After taking a few hours to process a recent visit to Arlington National Cemetery, I wanted to share. Whenever I process, I write. It’s the inner journalist in me . . . the one that considered journalism and then turned down a journalism scholarship at University of South Carolina to become a Clemson Tiger and go the business route. But I always come back to writing. If I can get it out of my head and into words on a screen, I feel like a circle has closed. If those words actually make sense, I feel like that circle has become a bubble and has burst, hopefully sprinkling inspiration, authenticity, and hope to others.

All of my thoughts today have centered around this woman under the umbrella. The moment I saw her, I lost my legs. There was something about her. The way she sat in front of the headstone. Alone. Under a black umbrella and large black sunglasses, surely to hide the tears we all would so lovingly understand.

We walked past her, on our long mission of visiting the 25 gravesites in our list of loved ones and friends of loved ones. But I kept looking over my shoulder at her.

We walked through family after family sitting in their “spots.” Some were laughing and celebratory. Others were quiet and solemn. And it was ALL okay. This incredible understanding that each person grieves differently, for different lengths of time, and in different ways seemed to fall like a blanket over section 60 today. We saw what was surely brothers-in-arms circled around one headstone, laughing and sharing stories. We saw little children hugging the headstone of what was likely their daddy. We saw random strangers going up to families and sitting down to learn more about what this sort of loss was like, and what the person who was lost was like. We saw veterans wearing their Vietnam Vet hats with pride, simply there to help and take photos of families if needed.

But my mind kept going back to the girl with the umbrella.

As we crossed back to find another friend’s site, I told Will I had to go talk to her. I approached slowly, knelt down, and said, “Excuse me, is this your husband?” Turns out, it was her brother. He was a Marine EOD and volunteered for a deployment from which he never returned . . in 2004. I learned that since he was buried, she’s flown down from up north every year (except for last year), to spend the entire day with him, and then flies home. Since 2004. I asked her how it made her feel and she said, “Honestly, it brings me comfort.” And that, my friends, was all I needed to hear, to understand how this type of loss must be so excruciating, that you’ll go to such great lengths to find that comfort, which feels lost and unattainable. I cannot begin to relate to her experience, but I can understand the intention behind the steps of her journey.

I walked away encouraged, inspired by her dedication, and reminded that the names we heard 17 years ago are as real, and true, and raw to someone even to this day. Those of us without that experience had the luxury to honor and then move on. THEY are stuck in a perpetual before and after. Whether it was 17 years ago, 1 year ago, or 50 years ago.

So let this be a reminder to us all.
Loss—regardless of when—is real.

May we be inspired by these strong families.
May we pause a moment during the next 364 days to remember them.
May we live lives worthy of their sacrifice.