When I think of courage, I don’t picture a battlefield.

I picture my mother, Sandy, standing on a porch in Catlin, Illinois, waving goodbye to my father as he left for Vietnam. Three boys tugging at her skirt and a smile on her face. Not a brave smile. A necessary one. She was not trying to inspire; she was trying to hold it together.

That is Sandy. Steadfast, anchored in love, and always ready to make any place, no matter how unfamiliar, feel like home.

She raised a family through war, overseas relocations, six pregnancies, the loss of two sets of twins, and decades of military life marked by isolation and sacrifice. She was tough; she had to be. My younger brothers and I referred to her as “Sarge” and “Samurai” and sometimes still do—when we are out of arm’s length.

Childhood Shadows

My mother grew up in a small town in Illinois in a home where silence echoed louder than support. Her biological father left when she was six. Her mother, overwhelmed and shaped by her time, believed girls should stay quiet and make way for the boys. And for a while, Sandy did.

But even then, she had a spine of steel. When her mother remarried, then 10-year-old Sandy chose to keep her last name, an act of quiet defiance that would become her lifelong signature. She did not posture or fight loudly. She simply stood firm.

She married a Navy man, my dad, and followed him from state to state, then country to country, after he enlisted in the Air Force immediately on finishing his Navy tour. Together they weathered poverty and the exhausting churn of base life, where neighbors changed as often as assignments.

They lost four sons—two sets of twins—before I was born. I once stood at the graves of two of my brothers, tiny markers in a rural Illinois cemetery. I was the first child after their deaths and realized that if they had lived, I would not have been born. It is a sobering kind of fate, one I still wrestle with.

Leadership Without Rank

While my father wore the uniform and held the rank, it was my mother who kept the family together. She could stretch a commissary budget to feed four children and cover an entire grocery cart filled with milk. She ran our logistics better than any supply squadron.

She once told me about a time in Hawaii when my dad, then a staff sergeant, got a small raise. A landlord with a reputation as a cheapskate read about it in the local paper and promptly raised the rent by the same amount. It was hard to get ahead.

When shelling was reported near my dad’s air base during the Vietnam War, she simply turned the TV off, washed the dishes, and prayed. No one in town asked how she was doing. My parents lived close to family, but in the “crunch time” of daily life, they were usually not available to help. So she carried on. Quietly.

I do not think she ever fully exhaled that year.

The Invisible Load

They say laughter is the best medicine. As a young Navy wife, she gave my dad a new shirt and pants for his recent promotion and told him to return from the NCO Club in time for dinner. He returned late, the food was cold, and his clothes were mud-splattered and torn. The sailors had celebrated, and the drinks flowed.

She took one look at him and began packing what few clothes she had, intending to return to her parents’ home in Illinois. Inebriated, my father returned from the kitchen with a pair of metallic salt and pepper shakers. “Well, since we’re getting a divorce, we have to divide everything,” he said. “Do you want the salt or the pepper?”

They still have those old, dented shakers on their kitchen counter, emblematic of how they weathered life’s storms over 60 years of marriage.

We moved often, to new bases, schools, rules, and routines. I sometimes wonder how she kept track of each place’s expectations without a personal secretary.

Military life is replete with funny anecdotes. In Germany, my brothers and I were on the base judo team. One day, we were driving to a tournament in Switzerland, the three of us in the backseat wearing our gis and chewing the packs of gum she gave us, when one of my brothers threw a wad of gum behind her.

She was wearing a brand-new knit dress, and there was no A/C in the car. The gooey mess adhered to her dress and the seat. She leaned forward and said, “I’m stuck!” Her eyebrow twitched when she was angry. I saw the twitch and knew we had it.

She looked at Dad and said one word, “Larry.” Raised Catholic, I started crossing myself and looking for any holy water in the back seat. None to be found, I resigned myself to my fate. She did not need to raise her voice: the trip was canceled. Dad ensured it was tough sitting on those vinyl seats.

She taught us that leadership is about presence. Showing up. Looking out for one another and helping the guy who could not. That’s why I always had an affinity for the underdogs, like us, in school. They might just surprise you. A resilient tribe, us military brats.

That lesson came through on a sweltering summer visit to Grant’s Farm in St. Louis to see the world-famous Clydesdale horses. We waited in the hot line for tickets. A child cried incessantly in front of us, and the mother, exasperated, shook the child hard. A woman approached the mother and told her to stop it or else. The mother stopped. I turned to the family and said, “Let’s go. I’ve seen all the animals I want to.” I give Mom credit for instilling that kind of thinking.

Coming Full Circle

Years later, I joined the military and followed in my father’s footsteps. But whether I served stateside or overseas, I drew on my mother’s examples more than I realized.

In Athens, a Greek industrialist befriended us and rented us his villa. It was beautiful and massive, and I remember my mom cleaning that place on her hands and knees. You could eat off the floor. She even painted a small bathroom hot pink! Overlooking her dubious color sense, I learned that even when good fortune prevailed, stay humble. Do things with humility; you may need it later.

Fast forward to Scott Air Force Base, Illinois, and the old substandard base housing we lived in. On a memorable night, a piece of plaster from the wall hit me, waking me from sleep. She reminded me that’s life: One day you’re living in a Greek villa, and the next you are picking plaster out of your mouth.

My mother never wore a uniform. But she understood the mission and sacrifice. Those are good traits in any leader. Rain or shine, she showed up and took care of us.

She would never call herself a leader. But she showed us how to hold the line. How to endure. How to love.

With gratitude, I honor the woman who taught me that love can be both fierce and resolute. That strength does not shout.

She is not a saint. She would be the first to say so. She’s Sandy. Petite. Tough. Loving. And unshakable.

When asked who I look up to, I do not name generals or astronauts. I mention my parents and I say her name.

Because she taught me steadfast service is not weakness. Sometimes, it’s the greatest strength there is.

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.