I remember packing my gear a few days before a training exercise, spreading every military item I owned across the bed and double-checking my list. My boys wandered in and out of the room, curious about the piles of uniforms, boots, and small comfort items that would follow me into the field. To them, it looked like I was disappearing into another world.

They’d ask, “How long will you be gone? Will we see you tomorrow? Will you be at my soccer game this weekend?” Their questions reminded me that service doesn’t just take me away—it reaches into my family’s daily life in ways even they cannot fully understand.

That tension between family and service isn’t new to me. I grew up with a father who served twenty-two years in the United States Marine Corps. During the week he worked as an over-the-road truck driver, but one weekend each month he set aside his civilian job to put on his uniform and fulfill his duties.

Once a year, in November, I caught a deeper glimpse into his world. At the Marine Corps Birthday Ball, I’d watch as his fellow Marines carried themselves with unmistakable pride. The crispness of their uniforms, the shine of their dress boots, the sharp precision of their movements—it was enough to make the air in the room feel charged. When the colors were paraded in, the room fell silent. The respect those Marines showed for one another—and for the uniform—left an impression that never faded.

Later, my older brother chose a similar path, serving more than two decades in the United States Air Force. His career included deployments to Saudi Arabia, Kyrgyzstan, South Korea, and Germany before he retired. As a kid, I always looked forward to catching up with him after school or on weekends. Once he joined, though, the reality set in that military service could separate families—even for all the right reasons. Both my father and brother showed me that wearing a uniform was never about a paycheck—it was about something greater: values, discipline, and a sense of responsibility that reaches beyond yourself.

In 2011, I thought about joining the military myself. I wasn’t quite sure which branch of service suited me at the time, but regardless, my wife, Jocelyn, and I had just started our family. I was a few years into a new job in Bentonville, Arkansas, with my career going well. We decided to wait. A few years later, the desire hadn’t left me, and I felt it tugging at me stronger than ever. I finally walked into an Army National Guard recruiter’s office.

In that conversation, I learned I was close to aging out and needed to make a decision soon. I decided to join, and at thirty-three years old I shipped out to Fort Benning, Georgia, with the knowledge that if I didn't finish by my thirty-fourth birthday, the opportunity might pass me by.

My drill sergeant called me “old man,” but I pressed on. Over time, they came to see that my drive to be there was different. I didn't join because I had to. I joined because I wanted to serve something bigger than myself. What kept me going wasn't just proving myself, but living up to the legacy that had already been set by my family.

Today, my weekends with the Arkansas Army National Guard sometimes look like a strange balancing act. On Saturday, I might be in formation before the sun even rises, running PT with the unit, shouting at fellow soldiers to push harder and do better. By Monday, I'm back at work, a little louder, a little more energized, joking with coworkers that the Army gave me an extra edge over the weekend.

By evening I'm home, back in “dad mode,” listening to my kids talk about school. They've heard classmates describe me as scary or unapproachable, which makes them laugh, because they know I'm really just a dad still figuring out how to smile naturally. What they see is a father who shows up when he can, even if service sometimes means I miss games or dinners. More than anything, I hope they see the discipline to prepare myself. Training and fitness aren't about vanity for me—they're about being ready when the call comes.

That discipline matters because it connects my family life to my service. My boys may not understand every detail of military life, but they see what it looks like to commit yourself fully. They see that service isn't about orders alone—it's about trust. If you can be counted on to do the small things right when no one is watching, you'll be trusted when everything is on the line.

When I deployed to Southwest Asia, that lesson about trust and support became very real. While I was gone, our community stepped in. Neighbors mowed the lawn. Our church family checked in on Jocelyn and the kids. Our close friends who became like extended family—what we like to call “framily”—brought meals. Even our kids' teachers and school staff made a concerted effort to ensure everything was okay.

My unit's Soldier & Family Readiness Group leaned in as well, supporting my family and connecting my wife with others who were walking the same path. She built lasting friendships through that group, relationships that still remain today. Knowing my family wasn't alone gave me the freedom to focus on the mission at hand.

That's what service looks like to me—not just wearing a uniform, but being part of a network of people who show up. A hometown hero isn't someone looking for medals or recognition. It's the person who helps when no one is watching, the person who sets an example others can follow. It's the neighbor who lends a hand, the coach who stays late, the soldier who serves quietly because it's the right thing to do.

For me, the thread connecting all of this is simple: I serve something bigger than myself.

When I'm in uniform, I'm preparing my unit and myself to face challenges that may come.
When I'm home, I'm raising three boys with my wife who will inherit a complicated world.
When I'm in my community, I'm working to make it a place where families feel safe and supported.

Service doesn't end when I take off the uniform. It's in how I show up for my family, for my community, and for the country I love. That's what it means to me to serve—and that's the lesson I hope my kids will carry with them.