The phrase “the shot heard around the world” is often associated with the Revolutionary War, but for me, it resonates with an event that forever altered my life just over a year ago on January 5, 2016.
Two men approached our quaint, white-picket-fence home, and their presence sent my dogs into a barking frenzy. I stepped out of the kitchen to see two military berets through the top window of my front door: one a deep red, belonging to an Airborne chaplain, and the other a green one, like the one my husband, Jake, wore—the same one I keep on the dashboard of our car, and the same one our little boy proudly dons around the house. They knocked on our old-fashioned door, fully aware that I could see them, yet I felt paralyzed.
Beneath me, the century-old hardwood floors, lovingly refinished in the dream home Jake and I had just purchased to raise our son, felt like a fragile support system as my world began to crumble. My son was sleeping peacefully in his car seat just feet away, and all I wanted was to protect him from the devastation that was about to unfold—the shot that echoed through our lives. Those beautiful hardwoods, once a source of comfort, were now swallowing me whole.
On that fateful morning, I woke up thinking it would be just another day in the challenging life of a Green Beret’s wife, navigating the intricacies of motherhood with a two-month-old baby while grappling with severe postpartum depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. I hadn’t even recognized those struggles as real until I sat across from a mental health expert, tear-streaked and exhausted from fear of failing my precious son, the little miracle Jake had anticipated for so long.
Sometimes, life has a way of proving you wrong about how low things can go. Just when I thought I had hit rock bottom, the floor fell from beneath me. That morning started like any other; I had recently been given the green light to spend more time alone with my son after a month of having my dad around for support. I made my coffee, got my little one ready, and we set off for a therapy appointment, navigating the familiar misty Seattle weather.
Afterward, I felt a sense of accomplishment, like I was finally making progress. My therapist had celebrated my mini-graduation, emphasizing how far I had come. We arranged for phone check-ins during my upcoming trip to spend time with Jake’s family before his deployment ended.
But as I dropped my dad off afterward, an unsettling feeling settled in my stomach, warning me that something was amiss. I glanced back to see my son happily gazing at his reflection, yet it wasn’t enough to quell my anxiety. I fumbled with my phone, hoping to reach out to friends, but I told myself I was just being paranoid. That turned out to be one of the biggest fibs I ever told myself.
Upon arriving home, I found my son fast asleep in his car seat—of course, he chose that moment to drift off. I gently carried him inside and set him on the couch, noticing an empty coffee cup that I took to the kitchen. And then, the shot came.
In the warmth of love, we somehow made it through the past year, taking steady steps forward—sometimes crawling, sometimes lifted by the unwavering support of friends and family, and occasionally dancing in shared memories. We survived an entire year without our guiding light.
I spent countless moments curled up on those same hardwood floors, crying, chasing my son, or just lying there while he crawled over me. It was on those floors that I witnessed his first crawl and his first steps. We celebrated family gatherings, hosted parties, and there were days when simply getting out of bed felt like a monumental victory.
I might be expected to say that the anniversary was the hardest day, but the worst day was just over a year ago. The anniversary? It serves as a haunting echo, a reminder of what we’ve endured. We survived the shot, and today is just another day in the ongoing journey of resilience.
On that anniversary, my son and I, along with close family and friends, visited Jake’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery. As we arrived, “Eye of the Tiger” played on the radio—a sign I believe Jake sent to remind me he’s still with us. To everyone who heard the shot that shattered our world and rushed to support us, thank you deeply.
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In summary, the journey of grief and resilience is a winding path filled with unexpected moments of joy and sorrow. Through love, support, and the cherished memories of those we’ve lost, we continue to move forward, always keeping their spirit alive.