The Sunrises They’ll Never See

This weekend, as we head into Memorial Day, I find myself thinking about the sunrises I almost didn’t get to see.

I served twenty-five years in the United States Army—most of it as an Infantry and Special Forces officer. I’ve been one vehicle away from three IED detonations. I’ve walked through three separate minefields, inches from stepping on devices that would have ended everything. I’ve been in firefights where streams of tracers flashed past my shoulders and RPGs detonated close enough to feel the shockwave. I’ve treated friends as they bled out on the battlefield, calling for MEDEVAC while the enemy still had us under fire. I’ve watched young soldiers die well before their time. I’ve seen the horrors of combat up close—wounded and dying children included.

And yet, somehow, I’m still here.

Every single day I wake up in St. Augustine, I feel a deep, quiet gratitude for that fact. I get to watch the Atlantic turn gold at dawn. I get to feel the salt air on my skin. I get to walk the beach with my wife and dogs and chase the fleeting light that makes a photograph feel alive. None of that was guaranteed.

When people thank me for my service on Memorial Day, I’m always grateful for the kindness. But I gently redirect the conversation. Memorial Day isn’t about thanking those of us who came home. It’s about remembering those who didn’t.

It’s about the young men and women who took the same oath I did—to support and defend the Constitution of the United States— and paid for that promise with everything they had. They won’t feel another sunrise on their skin. They won’t laugh with their kids or grow old with the person they love. The simple, ordinary joys we take for granted—the ones we sometimes complain about—are the very things they will never experience again.

The freedoms we enjoy, even the ones we sometimes misuse—free speech that can be callous, stupid, or hurtful—are possible because they stood in the gap. They didn’t ask for thanks. They simply did what the Nation asked of them.

As a photographer, I’ve come to see my work differently through that lens. Every time I frame a quiet moment along the St. Augustine coast, every time I wait for the light to fall just right on the Castillo or the Bridge of Lions, I’m reminded that these scenes exist in peace because others paid the price for it. The camera has become my way of saying thank you—not with words, but with presence. I’m here. I’m paying attention. I’m capturing the light they defended so the rest of us could keep seeing it.

This Memorial Day, I hope you’ll pause with me. Not to celebrate the living, but to remember the fallen. To think about the sunrises they’ll never see. To feel, for just a moment, the weight of the gift they gave us.

And then, perhaps, to step outside and notice the light anyway.

Because that’s the best way I know to honor them—by living fully in the world they helped keep free.