He stood so proudly, in front of the American flag with his recruiter, a fresh haircut and a smile. My son was barely a man at just 18 and it was like looking at my little boy up there. He was officially dedicating himself to serving our country and its citizens, a dream that I’ll shamefully confess I tried desperately to talk him out of, only because of my own selfish need to keep him home. My attempts had failed and, even so, I stared at him proudly, with a tear in the corner of my eye.

I remember driving him to the MEPS station, where he would leave, early the next morning, for Basic Training, and how much I prayed for him. I demanded myself to stay strong, not to break down in front of him, because I knew that it was tough for him, too. The two hour ride was quiet and somber, neither of us knowing quite what to say as he stared at his phone. I failed at my mission when I hugged him goodbye. The tears just erupted from my eyes uncontrollably and, as his father and I pulled away, leaving him behind, I watched through the rear window as he walked into that brick building. I was instantly miserable. He had never been away from home for longer than a few days and I hoped that the next ten weeks would fly by.

We knew what to expect from Basic Training. My son had done his research for months before he left and even before he enlisted. He understood that there would be little sleep, many push-ups and a whole lot of uncertainty. He was prepared to be yelled at, fresh off the bus, by Drill Sergeants, belittled and critiqued by them. It wasn’t personal, just the military’s way of cutting a trainee down to build him/her back up into a proper soldier. Of course, to a mother, the thought of it was heart-wrenching.

His phone was taken away, along with all of the other trainees’, and I had no idea when, or even if, I would hear from him again during his training. It was all up to the officers there. I’ll admit that I was a total basket case that day, knowing that I no longer had any sort of contact with him whatsoever. I was completely cut off from him and the military controlled any and all communications between us. At that moment, life seemed so unfair, but I had to remind myself that it was what my son wanted, what he had signed up for, and those steps were necessary to transition him from a boy to a man, a soldier in the United States Army. In truth, I understood that it couldn’t happen in the grasp of his mother, which is why the officers cut that communication.

I knew that it would likely be several weeks before I heard from him and I needed a way to get through it. I found a couple of support pages on Facebook and began writing him a letter every single day, just my way of still being able to “talk” to him. I only sent them once a week but I wrote every day, without fail. Some days were definitely tougher than others, for sure, as I thought of him being here, in the high heat and humidity, being tested on his mental and physical limits. I had no idea if he was okay, but I had always heard that no news was good news so I kept that in my mind. Truly, those Facebook support groups and knowing that he was getting my letters . . . those are what got me through.

The first letter I got from my son was hard to read. The tone was one of defeat, mentioning how he was homesick and didn’t really know anyone there yet, but the worst sentence stated that he probably wouldn’t write any more for a while because it was too emotional for him. Those words jabbed me like a sword in the gut. I needed the little bit of communication that I could get from him. I continued to write those letters, every single day, reminding him how tough he was and why he had chosen it all. I reminded him how much his family and friends were behind him, cheering him on, and the next letter I got from him, more than a week later, was actually more upbeat, mentioning that he was getting used to the procedures there and felt like he could get through it. It was a huge relief to me.

His first phone call home was 3 or 4 weeks into his training, when he notified us that he had phased up. He was only allotted ten minutes, but I was thankful to hear his voice and know that he was doing well. He only sent a letter every 2 or 3 weeks, but I checked the mailbox, faithfully, hoping for one each day. The second call he was allotted was another ten minutes to tell us that he had, again, phased up. I could hear in his voice and through the tone of his letters that he was doing well and pushing through, and that made his absence a little easier for me.

The support group of moms and other family really helped me understand what was involved in each phase of training and when things would happen. I was so thankful for the photography company that periodically posted action photos of the different platoons in training, and I always searched each one meticulously, looking for my boy. Finding photos of him was like finding gold, and I could see that he was still strong.

When he stood on that field in formation with his platoon for graduation, I couldn’t have been more proud of him. He had become a proud soldier, and I was appreciative of the changes the military had made in him.

The bottom line is that, it isn’t just the soldier that serves. His family must serve with him and it is one of the most difficult things ever to watch your soldier, your Marine or whatever your loved one has chosen to be, leave for months at a time, not knowing when you might hear from him again, wondering if he is safe and worried about where he will be sent to next. Mothers sacrifice their children, children sacrifice their parents, all in patriotic support of their hero. It isn’t only the soldier. We serve too.

Thank you and God Bless to all who serve and have served.