The honor Is mine: bearing witness to the lives behind the uniform

As I drive through Verdun, France, on my way to the Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery and Memorial to cover the Memorial Day ceremony, I am overcome with emotion. More than 100 years ago, a battle raged in this area, shaping the world I live in today. My brothers-in-arms gave their lives to free Europe from the tyranny of the Prussian monarchy. I have studied the Great War for most of my life, and now I am standing where they sacrificed everything, leaving behind brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, wives, and children. This is also the ground my grandfather flew over 78 years earlier, fighting Nazi Germany as part of the Army Air Corps.

As a third-generation service member, Memorial Day has never been just another holiday for my family. It carries a weight—a gravity that grounds us in reflection, pride, and reverence. From a young age, I stood alongside my father, who served in the Air Force, admiring the aircraft, tanks, cannons, rifles, and various military machinery that helped win our nation’s wars. We would place our hands over our hearts, listening to the mournful notes of “Taps” echo through the air at each ceremony. What I didn’t understand then, but comprehend deeply now, is that I would spend my adult life not only honoring the fallen but also telling the stories of those still standing in their shadow.

As a public affairs chief, I have the immense honor of writing the stories of Soldiers, Airmen, Sailors, Marines, Coasties, and Guardians. I tell stories that often go unseen: the mechanic who works 18-hour shifts in the mountains of Afghanistan repairing vehicles for patrol; the combat medic who carries not just gear but also grief; the infantryman who can’t sleep next to his wife because of his six combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. I listen to their words, observe their expressions, and recognize the quiet toll that service often takes—the miles from home, the missed birthdays, the unseen wounds.

I’ve covered and participated in Memorial Day ceremonies honoring our fallen from World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Each event is different—some grand, some humble—but they all convey the same truth: the cost of war is paid in human lives, and its debt is borne by generations.

Standing on the green hills of Arlington National Cemetery during a wreath-laying ceremony, I felt the power of silence. Amid the cadence of boots and ceremonial rifle volleys, the stillness spoke the loudest. Each name etched in stone represents not a single life lost but an entire future rewritten: children growing up without parents, parents grieving sons and daughters, and communities forever changed.

And then there are the interviews—conversations that linger long after the camera stops rolling or the notepad is closed. I have been privileged—and emotionally burdened—to interview Medal of Honor recipients. These individuals exhibit unmatched bravery, and their actions in combat are etched into our nation’s military legacy. However, what strikes me most is not their heroism—it’s their heartbreak.

I’ve witnessed these legends of valor break down while speaking about the men they couldn’t save. Their voices cracked not from pride, but from pain. One recipient paused mid-sentence, eyes welling with tears, as he whispered, “They were just kids. They followed me. And they never came home.” Another sat in silence for a full minute, haunted by names that never left the battlefield. Their medals may shine, but their hearts carry weight that cannot be seen or measured.

What makes Memorial Day so profound is that it’s not about glorifying war—it’s about honoring sacrifice. The tens of thousands of service members who never made it home didn’t die for recognition; they died doing what they were asked to do, often without applause, often without question. Many never sought to be heroes—they just wanted to do their jobs, protect their battle buddies, and return to their families.

As someone who shares their stories, I carry a responsibility I don’t take lightly. I’ve looked into the eyes of family members as they share the last time they spoke to their loved one. I’ve watched veterans trace their fingers over names at memorial walls as if trying to reconnect with someone lost decades ago. I’ve unknowingly taken the last picture of someone who would never return. These moments stay with me and shape how I perceive my own service.

Sometimes, people ask me if it's hard to cover these events and hear these stories. Yes, it is. But it’s also the most meaningful work I could ever imagine doing. While the rest of the world might forget a name, a face, or a war, my job is to remember, to record, to ensure that someone reads these stories and sees more than just a uniform—they see human life.

Memorial Day reminds me that behind every folded flag lies a story that deserves to be told. It reminds me why I chose this path—not just to serve in uniform, but to serve with a pen, a camera, and a recorder. I aim to ensure that the voices of our military families echo long after the parades end and the crowds disperse.

When I reflect on my own family’s legacy—my grandfather who fought in Europe, my father who served during Vietnam and the Cold War, and now myself—I see not just a lineage of service but a lineage of sacrifice for something greater than ourselves. Each generation passes down the memories of those who gave their all, and with every Memorial Day I experience, I feel that tradition deepens.

To the tens of thousands who have laid down their lives, to those who carry visible and invisible scars, and to those who support them quietly from afar: I see you. I honor you. And I will continue to tell your stories.

This honor is mine.