Yesterday marks three years. I remember it as I do every other unforgettable annual event. Except, days before this anniversary, I begin to reflect and remember. I re-feel the events as I remember them. I feel the fear, then the relief, then the sorrow and loss.

Sgt. Ryan David Sharp died three years ago on Dec. 3, 2011. Ryan was a wonderful soldier, friend, father, son, and brother. He was a quiet, unassuming guy who did his job well and had very little bravado about serving the nation he loved so dearly. Ryan was a colleague of my husband’s, and I knew his sense of humor, saw him often, and distinctly remember our last in-person encounter. His face is ingrained in my memory, and I feel there is a reason I remember him so vividly in that day.

I think I was supposed to.

I was an FRG leader for the deployment cycle. I helped the battalion process paperwork—the pre-deployment checklist. All the stuff the soldiers loathed doing and I was the face they had to associate with the process. So, I was not a very popular lady on those days leading to ship day.

There was sarcasm and flippant commentary.

There were lost souls who had no idea what to make of the stack of paperwork.

There we re-dos and long explanations.

Then, there was Ryan.

Ryan, who quietly filled everything out.

Ryan, who was always kind and polite.

Ryan, who sat back and watched the circus coming from all angles with an entertained look on his face.

I wish I had taken a picture.

That was the last day I saw him.

Ryan was killed by sustaining injuries after stepping on an IED while recovering the body of a fellow fallen brother, Sgt. 1st Class Dennis Ray Murray. Ryan volunteered to go. Ryan wanted to bring his brother home.

It was so shocking to hear the news of casualties. I never experienced it before. Three deployments in and this was the first time I knew those who had fallen. You think you know how that feels and how you’ll react.

You probably don’t, and that’s okay. I didn’t.

There is a strange, horrid relief when you find out that your service member is safe. It is the most wretched feeling of elation and guilt. It is difficult to describe, and I still feel awful for feeling that feeling.

But, it is there, and I have struggled with how to balance it by honoring and supporting in the best ways I know how. We all do.

Some become avengers.

Others try to be community healers or support for the families of the fallen.

Others, still, cling tighter to their own families and friends.

Most embody a combination of all of these.

It is how we get through. It is how we justify that feeling of horrible elation.

I hope that Ryan is proud of us.

I hope that he knows that his ultimate sacrifice brought us all together in healing.

I hope he is proud of how we support his family.

I hope he knows that he gave us all an enormous gift of community, of purpose, and of rededication to the honor of service.

I hope he knows how important both his life and his death have been to all of us.

Every day, I hope I make him proud—of my family, our Army, and our military.

The loss we feel is such an individual and complex feeling. For each of us it means something different and special, from a Gold Star family and their resolve to heal and be and grow into a new life with a hole in their hearts, to the rest of us. Each feeling we have is valid and a part of the process. But, it is the actions, the practices, that come out of those feelings, that truly honor those we have lost and the families that remain.

The loss we feel is so much bigger than us.