Honoring Those Who Served: A Personal Reflection This Memorial Day

As Memorial Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on what this day truly means to me. It’s not just about the long weekend, barbecues, or the unofficial start of summer. It’s a time to pause, to remember, and to honor the incredible men and women who sacrificed their lives for the freedoms we sometimes take for granted. For me, Memorial Day holds a much deeper, more personal significance—a chance to pay tribute to the heroes in my life, especially those in my family who have served in the military.

A Legacy of Service in My Family

Growing up, I always felt a profound sense of pride hearing stories from my grandparents, particularly from my grandfather, who served in World War II. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak about his time in service, you could hear the weight of his experiences in every syllable. I didn’t fully understand the gravity of it all as a child, but now, as an adult, I realize just how much of a sacrifice it was—not just for him, but for our entire family.

I think about the generations of service members who have come before me, and how their bravery shaped our country and made our lives possible. My grandfather, like so many others, fought for a cause greater than himself. And while he did return home after the war, many of his brothers in arms did not. Memorial Day serves as a solemn reminder of that truth—that so many didn’t come home.

Grandpa's Garden and the Ghosts of War

I wasn’t even born when my grandfather returned home from the war—my mother hadn’t been born yet either. But what I do remember vividly is trailing behind him as a little girl, “helping” him gather lemons from his backyard tree, listening to him hum and whistle softly as he worked. He wasn’t a man of many words, but I never doubted for a moment that he loved me.

After he retired, he and my grandmother moved to the small town where I grew up. That’s when some of my favorite memories with him were made. We spent hours in the garden—him teaching me how to plant and prune tomatoes so they’d bear more fruit. He helped me with my horses, taught me how to catch lizards, and shared the quiet joy of simple things. I can still hear his whistling in my memory.

As a child, I didn’t understand the trauma he carried. I didn’t know why he flinched at loud noises or seemed extra watchful at times. Later I learned that he’d been shot at while repairing planes on the beaches of the Pacific Theater. He once said they’d hide behind barrels of fuel—because if they got hit, they wanted to go fast. It was a grim truth wrapped in dry humor.

We didn’t talk about things like PTSD back then. Most of what we know now came from his wartime journals—he rarely spoke of those experiences. But I remember sitting with him once as a young adult, going through old photographs from the war. He recalled every name, every place, every moment captured in those black-and-white frames. It was a part of his life he carried quietly, perhaps because he was never given the space to speak about it when he came home.

My heart aches for the countless servicemen and women who returned from war expected to simply “go back to normal,” their families unable to understand the deep changes they had endured. Their silence tells a story too.

A New Generation of Service

When my son joined the military, I felt a mixture of fear, pride, and worry that I had never experienced before. I didn’t get the chance to see him before he deployed—he was stationed overseas. One night, I got a phone call as he was boarding a plane. Until that moment, I had no idea he was being sent out. He wasn’t allowed to tell me where he was going, and of course, my imagination filled in the worst-case scenarios.

Later, he was able to let me know he was safe and not in immediate danger. Still, I kept my phone close every minute of the day, just hoping for a call or even a quick text. When it came—no matter where I was or what I was doing—I would drop everything to answer. Nothing else mattered in those moments.

Now, he’s stationed in the U.S., though still far away from me. I live with the constant awareness that another deployment could come at any time. That fear never truly leaves.

When I travel and see servicemen and women boarding the plane ahead of me, I think about the weight they carry—and the weight carried by their mothers, their families. I often find myself silently weeping, overwhelmed by the deep respect I feel and the sacrifices I know are being made.

The sacrifice of loving someone in uniform is sometimes almost too much to bear. It’s a quiet kind of strength that so many military families carry—and now, I carry it too.

I now realize, as a mother, that Memorial Day isn’t just for remembering the fallen. It’s also about honoring the families who carry on their legacies, who endure the fear and longing while their loved ones are away. As much as this day is about remembering those who paid the ultimate price, it’s also about acknowledging the strength of the families who supported them, who sent them off, and who waited for their safe return.

The True Meaning of Memorial Day

For me, Memorial Day is not just a day for picnics or sales. It’s a day to remember. A day to pause and reflect on the sacrifices made—not just by the soldiers who gave everything, but by their families who carried on in their absence. It’s about acknowledging the courage it takes to serve and the resilience it takes to wait. It’s about honoring the heroes who didn’t make it back home and the families who continue to carry their memory.

My grandfather’s service and the sacrifices of my family have shaped who I am today. I think of my son and my grandfather often, especially on Memorial Day, and I am filled with gratitude. I think of the brave souls who never made it back, the families who still feel the absence of their loved ones, and the deep love and pride that binds us all together.

A Day of Reflection and Gratitude

This Memorial Day, I pause to remember not only the brave men and women who gave their lives in service but also those whose quiet strength shaped my own understanding of sacrifice.

I think of my grandfather—his silent resilience, his gentle hugs, and the way he carried his memories of war without ever needing to speak them aloud. And I think of my son—of the pride and hope that flooded my heart when he returned home safely, and the ache that lingers every time he is far from home, wearing that uniform with honor.

Memorial Day is not just a date—it’s a sacred reminder. A time to reflect, to feel deeply, and to give thanks for the freedoms we often move through without thought.

Today and always, I carry the stories of those who served—those who came home changed, and those who never came home at all. I honor their legacy with remembrance, with gratitude, and with love. We will never forget you