Dear deployed service member,

Tonight, as I folded sweaters into a suitcase and zipped it shut, I felt a sudden sting of guilt.

My packing was simple — a few clothes, snacks for the kids, my son’s favorite stuffed animal. We’ll load the car tomorrow and drive to my parents’ house by the shore. The kids will argue over who gets the window seat. My husband will fiddle with the radio. We’ll stop for coffee. It will feel ordinary. Simple. Safe.

The last time you packed your bags, it wasn’t for something simple.
It wasn’t for a weekend away.
It wasn’t for a holiday gathering.

You packed your bags for a yearlong trip away from the people you love most.

And while I slide into a warm car surrounded by family, you’ll be climbing into a Humvee, gripping your gear, rolling out on roads that look nothing like home. My travel will take me through quiet highways lined with trees. Yours will take you through a combat zone.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up to the sound of my children running through the hallway, excited for Thanksgiving. My mother will already be in the kitchen basting the turkey. My father will be setting up extra chairs around the table. It’ll smell like cinnamon, butter, and warmth.

You’ll wake up to briefing notes.
To the voices of your battle buddies.
To the thrum of armored vehicles starting their engines.

While I’m surrounded by every person who makes my life full, you’ll be halfway around the world, surrounded by men and women who have become your family in a different way — the kind who watch your back, share your burdens, and stand beside you when everything feels uncertain.

At dinner, I’ll cut a slice of pumpkin pie for my son. He’ll get whipped cream on his chin. My daughter will pass the mashed potatoes with both hands because the bowl is too heavy for her tiny fingers. We’ll laugh. We’ll eat too much. We’ll complain about being full.

You’ll walk into a dining facility with a tray.
Maybe someone hung decorations.
Maybe there’s a turkey carved by volunteers who wanted to bring a little piece of America to your base.
You’ll sit with people who miss home just as fiercely as you do.

It won’t look like home.
But for a moment, maybe it will feel a bit like it.

Tomorrow night, I’ll tuck my son into his bed, pulling the blankets up around his chin. He’ll ask for one more story, and I’ll give in because his eyes are still innocent enough to believe that monsters only live in books.

When your night comes, you’ll lay down your rifle so you can close your eyes for a few hours between missions. It’s the closest thing you get to rest. And even then, part of your mind will stay alert, listening for the sounds you can’t ignore.

Before I go to sleep, I’ll check on my children one last time, brushing their hair from their foreheads, listening to their soft breathing, memorizing the kind of peace only childhood carries.

You’ll check on your children through a screen — pixelated faces, glitchy smiles, frozen frames. You’ll blow a kiss to a laptop camera and whisper, “I love you,” into a speaker that can’t hug you back.

I am home.
You are away.

But tonight, as I write this, I want you to know something:

Your absence does not go unnoticed.

This Thanksgiving, when my family gathers around our table and goes around saying what we’re grateful for, I will say your name — not literally, because I don’t know it, but in every way that matters.

I will say I’m thankful for the person half a world away who left their own family so mine can live safely with theirs.

I will say I’m thankful for the 1 percent of Americans — like you — who choose duty over comfort, service over safety, sacrifice over selfishness.

I will say I’m thankful for the Marines standing guard in the cold night.
For the soldiers patrolling in desert heat.
For the sailors watching dark waters from steel decks.
For the airmen scanning skies where danger hides.
For every branch, every uniform, every commitment.

Because while I sit at a warm table, you sit on the edge of a world most Americans will never see — and you do it without asking for applause.

I wish I could send more than words.
I wish I could give you back the holidays you’ve missed, the memories you’ve traded, the moments you’ll never get back.

But I hope this letter gives you even a fraction of the warmth you’ve given me — the warmth of knowing someone is out there thinking of you, praying for you, and carrying gratitude that stretches far beyond one November day.

If you ever wonder whether what you do matters — it does.
If you ever wonder whether people notice — we do.
If you ever wonder whether your sacrifice means something — it means everything.

And this year, as families gather across the country, thousands of us will be thinking of you.
Of your courage.
Of your sacrifice.
Of your strength.

Thank you — not just for what you do, but for everything you miss in order to do it.

Thank you for the meals you eat far from home.
For the holidays spent in sand instead of snow.
For the nights you go without sleep so we can sleep without fear.
For the kisses blown toward a screen instead of a child’s cheek.

Thank you for staying vigilant while we stay warm.
Thank you for serving while we celebrate.
Thank you for giving up so much so we can enjoy so much.

In case no one has told you lately, let me be the one:

You matter.
You’re valued.
You’re remembered.
You’re appreciated more deeply than you know.

And tonight, as you shoulder your pack and step into a foreign night, somewhere across the ocean a family is lifting their heads and lifting their hearts, grateful for you.

With respect, gratitude, and hope,
someone whose life you protect
even though we’ve never met.