“This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave” — Elmer Davis

Today, I watched my 11-year-old daughter take on Murph—in a weight vest, following full movement standards.

If you’re not familiar with Murph, it’s a CrossFit workout performed every Memorial Day in honor of fallen service members.

It’s named after Navy SEAL Lt. Michael Murphy, who was killed in action during Operation Red Wings in 2005. The workout is brutal: a 1-mile run, 100 pull-ups, 200 push-ups, 300 air squats, followed by another 1-mile run—all while wearing a weight vest.

It’s hard. It’s grueling. It hurts. But it’s meant to. It’s a physical tribute to those who gave everything so that we could live in freedom.

Last year, Olivia did Murph for the first time. We split the reps, and she left the vest behind. It was all new to her. But she left that day changed—and determined. She spent the past year training, preparing, building strength not just in her body, but in her mindset.

Today, she wore the vest.

She knew why we were doing this. She understood the meaning. She didn’t just show up—she showed heart. We still partnered and shared the reps, but this time, she carried an extra 12 pounds across her shoulders.

After the first mile, she turned to me and said, “I don’t think I can do this with the vest. I need to take it off.”

I looked at her and said gently but firmly, “If you start with it, you finish with it. No matter how long it takes.”

She nodded in understanding and she kept going.

Halfway through the pull-ups, I could see the doubt start to creep onto her face. “I don’t think I can do any more,” she whispered.

I stopped, pulled her eyes up to mine and said, “We are a team. If it’s too heavy, I’ll take more. If you’re tired, I’ll carry the slack. But I’m not letting you quit. We started this together, we will finish together.”

Again, she nodded in understanding, took a deep breath, and got back to work.

By the final mile, her steps had slowed. I could see it in her face—how much it was taking. But she kept moving. She reminded herself of the why. She got out of her head and into her grit. And she finished.

With the weight vest still on.

There’s no word big enough to hold what I felt in that moment. Proud doesn’t even come close. I grabbed her as she crossed the finish line, hugged her, and cried the kind of tears that only come from witnessing something sacred.

It’s so easy to stop when things get hard—when discomfort sets in, when the breath shortens, when doubt creeps in. It’s easy to say “Maybe next year.”

But the heroes we honor today? They didn’t get a “next year.”

So we push. We persevere. We suffer, just a little, to say in our own small way: Thank you.

When we shift from “This is too hard, I want to quit” to “This is a privilege someone died to give me—I will not stop,” something inside us changes. We unlock a version of ourselves that is stronger, braver, and full of purpose.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s where the real honor lives.