Writing Felt Too Small for His Sacrifice

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I spent years convinced that writing, a passion I’d always had, was selfish. It felt selfish to consider pursuing it after my husband was murdered in Iraq. Lou gave his life in service to others, and I thought the only proper way to honor that sacrifice was by doing something equally noble. Writing didn’t seem to qualify.

My husband was so proud to serve. He believed in the mission. He believed he would have time to make up for being away from us. 

I could not stop thinking about that, or how so many people knew his killer was threatening violence, even boasting that he could kill the commanding officer, but never reported him.

Lou and his friend, Captain Phillip Esposito, had no idea they were targeted to die. They never imagined Martinez would step across that line. And they could never have imagined that dozens of their fellow soldiers heard him threatening to do just that, but never told them. 

Lou was only on that base for four days. It was not a coincidence that Martinez waited for him. He wasn’t “just” collateral damage. Martinez knew if he only took Phil out, Lou would finish what Phil had started- investigating him for theft of government property and chaptering him out of the military. 

I felt like I kissed my husband goodbye and sent him straight to the slaughterhouse. 

Three and a half years later the military took it a step further, acquitting the man they knew killed my husband and Phil. They lied to us about a guilty plea. They covered it up and gaslighted me. 

How, then, could I try to do something as “small” as build a writing career? Didn’t I owe it to Lou, and to everyone serving, to scream this case from every mountain top so maybe the next person would not be victimized like this? Didn’t I have a legacy to live up to - one of courage and sacrifice? Wasn’t writing books petty, and wasn’t a dream of becoming a top author and writer beneath the debt I owed?

That’s what I thought, once upon a time. 

I told myself that building a national community to unite Americans, trying to share a message of honor and hope to military communities, and speaking about patriotism and sacrifice to audiences would be more worthy. More serious. More important. Writing about feelings and stories and heartbreak and healing? That felt tiny. Fragile. Trivial. I thought I owed Lou more than that.

For years, I believed my husband’s death meant I couldn’t chase something as "small" as writing.

I carried that guilt with me. I buried my own voice beneath the weight of grief and duty. I believed I had to live two lives -mine and the one Lou didn’t get to finish. And he would have continued a life of service.

So I tried. I tried to be strong in all the ways I thought society expected of a military widow. But the veteran speaking community did not exactly welcome me - I am not, after all, a veteran. And the military spouse community did not exactly want to be reminded of what could happen to them. And the military widow community did not know what to think of a widow whose husband was murdered by another soldier.  

The audiences I was invited to speak to out in the civilian world invariably got to their feet for standing ovations. I received the only standing ovation at the TEDx event I spoke at. I could not understand why my speaking career did not take off.

It took me years to realize the difference between moving people with pain, and inspiring them with purpose. 

The truth is, I was scared, and it showed. Scared that if I wrote or spoke honestly, people would think I was making his death about me. Scared that my words would never be enough to honor him. Scared that I would be judged for healing out loud.

But eventually, the silence became heavier than the guilt.

So I started writing. Quietly. Messily. I wrote through the anger, the hopelessness, the pain. I wrote the ugly truths and the absurd moments. I wrote about the trial, about the predator who exploited my brokenness, about the friends who disappeared and the strangers who showed up.

I wrote my first book during the trial and published it after. It was not a cathartic experience. It was brutal. It forced me to relive every detail. It left me drained. And it led some people to accuse me of exploiting Lou’s death for personal gain, rather than recognizing how much of myself I gave to tell the story I believed needed to be told. I didn’t write it for fame. I wrote it because I hoped it would matter. Because I hoped it would make a difference.

After that, I didn’t publish another book for years.

And even after publishing three of my own books, receiving incredible feedback, and unofficially helping others write their own, I still questioned it. I still thought it was selfish to want to build a career around writing. I still thought I was “supposed” to focus exclusively on what happened to Lou, and somehow that would “prove” something. 

But grief is sneaky. It doesn’t always stay in the tidy boxes people assign it. It spills into dreams. It distorts purpose. And eventually, it breaks you. And when you break, you start seeing things more clearly.

It took me years to realize that writing wasn’t selfish. That it was survival. That telling my story didn’t diminish Lou’s -  it complimented it. That the very act of turning my pain into a new purpose, of allowing my grief to be used for greatness, was its own kind of service.

Writing became the place where I learned to breathe again. It let me process what I couldn’t say out loud. It let me reach people I’d never meet, including other widows and grieving families, who now tell me that my words helped them heal.

And now I get to use my gift to help other people share their stories of courage, inspiration, insight, and wisdom. I love writing books for and with my clients, many of whom become friends. 

I thought writing wasn’t noble enough to earn me peace.

I’m so glad I was wrong.

Writing is brave. Sharing my insight to audiences is, too. 

Using my gifts to create an impact, build a career and establish my legacy is precisely what Lou and everyone else who has served and sacrificed lived and died for. 

My legacy is his legacy, too.