We Didn’t Meet in Peace, But We Learned It Together

After months of writing through trauma, pain, and survival, starting the new year with something lighter—something hopeful—felt necessary.

This post is that breath.

As I mentioned a couple of posts back, my husband and I became friends during the most traumatic period of my life. It was messy, misunderstood, and surrounded by controversy from those close to us and from people who learned our story early on. But none of that mattered to us. He wasn’t there to take advantage of my vulnerability. He never pressured anything. He was simply good company during a storm I was trying to survive—and he stood by me while I saved myself.

Our story starts at Camp Ripley, Minnesota, during an Army Annual Training flight exercise.

At the time, he was a helicopter crew chief. I was working as the unit administrative NCO, though my official MOS was CBRNE (Chemical Operations Specialist). During this exercise, I was assigned to fuel aircraft and learn more about the aviation side of operations. Our company was out of Nebraska, and his detachment was from Northeast Iowa. Between us, we were supporting multiple aircraft from different companies under our battalion.

Fueling aircraft during this exercise meant operating under “hot refueling”—fueling helicopters while they remained running for efficiency, especially given the volume of aircraft cycling through. Everything was running smoothly until the Iowa aircraft came in.

We briefed them on our operations, and they informed us they didn’t have authorization from their leadership to hot fuel and would be shutting down engines. They cited a safety checklist none of us had ever heard of. We strongly recommended they remain running for efficiency and explained the safety measures in place—but they shut down anyway.

Frustration to the say the least, but we drove on.

When the aircraft powered down, another soldier and I approached to fuel. The crew chief hopped out—helmet still on, face unseen—and asked, “Do you hot fuel here often?”

Already irritated and convinced this man was hitting on me, I snapped back, “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?”

He calmly repeated himself: “Do you guys always hot refuel, or just here?”

We finished fueling, exchanged numbers, and went our separate ways—without a second thought.

That evening, after a long, hot day in the field, the Nebraska crew was unwinding in the barracks with a few beers when the Iowa crew walked in. The military loves to preach adaptability and flexibility, but after a grueling day filled with small operational hiccups, my patience was thin. They asked if we had beer to share—and while we did, I made sure to give them hell. Jokingly… mostly.

Fast forward to October.

Those same crews mobilized together to the Southwest Border for a year. I was in the middle of a divorce, leaving my son for the longest stretch of time I ever had. I was emotionally wrecked, deeply hurt, and completely done with men. I wanted to be alone—to work on myself, to heal, to find myself again.

Ryan and I became friends.

We talked about stressors, our kids, operations, and life. We were clear with one another from the beginning: there was no romantic interest. Just friendship. Just company. Just someone who understood the environment we were in.

And yet, I fought with everything in me not to fall in love with this man.

He was sweet, funny, adventurous, kind, honest, and unapologetically himself. He was everything I would ever want in a partner—just not then. Not ever with the state of mind I was in. I was already battling too much. I was honest with him about all of it, and he promised he would be there however I chose to have him in my life.

He never crossed boundaries.
Never had ill intentions.
Never took advantage of my vulnerability.

He was simply present.

Time passed, and eventually, the feelings we were trying so hard to ignore demanded acknowledgment. When I finally approached him about the emotions swirling around us, he confessed his love for me—and I confessed mine for him.

I had never felt that way with another human being.

With him, I felt safe. I felt genuinely happy. I felt like myself—even when I didn’t yet know who that was. I started seeing life differently. I learned optimism, faith, hope, and love. Real love. Not the kind I had forced in my previous life, but the kind that grows naturally, honestly, and without fear.

Fast forward four years, and we are still exactly who we were then.

Our love hasn’t faded. He loves me just as fiercely now as he did then, and I love him the same. We choose each other every single day. He is my best friend. He knows me better than I know myself most days, and when one of us starts to fall, the other is there to pick them back up and drive on.

To the best husband, the best father, and my best friend—

I love you.