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After twenty-three years wearing the uniform, most of what I carry isn’t pride—it’s memory. Names I still say at roll call in my head. Faces that never got older. Promises we made to each other about why we were there.
I didn’t serve so that politicians could keep using the military as a first option instead of a last one. I didn’t sign up for open-ended wars of choice that leave more graves than they do answers.
If the day comes when America really has to fight to protect our soil, our people, or our most fundamental way of life—I’ll stand ready again. Until then, I’m asking the people who send us: please don’t spend another generation proving you can start something you don’t know how to finish.
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