It’s a strange experience when you realize you’re not going into work anymore. There’s no picking up the uniform in the morning, no ritual and routine that it had become. As I write this, Remembrance Day is still a few days off, but I’m already thinking about how odd it will feel to not be expected anywhere.
For years, starting as an NCM, Remembrance Day almost always came bundled with being on parade. October and November meant drill practice, getting ready to be on display in front of the local community, or whichever community you were assigned to or had volunteered for. If you were “lucky,” your unit would sometimes let you attend a parade near your hometown so you could watch with your family, as long as you weren’t assigned to parade somewhere else.
A Parade in Cold Lake
One parade in Cold Lake has stayed with me. It was freezing outside (November in Cold Lake lives up to the name), and we had to march into the local arena from the outside. While we waited, we stood in formation in our DEUs in the cold. We weren’t allowed to move around much because they were prepping us to go in, so we held our positions. I remember finally marching through the doors at the side of the arena and feeling the warmth wash over us as we filed in. But the relief from the cold barely registered next to what hit me once we were inside: the respect. You could almost feel it.
The arena was silent apart from the sound of the marching troops and the band. People were frozen in reverence. Maybe it was because it was a military town, but as a young member, that understanding of the event and that expectation of respect was amazing. You really felt part of something bigger, something to be proud of. During the speeches on the historical significance of the day, and later as the wreaths were laid, I teared up and did my best to hide it. I was in formation, and you don’t break rank. On parade, you’re trained to hold your position no matter what, even if it means fainting where you stand. Is that a healthy expectation? Maybe not. But these traditions come from war. In combat, one person breaking from the line can cost more than their own life. It can cost the lives of the people beside them, and those behind the lines. So you hold the line until your body won’t let you anymore.
So there I stood, holding it together as best I could, caught between an overwhelming sense of loss and a deep sense of pride. I’m a pretty stoic person and things don’t usually faze me, but that day got me.
Why Remembrance Matters
That feeling stayed with me as my career went on. As an officer, I spent less time on the parade square, but the expectation of attendance never went away. Some might see a parade as a chore, and honestly, some years it felt that way. But looking back, I recognize how important these acts of remembrance are, and Cold Lake is a big part of why.
Remembrance, to me, is acknowledging and respecting that people before me, and people serving today, agreed to put themselves on the line to protect those at home. In Canada, we’ve been fortunate that conflict hasn’t reached our shores in the modern era, but that comfort is never guaranteed. Many of those who served did it in countries that weren’t their own, for people they’d never met. The freedoms we enjoy can feel more fragile today than they once did, which makes it all the more important to remember what was given for them.
Sacrifices Big and Small
Not all sacrifices are lives lost. They come in missed birthdays and in significant family events you couldn’t be there for, like a wedding or a graduation. They come in losing your local connections every time you pack up and move. They come in telling your kids they have to make new friends again, for the fourth time in their school life. Maybe they’re used to it, but you can’t be sure. They come in relationships that couldn’t survive the stress, the time or the distance. They come in carrying the responsibility for your family because your spouse can’t work in the field they trained in. They make it work because they believe in you, but that’s a huge stressor on its own. The last thing you want is to leave them behind for good.
Everyone who has served understands those sacrifices, but understanding them doesn’t make them easier. We’ve all accepted that one day our time might end, and we’ve made peace with that possibility. I think people often mistake that for a desire to be a martyr. It isn’t. It’s understanding the risk of sacrifice in order to protect the people you love, and people you’ll never know. No one wishes for it, but it’s the responsibility and the weight of signing that dotted line.
Out of Uniform
Since my release, Remembrance Day has taken on a new layer. My own service is part of what I’m remembering now. It’s hard to put down the beret, so to speak. This year I won’t be standing with my unit, my command team or my colleagues. I’ll be in the crowd with my family, paying my respects to those who came before me and to those still serving.
Leaving also means leaving your team, and that can be isolating. In uniform, the people around you understand without needing an explanation. Outside of it, someone asks “What do you do?” and some veterans can’t even answer because of the type of work they did. They carry that weight quietly, often without the people who shared it.
That’s why remembrance matters to me as much now as it did in that arena in Cold Lake. It honours those who came before us and recognizes those who come after, the ones who will keep doing what the country asks of them, even when that means the ultimate sacrifice. On November 11, I’ll be standing in a different place than I used to. But I’ll still be holding the line in the only way I can now: by remembering.
