Memorial Day Through My Eyes: A Therapist, An Army Brat, A Former Army Wife

Memorial Day isn’t just a date on the calendar for me.

It’s a feeling in my chest. A memory in my bones. A silence I carry.

I grew up with the weight and pride of the uniform.

I married into it.

And now, as a therapist, I sit with others who carry their own invisible flags—grief, pride, trauma, confusion—often all at once.

This day is complicated. Sacred. Tender.

It’s not just about cookouts and three-day weekends. It’s about people. Real people. Gone too soon.

 

As an Army Brat, I Learned Early That Sacrifice Doesn’t Always Look Like a Battlefield

I remember watching my parent leave for deployments.

I remember the quiet tension in base housing when someone didn’t come home.

I learned how to make friends quickly—and say goodbye even faster.

Loss wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it showed up in silence.

Sometimes it showed up in the empty chair at a ceremony. Or in the solemn way the flag was folded.

Even then, I knew: this life required strength and softness in equal measure.

 

As an Army Wife, I Learned That Love in Uniform Comes With Its Own Grief

There’s a kind of love that only military spouses know:

One where every goodbye is shadowed by fear, and every homecoming feels like a miracle.

But not everyone gets the homecoming.

I’ve stood by friends who got the call.

I’ve sat with women who suddenly became widows.

I’ve watched children be handed a folded flag instead of a father’s embrace.

And no matter how many years pass, those moments never leave you.

 

Now, as a Therapist, I Hold the Stories People Don’t Always Feel Safe Sharing

Grief that’s been buried.

Trauma that never found words.

Memories too sacred—or too painful—to unpack with just anyone.

I hold space for:

• Veterans who question their survival

• Spouses still wrestling with “what ifs”

• Children who grew up too fast

• Civilians who want to help, but don’t know how

And I remind them: grief isn’t something to get over—it’s something to carry with love and care.

 

What Memorial Day Means to Me Now

It means pausing.

It means remembering not just the fallen—but the families, the friends, the communities they left behind.

It means holding space for the ache that never really goes away.

It means honoring the whole picture—not just the polished ceremonies, but the raw, quiet realities.

It means knowing that some wounds are invisible. And still worth honoring.

 

If This Day Feels Complicated for You—You’re Not Alone

You don’t have to “perform” patriotism.

You don’t have to feel just one thing.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation for why you’re grieving, or numb, or proud, or angry, or all of the above.

You are allowed to feel it all.

You are allowed to not know what to feel.

 

Final Thoughts

Memorial Day isn’t a moment to gloss over.

It’s a moment to honor—deeply, honestly, humanly.

So if your heart feels heavy today, I see you.

If you’re remembering someone, I remember with you.

If you’re grieving quietly, your pain matters—even if no one else sees it.

And if you’re simply holding space for those who have lost, thank you. That matters too.