The phrase “the shot heard around the world” has historical roots, famously penned by Emerson in relation to the Revolutionary War. Yet, it resonates profoundly with what I experienced just over a year ago on January 5, 2016.
Two men stepped into our yard, bordered by the white picket fence, and approached our porch. The noise sent my dogs into a barking frenzy, prompting me to leave the kitchen. As I peered through the top window of the front door, I saw two berets: one deep red, worn by an Airborne chaplain, and the other green, the same color as the one my husband, Jake, wore. The same beret that now sits on the dashboard of our car. They rang the doorbell and knocked on our old wooden door, and although I knew they were there, I felt paralyzed.
Beneath me, the century-old hardwood floors—refinished by hand in the dream home Jake and I had purchased to raise our son—felt inadequate to support me as my world crumbled. Just feet away, our son lay peacefully asleep in his car seat, a little boy I would do anything to protect from the reverberations of that fateful shot.
I woke up on January 5, thinking it would be like any other day in my already challenging life as a Green Beret’s wife and a mother to a two-month-old. I was grappling with severe postpartum depression, anxiety, and OCD, conditions I had only begun to comprehend after countless days of fear and sleepless nights spent worrying about my son, the most precious gift I had ever received.
There are moments when you believe that your life has reached its nadir, that it cannot possibly get worse—only to find that the ground beneath you has given way. That morning began like any other. I had just been told I could spend more time alone with our son after a month of help from my father. I prepared for a therapy appointment, feeling a mix of hope and anxiety.
We hopped into our bright-red car and navigated through the typical misty Seattle weather. I felt a sense of accomplishment after my therapy session, where my therapist noted the significant progress I’d made. I was ready to leave Seattle in two days to spend the final weeks of Jake’s deployment with his family.
But as I returned home, a sinking feeling gripped me. My son, content in his car seat, didn’t ease my worry. I reached out to friends, convincing myself I was just being paranoid; little did I know that was one of the biggest lies I’d ever told myself.
When I arrived home, my son had fallen asleep. I gently set his carrier on the couch and noticed an empty coffee cup—then the shot rang out.
Surrounded by love, we made it through the past year, each step a testament to the strength of family and friends. We crawled, sometimes carried, sometimes danced in memories. We survived a year without our guiding light, enduring by holding onto the love that enveloped us.
I’ve spent countless hours on those very hardwood floors—sobbing, cursing the universe, chasing after our son, playing peek-a-boo, and lying down as he crawled over me. Those floors witnessed his first crawl, his first wobbly steps, and countless family gatherings. There were days when just getting out of bed felt monumental.
You might expect me to say that the anniversary of Jake’s passing was the most difficult day, but the truth is that day was over a year ago. The anniversary? It serves as a painful reminder, a loud echo of the past. We survived the initial shot; today is just another day we face together, buoyed by the strength of our loved ones.
The anniversary became more than just a date; it was a moment when everyone paused to remember Jake, to speak his name. As the saying goes, you die twice: once when your soul departs, and again when your name is spoken for the last time. Jake will never fade away.
On the 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. I like to think Jake has his ways of reminding me that he’s still with us. To everyone who has supported us through this journey, thank you deeply. Your love makes the unbearable bearable.
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