tragedy, but as a testament to one young woman’s unyielding pursuit of dignity in the face of unthinkable loss.
