Dear Past Me

(My Path Through Mourning and Mortuary Realities)

As I write this, I want to prepare you for a journey unlike any other, shaped by a word we all confront yet are never truly prepared for: Death. This five-letter word, a universal inevitability, feels unnatural in its impact.

How can you prepare to be a Mortuary officer in the Military? Helping families during their worst moments is a terrible honor and privilege I don't wish on others. What will bother you? I guess it depends.

Once you look into the eyes of parents who have lost their child, you will never forget those images. You will remember the blank stare of disbelief, the father looking into the distance, numb and not processing a word you say. The mother, with tears in her eyes, making sounds that cause your stomach to flip. This profound sadness, a shared human experience, will reshape your understanding of loss.

You will notice extreme headaches and pain in your jaw. Your dentist will tell you that you are grinding down your teeth and locking your jaw at night. "Anything stressful going on?" they will ask. This physical manifestation of stress is a stark reminder of how deeply our bodies internalize the traumas we witness.

The phone rings and suddenly your heart races. Breathing is shallow. It's either a telemarketer or command post, notifying you of a casualty. In the chaos of the moment, you are the calm in the storm, absorbing harsh words, reminding others of the process. You wonder about the condition of the body…how bad will it be?

The smells, sights, and sounds in the morgue or funeral home may not bother you. You will learn tricks like putting Vaseline under your nose, checking injection points for embalming, ensuring their skin tone looks as "natural" as possible, and ensuring the uniform looks perfect. These remains were someone who mattered, and your mind lingers on what they were like when a soul inhabited their body.

The family will try to process what you are saying. You will never have all the answers and may become the object of their anger. Leaders will want to go fast, grappling for control, but death mocks their efforts. With every case, you find different ways to process. You Google the deceased, pondering their unfinished dreams. You begin to understand that in your weakness, you find a strength not just in doing a job, but in honoring a life.

The queen of death. Not the most fun title. And then, when someone you know dies, someone in your direct chain of command, it hurts. One part of your brain is running the checklist, while another area is thinking about those dear children left behind. You communicate with key stakeholders, but this time, it's personal. Your boss's words are clinical, and you are pissed and surprised he isn't checking in on you. This was someone you knew, someone you cared for. But at this moment, there really are no comforting words.

Take courage, my friend. You are here on purpose and for a purpose. You will slow down and cherish life, the gift of a new mercy on a new day. For those who are hurting, you will be a calm presence in a storm. The friendships and moments will last forever. You learn about the lives of amazing service members who served. You will cherish their lives and honor them. You will be invited by the families to attend memorials, funerals, wakes, and family events. People will welcome you into their homes, comfort you, sometimes even pray for you.

You will choose joy because this hard life we are given is temporary. You will see how fragile life is. How little control we have, but there will be peace. You will have far more empathy for those who are hurting. A front-row case study on mental health. Your compassion will grow. You will look for places to donate, to invest in those who are hurting. You will remind your friends that seatbelts really are important, that it's never too late to say sorry, and that most things are fixable.

You, my friend, are much weaker than you think. You aren't strong, you aren't superwoman, and you can't stop the pain and hurt from the world. But you can make a difference. You can touch a life. You will truly understand that in your weakness, you can lean on a greater strength.

Oh, and by the way. It's okay to cry. Like really. It's okay. Let go