Love: The Missing Word in the Military Veteran’s Story

For all the words we use when speaking about our veterans , bravery, sacrifice, duty, service, honour… there is one that is rarely uttered. It sits just behind the curtain, waiting for permission to step into the light. That word is love. It sounds soft in a world hardened by conflict, too gentle for the parade ground or the battlefield. Yet love is the quiet thread that holds everything together, the love between comrades, the love of a regiment, the love of family, and the love that struggles to find its place once the fighting ends because without it, the veteran story is incomplete, a tale told in half-light.

When we imagine soldiers, sailors, or airmen, we picture the uniform, the discipline, the pride. We think of courage under fire, of endurance and resolve. But rarely do we talk about love, though that is, in truth, the force that keeps so many alive when the world around them is collapsing. The soldier who dives for his friend when the shells fall isn’t thinking of politics or policy. He isn’t thinking of the speeches made in Parliament or the medals pinned on chests. In that split second, he acts for love, for the man or woman beside him, for the bond that has been forged through sweat, exhaustion, laughter, and fear.

It begins in training. Young men and women arrive, raw and uncertain, stripped of the habits and comforts of civilian life. They are broken down, reshaped, and taught to act as one. Somewhere in that process, among the mud and the shouting, something miraculous happens. They begin to care for one another more deeply than they expected they could. They share food, share jokes, share pain. They learn to rely on one another in ways few civilians ever have to and though it might never be called love, perhaps it would even be laughed off if it were, that’s exactly what it is. It’s the kind of love that says, “I’ve got you. Whatever happens, I won’t leave you behind.”

Camaraderie is the word we usually use. It feels safer, more masculine, more fitting for a military story. But camaraderie is just love wearing camouflage. It’s the same emotion, just dressed differently for the occasion. In the barracks, in the desert, in the jungle, or on a cold northern training field, it binds people together in a way that outlasts distance and time and if you ask any veteran who they were fighting for, and you’ll hear the same answer: not the politicians, not the abstract idea of a nation, but the person next to them. That’s love, raw, uncomplicated, and pure.

Yet love in the military doesn’t only exist between comrades. It stretches outward, towards the regiment, the cap badge, the colours, the traditions handed down through generations. Every regiment has its stories, its heroes, its fallen. There’s a deep affection for the shared identity, a love that can feel like belonging to a family that existed long before you were born and will continue long after you’re gone. It’s love mixed with pride, and sometimes with grief. You don’t just wear the uniform; you love what it represents, and that love gives meaning to the sacrifices made in its name.

When military personell return to civilian life, love becomes a more complicated thing. The transition from the intensity of military life to the quiet unpredictability of civilian life can feel like walking from a storm into a vacuum. The noise stops, but the silence is deafening. In that silence, many veterans begin to feel an ache they can’t quite name. It’s the absence of that shared heartbeat, the loss of those who always had your back. The love that once surrounded you and it’s suddenly gone, and the world feels emptier without it.

Remembrance, in its public form, tries to fill that gap. Every November, we stand still for two minutes. The bugle sounds. The names are read, and we bow our heads. We speak of sacrifice and service, but underneath it all lies love, love remembered, love mourned. The poppy isn’t only a symbol of death; it’s a symbol of love enduring beyond it. Yet the word itself is rarely spoken. Perhaps we fear that saying it out loud will somehow diminish the stoicism we expect from those who served. But the truth is that remembrance is an act of love , the nation’s way of saying, We have not forgotten you. We still love you, even though you are gone.

The love of comrades can carry a soldier through war, but the love of family is what must carry them through peace. Partners, children, parents, and siblings form the quiet front line of support that few outside the veteran community ever truly see and behind every deployment, there’s a partner lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for a knock on the door that they pray will never come. There are children who learn to count the days until Dad or Mum comes home, who mark them off on calendars decorated with hope. There are parents who age in the space between phone calls, who hide their worry behind proud smiles at homecoming parades. This, too, is love, fierce, patient, sometimes exhausted, but steadfast.

When a veteran returns, the love of family becomes both a refuge and a test. The person who comes home isn’t always the same one who left. They may carry invisible wounds, the kind that no medal can cover. They may flinch at sudden noises, grow restless in crowded rooms, or fall silent when asked simple questions and for those who love them, it can be bewildering. How do you reach someone who has seen what can’t be unseen? How do you hold them when they seem far away even as they sit beside you? Love has to learn new shapes, quieter, more patient, more forgiving. It becomes about small acts: a hand on a shoulder, a cup of tea placed silently on the table, a willingness to wait.

Many veterans speak of feeling lost when they leave the service. The structure, the brother/sisterhood, the clear sense of purpose, all of it fades. Civilian life can feel disjointed, even trivial, compared to the intensity of life in uniform. Some try to find that sense of belonging again through veteran networks, charities, or local support groups. These are the places where love begins to reassemble itself, piece by piece, amongst others who understand, who have walked the same paths, love returns in the form of shared stories, mutual respect, and a recognition that you are not alone. It may not look like the love of a family or a romantic partner, but it’s love nonetheless, the quiet love of those who simply get it.

And yet, society rarely speaks of love when it comes to veterans. We talk about “support,” “awareness,” “integration.” We talk about mental health and homelessness and employment all vital conversations, to be sure, but the language we use is often cold, bureaucratic, distant. What’s missing is the warmth of the word that connects us as human beings. Love. To love our veterans doesn’t mean pitying them, or idolising them, or treating them as broken heroes. It means seeing them fully, the laughter as well as the pain, the strength as well as the vulnerability. It means making space for them to be human again, not just soldiers.

Love is not the same as sympathy. It is active. It demands attention, empathy, and time. It’s found in the neighbour who checks in, the friend who listens without judgement, the community that refuses to let a veteran fade into isolation. It’s in the simple act of sitting beside someone and letting silence be enough and for veterans, love is the bridge back to belonging. It’s the force that reminds them they still have a place in the world they once protected.

The word “love” might sound out of place in the military lexicon, but in truth it is the heart of everything…every memorial, every medal, every march on Remembrance Sunday, all of it is built on love. Love for country, yes, but more immediately, love for one another. Love for those who didn’t come home. Love for those who did, and are still fighting battles no one can see. When we remove that word from the narrative, we strip away its humanity. We make the veteran story one of duty and endurance but not of heart and without heart, what remains?

In conversations with veterans, there is often a moment when they speak of someone who meant everything to them, a mate who made them laugh in the darkest hours, or one who never came back. Their eyes soften, their voice changes. That’s love speaking. It’s a love forged in fire, one that defies easy description. To acknowledge it is not to weaken the image of the soldier but to deepen it, to recognise the courage it takes to love so fiercely in a world where death is never far away.

Perhaps the reason we avoid the word is because love makes us vulnerable. It asks for honesty, for softness, for a willingness to feel. In a culture that prizes resilience and control, especially among those in uniform, love can feel dangerous, a crack in the armour. Yet, it is that very crack that lets healing begin. To love, after all, is to hope. And hope is what keeps a person moving forward when everything else has fallen apart.

There’s also the love that veterans learn to have for themselves, often the hardest kind to reclaim. Years of discipline, of putting the mission and the team before the individual, can make self-love feel selfish or alien. But it’s essential. It’s the foundation for rebuilding a life beyond service. Learning to forgive oneself for what was done, or what couldn’t be done, is an act of love as powerful as any battlefield bravery. It’s what allows a veteran to live, not just survive.

Love is the quiet companion of remembrance. When we gather at cenotaphs, when we lay wreaths and bow our heads, it’s not just about honouring sacrifice, it’s about expressing love in its purest form. It’s a love that says, You mattered. You still matter. It’s the same love that threads through letters written home, through photographs kept in breast pockets, through songs sung softly in the dark. To reduce remembrance to mere ceremony is to forget the emotion that gives it meaning. The poppy, red as blood and fragile as paper, is love made visible and what of the families who live with the absence of their loved ones? Their love doesn’t end when the war does. It stretches across time, unbroken. A mother still talks to her son years after he’s gone. A child grows up hearing stories about the parent they barely knew. A partner keeps a room untouched, a photograph on the mantelpiece. That’s love refusing to fade, love stronger than loss. It deserves to be part of the story too.

Love also lives in the ways veterans support one another long after the uniform is folded away. be that through reunions, online forums, or quiet phone calls at difficult hours, these bonds persist. It’s love expressed through banter and dark humour, through shared understanding that needs no explanation. It’s the love that says, “You’re still one of us.” That phrase, one of us — is perhaps the truest expression of belonging, and belonging is love’s closest kin.

If we began to speak of love openly in the veteran narrative, it might change how the wider public sees those who served. Instead of distant symbols of stoic endurance, veterans could be seen as people whose capacity for love is extraordinary, people who have risked everything out of love for others, and who continue to live with love’s echoes long after the battle is over. It might help dissolve the invisible wall that sometimes stands between veterans and civilians, because at the core, love is the one language we all understand.

Imagine if Remembrance Day speeches spoke not just of bravery, but of love. If the stories told in schools and on television acknowledged that what drove soldiers forward wasn’t only discipline, but the most human emotion of all. Imagine if support services framed their mission not just as “help” but as acts of love, communities caring for those who once cared for them. It would soften the narrative without diminishing the strength within it. It would make it whole.

Love doesn’t erase pain; it gives it meaning. It’s the reason a veteran visits the graves of fallen friends, the reason they reach out to those struggling, the reason they keep going. It’s what transforms survival into living and when society mirrors that love back, through understanding, through genuine connection, healing becomes possible not just for individuals, but for the community as a whole.

To say that love is the missing word in the veteran story is not to criticise how we speak of service, but to complete the picture. It’s to recognise that behind every act of courage lies a heart beating for someone else as behind every medal lies a story of love given and love lost and behind every name carved in stone is someone who was loved deeply, and who loved in return. Love is the truth beneath the uniform, the constant that outlasts war.

Perhaps, then, the challenge is to bring that word into the open, to let love be spoken without embarrassment, without the need to disguise it behind military jargon, because love, not just duty, is what makes service noble. Love, not just loss, is what remembrance should honour and love, not just support, is what will truly sustain those who return.

In the end, it’s love that binds the veteran to the world, love of comrades, of family, of life itself. It’s love that keeps memories alive, that turns grief into gratitude, that turns separation into connection. It’s love that waits at home, that endures in silence, that finds a way to carry on and until we name it, until we give it its rightful place, the story of our veterans will always be missing its heart because love, finally spoken, is the word that brings them home.

Tony Wright