Finding Meaning in Life After War
I’ll never forget the sound his father made when we got the news that he was gone.
Senior’s 6-foot-4 linebacker frame crumpled into a gut-wrenching heap as he let out the most agonizing, sorrow-filled cry I’ve ever heard.
I went silent. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t even cry until "Taps" played at the funeral.
His Commanding Officer attended. I remember feeling both infuriated and relieved by the CO’s presence—perhaps the CO could shoulder some of the blame while also helping carry the overwhelming weight of our grief.
His death didn’t seem real. He’d survived previous deployments. His departure was too soon—he was so young, so strong, so hopeful. He should have had his whole life ahead of him. Instead, he was laid to rest in a government-provided casket with a flag draped over it.
It wasn’t fair. But it was—and that reality was the hardest to accept.
Charged with Living
After the funeral, I got drunk and spent most of my waking hours—when not at work or school—in a haze of inebriation. I made my own hooch, just like he’d taught me, and spent sleepless nights blaring music, cursing G_d, and wishing the war was over.
Before he mobilized, his parting words to us were, “If something happens to me - live.”
At the time, I thought it was an odd thing to say, probably just something he’d picked up while rucking or working out.
But after he left us for wherever heroes go next, those words took on a haunting weight. Turns out, finding a way to live after losing someone you love in uniform is one of the hardest parts of life after war.
Fearing I would get swallowed up in my grief and consumed by anger over the life-altering results of bad intel, a command decision, and the terrorists that’s sole purpose in life was to harm our nation, I decided to find a new venture, a new project, and hopefully, maybe, new meaning to the life I was tasked with living.
The War Most Americans Dodged, and Then Forgot
He believed deeply in the value of higher education.
Whenever I complained about school, he’d remind me of my responsibility to “better myself” so I could make our rural community a better place. His belief in education—and the fact that he never got to finish his own—kept me grounded.
On the anniversary of his death, I was excused from class to visit him. When I returned, my professor asked about my absence.
When I explained, he launched into a tirade in front of the entire class, claiming “Afghanistan wasn’t a real war”, “only idiots join the military”, and that “soldiers who die ‘get what they deserve’ for occupying the Middle East”. He even bragged about dodging the Vietnam draft by pursuing his Ph.D., saying, “That’s what anyone with half a brain would have done.”
All my grief and anger had a target, and I didn’t hold back. I was led out of the classroom, and the professor failed me on all subjective graded areas of his course that semester.
Over time, I came to realize that my draft-dodging professor was not alone in harboring such dismissive and unpatriotic views. Painful trips to the VA where the care bordered on malpractice, countless failed attempts to find employment after PCSing to a new duty station, and the persistent disregard for military service by people who enjoy the freedoms our soldiers protect yet have the luxury of “opting out” of war reminded me of this divide. Each experience left me grappling with anger and disillusionment, wondering how so many could take so much for granted while a few bore the costs of their indifference.
From the Battlefield to the Bedroom
My spouse likes to joke that our marriage feels a little crowded - there’s me, him, and “all our ghosts” from the war—the memories of people we loved and lost too soon.
In many ways, being married to someone who understands first-hand the irreparable loss that accompanies war is comforting. My spouse knows my war-related grief isn’t dissatisfaction with the life we’ve built together. This man knows because he shares it—the loss of people we love, fighting “forever wars” with no end in sight, and the frustration of living in a country where so many simply don’t care.
For years, I bottled my feelings six days a week, unleashing them only in 50-minute therapy sessions at the military base counseling center. Some days, I’d see his face everywhere; other days, I struggled to remember it. The burned-out government shrinks assured me this was all normal. They recommended books to read, activities to do, and dumb little mantras to repeat daily that were somehow supposed to make me “feel” better (they didn’t). After each session, I’d run hard and fast until the pain in my legs drowned out the ache in my chest—at least for another few days.
My buddies recommended I attend a military event featuring Hershel “Woody” Williams, Medal of Honor Recipient, World War II veteran, and advocate for Gold Star families. I resisted going, insisting that events like that were for people who didn’t understand the realities of war, but after much arm-twisting, I found myself in the front row of the event.
I listened to Woody share his story of life after his war, including his return home to West Virginia and his post-military career as a veteran service officer. It was during this time that he became aware of the lack of community recognition and resources for Gold Star families - the people who lost a Loved One for our freedom. Woody decided to do something about this and founded a nonprofit - the Woody Williams Foundation - that establishes permanent Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments in communities across the United States.
The event also featured a panel of individuals who deeply understood the pain of losing a loved one to war. They spoke candidly about their experiences of grief, loss, and heartache—and then about the meaning they had found. Through their shared pain, they channeled their energy into supporting the military and veteran community. Their work, born from their profound loss, was undeniably impactful in improving lives.
As I listened, I was reminded of Viktor Frankl’s thoughts outlined in Man’s Search for Meaning, “Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible.”
These words resonated deeply as I saw the speakers’ actions embody this truth—finding meaning through responsibility and purpose, even in the face of profound loss.
Finding Meaning in Life After War
I finally accepted that nothing I could do would bring him back, make the pain go away, or erase the long-standing effects of a 20-year war. Blaming commanders for their decisions or railing against civilians who take freedom for granted was pointless. Instead, I poured my energy into fixing the programs and policies that had failed us. I understood the fallout of these lapses at a micro-level - in my home, my family, and my life.
My post-war professional journey expanded well beyond my original intent of just getting a degree and doing something worthwhile in my hometown. I served on national military nonprofit boards, taught at multiple military colleges, researched cyberwarfare, and contributed to nationwide policy and legislation changes relevant to post-9/11 military and their families. I teamed up with combat veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan to start companies, including a government contracting firm that grew to provide quality support to multiple military and veteran programs across the nation. I served as a defense fellow with Special Operation Forces (SOF), advocated on the Hill for legislative changes with Military and Veteran Service Organizations, and published and presented on topics related to bolstering capabilities for the next war.
I think about war a lot - what it cost us, how it shaped our lives, and now, what it means to the future. Somedays, I wonder if my work moves the needle on making things better. Other days, I realize that it’s the only remaining connection I have to him and the life he will not live.
The broken record of his dad’s cry and the playing of “Taps”, aren’t the only background music of my now-sober psyche. Eventually, I found a way to live in the world today - a world without him, a world filled with loss and pain and war, and sometimes - if we can see it - hope, and love, and inspiration to do meaningful things with one another.
The War Comes Home
One of Woody’s Gold Star Memorials was recently installed in our small mountain town.
A handful of anti-war hippies-turned-professors that reside in our community tried to block its installation, stating in an op-ed published in our newspaper that “reminders of dead soldiers were not what [they] wanted to see when [they] are doing yoga in the park.” Their feedback was noted and the installation proceeded as planned.
I visit the memorial frequently - sometimes for just a few minutes, other times all night - sitting under the stars, reflecting on the two decades of war.
Sometimes, other folks - people who share my experience - are at the memorial.
Sometimes we talk, other times we nod knowingly. No words are needed.
We’re all trying to find meaning in life after war…without them.