Reflection and Remembrance
A few thoughts on Memorial Day
This is a hard day—for a lot of reasons.
Memorial Day carries a different meaning depending on who you are, who you’ve lost, and what you’ve lived through. For those of us in uniform or who have served, it can feel especially charged—layered with memory, expectation, and a quiet pressure to not only feel a certain way but display that publicly.
It’s the performative nature of the day that is starting to irk me. I feel those of us in service are expected to grieve visibly, to carry the weight of loss in a way that’s legible to others, and that we should feel guilty if we’re not mourning “enough.” Guilt that we might want a moment of peace or even happiness on a day others like to lecture us is meant for solemnity.
Grief isn’t something you owe to others. It’s personal, unless you choose to share your story. It’s private, save for those you invite to share it with you. And however large or small the circle you allow into that space, it shouldn’t be ranked or judged.
There is just as much honor in quiet remembrance as there is in public tribute.
Not everyone remembers in the same way, and no one should be expected to.
Over the years, I’ve noticed the pressure to share stories, which is great—when you’re telling the story of someone you served with and honoring your memory. There’s deep power in storytelling, and we should support those who want to share. But we should likewise protect the space for those who don’t.
There is no template for grief.
Just because someone is at a family gathering, or on a hike, or out laughing and enjoying the day with friends, doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten. Sometimes the people who show up with the biggest smiles in the most sunshine are fighting the hardest battles of all.
So how do we lead through this, honoring the fallen and the people still standing without prescribing how grief should look and feel?
Grief isn’t the assignment. Taking care of people is.
Memorial Day, to me, isn’t just about remembering loss, but about remembering why the loss matters.
What kind of future can we build from that why?
How can we take care of our people who are still here? How can we better support mental health, recovery, and well-being? How can we better carry on what our fallen comrades were fighting for through meaningful action? How can we better build things worthy of what they gave?
For those of you in a leadership role, I encourage you to create room for both silence and story, reflect on the why, and take meaningful action on that why.
And whether you’re in uniform or not, whether you want to share your stories or carry a quieter grief, I hope you give yourself space to remember and reflect your way.
We remember, even if it’s not on display.