Before the military, before Iraq, before I understood what service truly meant, I was a kid with a journal and an imagination that often carried me far beyond the small Wisconsin towns where I grew up. When people ask children what they want to be when they grow up, they are usually talking about careers. My dreams were different. They weren’t about occupations. They were about the worlds I escaped to when I closed my eyes at night. They were about stories.
My idols weren’t actors or celebrities. At least, not at first. They were the characters themselves. Xena and Gabrielle taught me about loyalty and courage. Sully and Dr. Mike showed me what compassion, patience, and partnership looked like. Nikita and Michael taught me about resilience, sacrifice, and finding humanity in difficult circumstances. Long before I understood the realities of adulthood, those characters gave me examples of strength that stayed with me. Looking back now, I realize they helped shape the values I would eventually carry into my own life.
While television provided one source of inspiration, my family provided another. I come from a military family on both sides. Service wasn’t necessarily discussed every day, but it was woven into our family history. My grandfather served as Military Police during World War II in the Philippine theater. Unfortunately, I never learned many details about his service. Like many veterans of his generation, he rarely spoke about it. The only story I consistently remember hearing was about a stop in Australia on his journey home after the war. Beyond that, much of his experience remained unspoken. As a child, I didn’t think much about those gaps in the story. As an adult, I understand that silence often carries its own weight.
My Uncle Jerry was much the same. Growing up, I knew him primarily as a hardworking man employed at the brewery. He was also one of the people responsible for introducing me to storytelling in a way that would shape my life for decades. Long before streaming services existed and before DVDs had become common household items, Uncle Jerry had a collection of Disney movies on VHS tapes. I borrowed those movies constantly. Each tape felt like a passport to another world. Those afternoons spent watching animated adventures became some of my earliest experiences with the power of storytelling.
At the time, I wasn’t thinking about film theory, narrative structure, or creative influence. I was simply a kid who loved a good story. Yet looking back, I can trace much of my appreciation for film, writing, graphic design, music, and creative expression to those borrowed VHS tapes. The seeds of future passions were planted long before I recognized them. Without realizing it, Uncle Jerry was helping shape the creative side of who I would become.
What none of us fully understood at the time was that Uncle Jerry carried another story entirely.
In 2003, he passed away from a brain aneurysm. Like many families, we gathered to mourn, remember, and celebrate his life. Then something happened that changed the way I viewed him forever. Vietnam veterans began arriving at the funeral. One after another, they appeared. Stories surfaced. Memories were shared. Respect filled the room. It was through those conversations that many of us learned for the first time about his service in Military Intelligence during Vietnam.
The revelation was startling. The man I knew as my uncle and the man these veterans knew as a fellow soldier were the same person, yet they represented two chapters of a life that rarely intersected in family conversations. Standing there, I realized how little we sometimes know about the people closest to us. The uncle who introduced me to Disney movies and storytelling had also carried the weight of military service. He had lived experiences that shaped him in ways I would never fully understand.
That realization stayed with me.
Years later, I found myself writing my own chapter in the family story. There were no intelligence assignments or secret operations. There was no dramatic movie script waiting to be written. I was simply a nineteen-year-old kid from Wisconsin who enlisted in the Army National Guard as an 88M truck driver. Like many young service members, I thought I had a pretty good understanding of what my role would be. Military service quickly taught me otherwise.
One day I was hauling fuel. Another day I was pulling security. Another day I was doing whatever needed to be done to support the mission and help keep those around me safe. Service has a way of stripping away assumptions. It teaches humility. It teaches flexibility. Most importantly, it teaches you that every role matters because every person contributes to the larger mission.
As our generation approaches the twentieth anniversary of Operation Iraqi Freedom, I find myself reflecting on the roads that led me here. I think about my grandfather and the stories he never told. I think about Uncle Jerry and the stories we only discovered after he was gone. I think about the television characters who inspired me as a child, the mentors who guided me as an adult, and the communities that welcomed me when I wasn’t entirely sure where I belonged.
The truth is that some of the dreams I carried as a child eventually came true. I’ve met people I once considered untouchable idols. I’ve built friendships I never imagined possible. I’ve found communities that accepted me during times when I struggled to accept myself. I’ve been given opportunities to tell my story, correct my story when it needs, and, more importantly, listen to the stories of others to empathize and be better. For someone who spent so much time escaping into stories as a child, that feels like a remarkable gift.
Along the way, however, I’ve also learned the importance of accountability. There have been friendships I’ve fumbled, conversations I wish I could revisit, and moments where fear, pride, or frustration influenced decisions I would handle differently today. Age has a way of teaching humility. The older I get, the less interested I am in appearing perfect and the more interested I am in being honest. Growth isn’t about pretending mistakes never happened. Growth is about acknowledging them, learning from them, and making a conscious effort not to repeat them.
When I think about the veterans in my family, I don’t just think about uniforms. I think about the lessons hidden within their lives. My grandfather taught me that courage can be quiet. Uncle Jerry taught me that people often carry entire chapters of their lives that others never fully see. My own service taught me that identity is shaped not only by what happens to us, but by what we choose to do afterward.
The older I get, the more I understand that legacy isn’t built through perfection. It’s built through perseverance. Through humility. Through accountability. Through the willingness to keep moving forward despite mistakes, setbacks, and scars. Some of the most important stories aren’t found in history books. They’re found in family memories, old photographs, funeral conversations, journals written by dreamers, and veterans who rarely speak about their service.
As I reflect on the generations before me and the path that followed, I find myself grateful for every chapter. The dreams. The idols. The family. The friendships. The service. The hardships. The lessons. Together they form a story that is still being written, one page at a time.