They Live on

Red poppies adorn the Wall of Remembrance at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra.

You don't get over losing brothers in combat. You learn to carry them with you.

In Vietnam, we were Marines - kids, really - thrown into hell together. Some of us made it home. Too many didn't. I came back to a nation split by protest and anger. Not unlike what we're seeing today.

We didn't get parades. We got spit on. Called baby killers. The country we fought for didn't want to look at us, didn't want to be reminded of what they'd sent us to do. So we learned to keep quiet, keep our heads down, carry it all alone.

PTSD doesn't ask permission. For decades, I fought memories from my experience. Jumped at car backfires. Hid during fireworks shows. Couldn't handle crowds. The real battles weren't just inside my head. My wife and son paid the price for a war they never fought.

I eventually found that serving others helped change the dynamic. Veterans coming back from WW II probably discoved the same method. That's when Rotary, Kiwanis and Lions clubs boomed.

When I visited the Vietnam Memorial in D.C., I wasn't ready. Seeing those 58,000 names carved in black granite was emotionally devastating. I found names of guys I'd served with and crumbled.

But something happened as I traced their names with my finger. Other vets were there doing the same thing. We didn't talk, just a simple nod to each other, but we understood. That wall doesn't just hold names - it holds the weight we've all been carrying alone.

Still, it took years more to really understand what that meant.

In 2014, halfway around the world, it finally clicked.

I was in Canberra after a Rotary Convention, standing at the Australian War Memorial during ANZAC Day.

Plaques had red paper poppy flowers placed next to the name. Every visitor wore one too - it's their way of saying "we remember."

What struck me wasn't the ceremony or the speeches. It was how natural it felt. Kids asking their grandparents questions. Families sharing stories. Nobody making it about politics or debates. Just people honoring people. And, like in Washington D.C., fingers tracing the names of people long departed.

That's when I realized something. My fallen Marine brothers died so life could go on. So kids could ask questions. So families could gather. So we could build something better. The weight we carry is one of responsibility.

Understanding that those who didn't make it back fought so we could live, so we could love, so we could be present for our families.

When I see a young person succeed, that's a young Marine from Detroit who wanted to be a teacher. When someone helps a stranger, that's the guy who shared his rations with anyone who needed them. When families sit down for dinner together, that's Danny from Nebraska who talked about his mom's cooking every damn day through boot camp.

They're not gone. They're woven into every choice I make to be better, to help more, to be of service to others. To "Service Above Self."

The poppies in Canberra taught me something the VA couldn't. Remembering isn't about staying stuck in the past. It's about carrying the best of our fallen forward.

So to my brothers-in-arms and to those who didn't make it home: your sacrifice wasn't wasted. It lives in every act of kindness, every moment of courage, every time someone chooses hope over hate.

And to anyone reading this who's lost someone in service: the pain is real, but so is the purpose. The PTSD, the survivor's guilt, the sleepless nights, the damage to relationships - they're part of the weight we carry. I never figured out how to put that burden down, but I learned how to lighten the load. They live on through us. Through what we do next.

Lest we forget.