A Letter On Memorial Day
No guilt, no shame, just truth.
My fellow Americans,
I’ll be honest, I didn’t plan on writing anything for Memorial Day this year. Not because I don’t care, and not because the day isn’t worthy of reflection. It’s the performance around it that keeps me quiet. The pageantry. The staged grief. The social media posts, timed just right to catch attention. I get the meaning behind the parades, the BBQs, the flags on gravestones. But that’s never been how I connect to it.
But now that I’ve got a small soapbox, a space to speak plainly without filters or performance, it feels wrong not to use it. Not for attention. Not for applause. Just to say what this day means to me, the best way I know how.
Authentically, I live every day like it’s Memorial Day. Not in some dramatic, “look at me, I’m sad” kind of way. But in how I choose to live. In the decisions I make. In how I carry the memory of those who died defending this country, not just the ones I knew, but all of them. I don’t need to post about it or announce it. I just need to live in a way that honors their sacrifice. Real, not loud.
Memorial Day doesn’t sneak up on me. I don’t need a long weekend or a flag on every corner to remind me of what was lost. I carry it with me, not as baggage, but as a weight I chose to pick up and never set down.
I don’t perform grief. I don’t wrap myself in the flag just to prove I still care. I don’t post memorial quotes with dramatic music behind them. It shows up in how I live. How I speak. How I parent. How I show up when it would be easier to disappear. That’s where the weight lives, in the daily choices no one sees.
I owe it to the ones who never came home to live like it mattered that I did. That doesn’t mean perfection. It means being accountable to a standard that isn’t trending. Doing the right thing when there’s no audience. Holding the line when everyone else lets go.
Memorial Day didn’t start with hashtags or discount codes. It started with loss. After the Civil War, after Americans turned their rifles on each other and left over 600,000 dead, people began placing flowers on graves. They called it Decoration Day. There weren’t sides anymore, just graves. Just names carved into stone and families left to make sense of it all.
It wasn’t about who was right. It was about who was gone.
The tradition grew, especially after World War I, to honor all who died in service. In 1971, it became a federal holiday. And like most things in this country, over time it got louder, flashier, and easier to forget what it was meant to be.
But the root never changed. It was always about the cost. Not the political cost. The human cost.
You walk through a military cemetery and it doesn’t matter what war they fought in, what their beliefs were, or who they voted for. Those stones don’t talk politics. They speak sacrifice. They speak finality. And for me, they speak responsibility.
That’s the history I remember. Not the timeline. The meaning.
Memorial Day isn’t mine to gate-keep, and it doesn’t belong to anyone running purity tests on who’s allowed to enjoy the day. If someone wants to fire up the grill and laugh with their family, good. That’s part of the freedom we fought for. But let’s stop pretending that forgetting doesn’t come with a cost.
Some people will roll their eyes at this day. They'll mock the flag, scoff at the idea of national pride, convinced they’re smarter than the country that gives them room to speak. That’s their right. I won’t try to change their minds.
Because history has a way of reminding people what they’ve taken for granted. When comfort slips. When safety runs out. When the wolves show up and no one’s left to hold the line, that’s when people remember what freedom really costs.
When that day comes, all the likes, hashtags, and smug detachment won’t mean a thing. And those who mocked the cost will have to reckon with a truth they never had the spine to carry.
Memorial Day isn’t about guilt. It’s not about who can cry the hardest or write the most polished tribute. It’s not about turning grief into digital currency. It’s not about proving you care. You don’t need to mourn on command. You don’t need to perform reverence. But don’t mistake noise for remembrance.
You just have to live like freedom still matters. Like someone paid for it. Because someone did. This day isn’t sacred because it’s loud. It’s sacred because people died so you wouldn’t have to.
I don’t light a candle or say a prayer on Memorial Day. I don’t stand in front of a mirror and ask what it all meant. I already know. It meant someone else paid the price so I could come home. It meant I had to figure out what to do with that second chance.
If they can’t live, I better make damn sure I’m living in a way that makes it count. That doesn’t mean chasing some perfect version of America. It means showing up. Raising my kids right. Telling the truth when it’s easier to lie. Doing the hard things without applause.
I don’t care who you pray to, who you voted for, or what ideology you’re loyal to. If you work hard, show up for your family, help where help is needed, and carry yourself with integrity, then you’re doing it right.
You don’t need to wave a flag to be a good American. You just need to remember you have the freedom to choose. That’s what they died for. Not obedience. Not conformity. The chance for you to live your life on your terms, with character.
I’ve seen a lot of people talk a big game about what it means to be American. Some wrap themselves in the flag like armor. Others scream into microphones, hoping volume will cover the emptiness underneath. But Memorial Day doesn’t belong to noise. It belongs to the ones who gave everything and the ones who haven’t forgotten that.
We live in a country where you get to choose the kind of person you want to be. That choice was bought and paid for. And while some people waste it screaming, posturing, or tearing others down, I don’t have time for that. I’m too busy trying to live in a way that honors the ones who no longer get the chance.
You don’t have to think like me. But if you’ve got no integrity, no discipline, no sense of what’s been sacrificed so you can be here, then don’t ask for respect you haven’t earned.
I don’t believe life hands out meaning. That’s not how any of this works. The universe doesn’t care if we live well or waste every breath. There’s no scoreboard. No grand tally. But Memorial Day, at least for me, is one of those rare moments where the noise fades, and I’m reminded that meaning can still be made. Even if no one notices.
Absurdism tells us the world won’t give us a reason, so I create my own. I choose to remember. I choose to care. I choose to carry something that matters, even when it’s heavy. I don’t see graves and think of sadness. I see them and think of responsibility. Of the quiet truth that I still get to wake up, hug my kids, fix my mistakes, and keep going.
That’s sacred. Not in some religious sense, but in the way a moment becomes undeniable. Real. Clear. I don’t honor the fallen by worshiping the flag or turning their sacrifice into performance. I honor them by living like it cost something. Because it did.
Memorial Day is not a ceremony. It’s not a headline. It’s not a reminder on a calendar.
It’s sitting on the back porch, watching my kids tear through the yard like the world’s never known chaos. It’s the quiet moments, coffee at sunrise, hands in the dirt, hearing my wife laugh across the house. It’s knowing that all of it exists because someone else gave up their shot at this life.
I don’t spend the day in silence. I don’t make a speech. I don’t turn my grief into a public display. I just show up, every day, 365. Fully. With presence. I live. Not because I’m trying to forget the fallen, but because I haven’t.
There’s no manual for how to observe Memorial Day. For me, it’s not about being solemn, it’s about being intentional. I get to be here. That’s enough. That’s everything.
So I spend the day with the people I love. I stay off my phone. I breathe deeper. And I carry the weight, not as a punishment, but as proof that their sacrifice wasn’t wasted on me.
I don’t say “be worth the sacrifice” as a slogan. I say it because it’s the only way I know how to repay what can’t be paid back. No one owes you remembrance. You have to earn it with how you live. I remind myself of that every day. Not just when the flags come out. Not just when the news runs a tribute reel.
Every day I wake up, I know someone else didn’t. And that has to mean something.
So I do the work. I raise my kids with honesty and grit. I help when I can. I speak truth, even when it costs me. I carry the names, the faces, the stories that most people will never know. And I carry them in how I live, not in words, but in action.
Memorial Day isn’t about death. It’s about what we do with the life we still have.
You don’t have to be loud about it. Just be real about it. Be worth the sacrifice.
Call to Action: If you’re reading this, you don’t owe anyone a performance. You don’t have to prove your gratitude with noise or ritual. Just ask yourself, in the quiet moments: Am I living in a way that honors the gift I’ve been given? Am I worth the sacrifice? If the answer isn’t clear, that’s okay. The meaning lives in the striving. Show up. Live with presence. Make it count. That’s all anyone could ask.
In Memory of Sgt. Christopher R. Hrbek
Chris was my roommate for several years during the early part of our careers when we were with India Battery, 3/10. We fought like roommates do, a Jersey kid roomed up with a Johnny Reb. We butted heads constantly, laughed harder than we should’ve, and no matter how bad the day was, Chris always found a way to make people laugh.
One of my favorite memories was a night out in Greenville, North Carolina. We were at a college bar, and Chris spotted the prettiest girl in the place. The rest of us didn’t even bother trying, she looked way out of our league. But not Chris. He grinned and said, “Watch and learn, boys. This is a man’s game.”
He walked up and said, “Hey, you wanna dance?” She looked him up and down, short stature and all, and with a smug laugh said, “Um, no thanks. I don’t want to dance with you.” Her friends laughed too.
Without missing a beat, Chris threw back his loud Jersey laugh and said, “I didn’t ask you to dance. I said you look fat in those pants. You wish you could dance with a man like me. Keep dreaming.”
And then, just like that, he turned and walked away with the swagger of a king.
She stood there stunned, then walked across the floor and danced with him anyway.
That was Chris. Bold. Unapologetic. Full of life and just reckless enough to make the rest of us look dull. He could light up a room, get under your skin, and make you laugh all in the same breath.
There will never be another Dirty Squirrel.
There will never be another Chris Hrbek.
Born on June 6, 1984, in Westwood, New Jersey, Christopher R. Hrbek was a spirited and dedicated individual known for his infectious smile and unwavering commitment to service. A graduate of Westwood High School in 2002, he was actively involved in his community as a Boy Scout, high school wrestler, and a nine year volunteer firefighter with the Westwood Fire Department.
Inspired by the events of September 11, 2001, and with a deep seated desire to serve, Chris enlisted in the United States Marine Corps on his 18th birthday. He served with distinction as a field artillery cannoneer in the 3rd Battalion, 10th Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force, based at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.
During his military career, Sgt. Hrbek completed multiple deployments, including two tours in Iraq. On December 23, 2009, amidst enemy fire in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, he heroically saved the life of his battalion sergeant major who had stepped on an improvised explosive device. For his valor, he was awarded the Bronze Star with Combat "V" posthumously.
Tragically, on January 14, 2010, Sgt. Hrbek was killed in action when he stepped on an IED while checking for secondary devices after his vehicle was hit. He was 25 years old. His hometown honored him with a hero's welcome, and his legacy continues through the Sgt. Christopher R. Hrbek Memorial Scholarship Fund.
Donations may be sent to the Sgt. Christopher Hrbek Scholarship Fund at:
Pascack Community Bank
21 Jefferson Avenue
Westwood, New Jersey
(201) 722-4722
"Doesn't belong to anyone to gatekeep" spot on, I hate when people turn what should be (in my mind) either a celebration of life/solemn remembrance of those who died to allow us to continue to live, or a time for people to enjoy the life they died to give us. Why people choose to instead fight about what the purity of someone else's purpose is or is not makes no sense at all.
keep it up man.
This is the way. I am grateful you are here. Well said.