This memory isn’t the most flattering of me, but it’s an honest one—a glimpse into our lives together and the incredible man I shared so much of my life with.
None of us are perfect and believe you me I am far from perfect. This is a story of love, loss, fear, support and coping.
When we lived in Petawawa, Ontario, I found myself drawn to horses and riding. It started as a way to cope with the fear and uncertainty that came with John being away so much. What began as a distraction quickly became my coping mechanism—a way to manage the overwhelming emotions I didn’t know how to process at the time. The stables became my second home—riding, cleaning, and immersing myself in life with horses. Two of my daughters joined me wholeheartedly, while my third daughter who was not a horse lover, preferred her Game Boy. She found her own way to navigate that chapter of our lives.
I love that she had her own mind, but I regret the times I dragged her to the stables when she didn’t want to be there. Looking back, I see that pouring so much energy into the horses wasn’t the healthiest way to cope. It consumed me, and I wasn’t always the mum my girls needed while John was away.
When John was home, though, he supported me completely. Even though he was allergic to horses, he never questioned why I needed this outlet. He understood it for what it was—a way to survive in a time of fear and stress. He bought me my first horse, Bailey, and later Gimmi. Both still hold such a special place in my heart.
John loved those horses too. Especially Gimmi—a chestnut quarter horse with a blaze who was noble, strong, and fast. Bailey, on the other hand, was a bay half-Arab cross who had been through a lot of trauma before he came to us. He taught me so much—about patience, trust, and even fear. I will cherish what each brought to my life, always.
When we moved to Edmonton, John sold his truck to make sure the horses could come with us. That was John in a nutshell—selfless and giving. He didn’t just tolerate my way of coping; he embraced it. He even learned to ride (kind of!) and came with me on trail rides, mostly because I’m the one with no sense of direction. He always got us home. When he wasn't with me the trail rides were a bit longer and the riders always loved the extra mile. LOL...but eventually I found my way back.
One time, he drove the truck and horse trailer—without any experience—to help our girls and the horses get to their first show. He celebrated every moment of that adventure, not as an outsider but as part of it.
One of my favourite memories is the trip we took to Spruce Meadows. It was a dream for me and my two eldest daughters to see Big Ben and Ian Millar in action—to witness the best of the best. Our youngest daughter came too, I can't say happily but she did have fun too, mostly playing her Game Boy and hanging out with John. He made that trip happen, supporting not just me and my passion, but also the unique needs of each of our daughters.
As the years go by, memories like these bubble to the surface more often. They bring tears, some regrets, and so much love. I wish I’d been more present for my girls during that time. I see now how I disassociated from my pain and leaned into distractions like the stables. But those horses? They were part of my dream from childhood. Even in the middle of all the stress and trauma, they brought me a kind of peace I needed to survive.
And when John was there, he was my rock—steady, kind, and always helping to hold us together.
Each of us—my daughters, and I (John too)—have our own memories of that time. I honour them all. We each carried a piece of grief, fear, and trauma in those years. John (Dad), the person we adored was away on a dangerous mission, and we didn’t talk about what that meant. In a military family back then, you just soldiered on. You didn't complain. You adapted, overcame and improved as best you could. I’m glad things have changed now, but that’s how it was then.
When John came back to us, he was different. We were all different. He struggled with PTSD but didn’t acknowledge it, and I didn’t know how to hold space for him back then. I wish I had. But once you know better, you can do better, right? So we soldiered on and acted fine (another story I will share soon).
Even in his hardest moments, John gave us the gift of his unwavering support. He didn’t just love us—he showed us what love looked like, even when it wasn’t easy.
As I reflect on those memories, I’m overwhelmed by how much John’s quiet strength shaped our family. Love isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in the little sacrifices, the quiet support, and the steady presence.
I hold onto those lessons, those moments, and the love he gave us. They’ll always be part of me, just as he will.
Love is always worth the risk.
Love,
Kath

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