Editor’s Note: Written by a 2023 Gold Star writing seminar graduate in support of our Writing Seminar fundraising campaign.

For nine years, I lived at the will of grief—scared to speak my pain too loudly, unsure of where I belonged without my father. It wasn’t until I attended The War Horse Writing Seminar that I finally exhaled.

I spent five days alongside other sons, daughters, and siblings of fallen service members—people who understood the pain I’d long hidden away. That week awoke and redirected me.

In telling my father’s story, I reclaimed my voice. Writing about him was not only an act of remembrance, but of acceptance.

It was the first time I felt fully seen, not despite my grief, but because of it. The seminar didn’t just teach me to write—it gave me permission to feel. And it showed me that remembrance is a shared experience, one that bonds us to each other and brings us closer to the truth of who we are.

Writing has held a mirror to me. It has given me the courage to say what once felt impossible—to myself and to others. Through this process, I’ve come to understand that none of us are truly alone in our pain.

The story I wrote about my father was the first breath I’d taken in nearly a decade. From the moment it was published, I felt something shift. Each person I met through The War Horse—authors, professors, editors, fellows—helped me see what I couldn’t see in myself.

The strength it takes to write through loss, to sit with it and shape it into something meaningful, is unlike anything else. It is not the experience of loss that defines us, but the choice to continue, to speak, to carry forward the memory of those we’ve loved and lost.

Hearing the stories alongside my cohort and sharing the journey in writing with them was the closest I’ve sat with strength in my life. The strength was not in living through the initial news of loss, but the act of moving forward and sharing my and my father’s stories.

When I think of Memorial Day, I don’t think of backyard barbecues or pool parties. I think of rows of white marble headstones. Quiet reminders of lives cut short and stories unfinished. I think of the stillness of the most fully alive man I knew, the one person I felt most alive with, in a casket. I think of the absence of a voice I’ll never hear again.

I think of how different life is after having one less person at the table and what it means to have war steal the lives of those we love. I think of the weight of this sacrifice and how different this country would stand without it.

I think of the way time stops for people who experience loss—the life that was spent with their loved one before, and the life after.

But I also think of the sunrise and the warm, golden light that reminds me I’m still here. My father’s absence has taught me what it means to truly live. His memory fuels my hunger for life, for connection, for truth. This is the power of remembrance—it is how we continue, and how we ensure their stories are never forgotten.

This Memorial Day, I invite you to honor someone you love by supporting The War Horse. Your donation doesn’t just preserve stories—it creates space for healing. It gives people like me a place to be seen, to speak, and to remember together. In doing so, you’re not only honoring those we’ve lost—you’re helping the living breathe again. Thank you for helping us carry their legacies forward.

This essay was edited by Kim Vo and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.