A shot that echoed across the globe. It’s interesting to consider that this phrase was first penned by Emerson in the context of the Revolutionary War, yet it seems almost destined to describe an event that unfolded just over a year ago, on January 5, 2016.
On that fateful day, two soldiers approached our home, a picturesque place with a white picket fence. The commotion sent my dogs into a frenzy, prompting me to leave the kitchen and peek through the front door. Through the glass, I saw two berets — one a deep red, signaling an Airborne chaplain, and the other a vibrant green, similar to the one my late husband, Ryan, wore. Their presence paralyzed me; despite knowing they were there for a reason, I couldn’t move.
The hardwood floors beneath me, painstakingly refinished by Ryan in our dream home where we planned to raise our son, suddenly felt inadequate to support me. Our little boy was peacefully sleeping nearby, blissfully unaware of the turmoil about to unfold. In that moment, I was desperate to shield him from the devastating news I feared was coming.
I had begun the day like any other, navigating the challenges of being a Green Beret’s wife, a new mother to a two-month-old, and battling severe postpartum depression. I was unaware of the weight of these struggles until I sat with a mental health expert, tears streaming down my face, consumed by anxiety. The little boy, my husband’s dream come true, was my reason to keep going.
Some days, you think you’ve hit rock bottom — and then you discover there’s a further fall. On that morning, I had woken in an empty house after my father had stayed with us for a month. I savored my coffee and prepared to take my son out for a therapy appointment. We drove through the familiar Seattle drizzle, feeling a sense of accomplishment as I prepared to reconnect with the world.
After my appointment, which felt like a milestone, I was determined to take steps toward a brighter future. My therapist praised my progress and assured me she would check in while I spent the final weeks of Ryan’s deployment with his family.
Yet, as I dropped my father off, the sinking feeling in my stomach told me something was terribly wrong. I tried to reassure myself, asking friends for comfort, but deep down I was lying to myself.
Once home, I gently placed my son in his carrier and moved to the kitchen with an empty coffee cup. Then, the shot rang out.
Surrounded by love, we somehow made it through the last year, taking measured steps forward, sometimes crawling, sometimes leaning on the unwavering support of family and friends. We survived a year without our guiding star, fueled by the love that enveloped us.
I spent countless hours on those same hardwood floors, weeping, laughing, and celebrating milestones with my son. We hosted family gatherings and cherished moments, even on days when simply getting out of bed felt like a victory.
While I expected the anniversary to be the hardest day, it turned out that day was the one a year ago. The anniversary became a moment of reflection, a time to remember Ryan. Every person who took a moment to say his name ensured that his memory lived on. The idea that we die twice — first when we leave this earth and second when our name is spoken for the last time — rang true. Ryan will never truly be gone.
On this anniversary, my son and I, along with close family and friends, visited Ryan’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery. As we arrived, “Eye of the Tiger” played on the radio, a reminder that he is still with us in spirit. Thank you to everyone who rushed to our side after that shot echoed through our lives. Your support makes the more challenging days bearable.
Summary
In the wake of her Green Beret husband’s death, Lauren Mason reflects on her journey through grief, resilience, and the enduring love that surrounds her and her son. The anniversary of his passing serves as a reminder of the importance of remembering those we’ve lost, as well as the strength found in community.