by Ryan Manion
My mom must have recognized this, too, which is why she insisted that Amy Looney join the Travis Manion Foundation staff after Brendan was killed. My mom knew that adding someone like Amy to the roster would be a home run.
Shortly before my mom died, she made the pitch. Amy was visiting my mom during the fall before she died. My mom was too sick even to get out of bed during that visit, but she was clearheaded and direct with Amy. “Come work at the foundation,” she told her. “You can open an office for us in San Diego.”
Amy had been struggling to find a new purpose since Brendan’s death, and assisting family members who had suffered what she had suffered sounded like a move in the right direction. The rest is history.
A few years after that, Heather Kelly joined the party. Her mild-mannered humility and friendly warmth made her accessible to everyone who encountered her, and she was the perfect draw for adding more good people to our group. Heather took over in San Diego not long after Amy moved eastward to Washington, where she opened yet another location for the Travis Manion Foundation. TMF is a party, and its people most certainly make it a good one.
It’s not just the staff that make the party; it’s the community we’ve built. It’s the veterans and families of the fallen who have been empowered by our programs; it’s the inspired civilians who stand up as leaders to join our mission. This is our party and these are our people. They are the strongest examples of what our country looks like when it’s at its best.
And sometimes at TMF, it’s a literal party, as it was in Philadelphia this past December.
Each December, on the Thursday before the famous Army-Navy football game, we host our annual gala. It’s an inspiring evening dedicated to celebrating the work that our veterans and survivors are doing in their communities to honor fallen heroes and the ways they are strengthening and unifying our nation. We don our fancy dresses, heels, tuxes, and military dress uniforms, and enjoy dinner together.
We celebrate the company of fellow TMF supporters and listen to inspiring speakers in a chandelier-lit ballroom in a mid-nineteenth-century brick building in Center City Philadelphia.
At this past year’s gala, I invited the Hixon family to join us so that we could honor the life of their husband, son, and brother, Christopher Hixon. The work of TMF is fueled by the gratitude we have for those who paid the ultimate sacrifice to our nation, and while Hixon wasn’t in uniform at the time of his death, his final act of heroism was something that we wanted to amplify.
The Hixons kindly obliged and traveled to Philadelphia. There’s no question that the Travis Manion Foundation community is made up of change makers and leaders, and we love to celebrate that. But the heels and tight collars last only so long on us. Sooner or later, our true, casual colors are bound to come out.
Each year, they do.
At the end of the night, when the formal program has ended, our group treks down the block to the unofficial after-party at Tavern on Broad, a dark, dingy little bar located below street level. At about 10:30 p.m., two hundred people walk down Broad Street in formal gowns and black ties, shivering against the December wind, until we reach the warm, welcoming glow of the bar. By the time we arrive, the bar has usually already been overtaken by a raucous office Christmas party and is bumping Def Leppard. So obviously, we make ourselves right at home. This neighborhood tavern after-party is where you really get to experience the TMF community in our element.
Last December, I remember looking around the tavern and taking in a private moment of appreciation for what we had built together these last several years. Everywhere I looked was a reminder of the incredible people who have made TMF what it is today.
I looked toward the bar to see Joel Heffernan with his arm around Amy, his new bride. She was beaming with admiration for her husband, whose face was aglow with the details of a story he was sharing with half a dozen eager listeners.
I then glanced over to the corner to see Heather. She was dancing with Tom Hixon’s wife, Ines, and laughing with a small group of military widows who had kicked off their heels and were enjoying the sweet release of bare feet.
A few bars of Journey came over the speakers. As if it had been choreographed, the entire bar stopped what they were doing, gathered closely together, and began passionately belting out the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing.”
There, at the center of the huddle, was Tom Hixon. He revealed himself to be an expert and impassioned Steve Perry lip-syncher, and I could tell this wasn’t his first rodeo. Before I knew it, Tom had climbed onto the bar and was imagining his clenched fist as a microphone. He was inviting fellow Marines and other guests of the gala to join him on the makeshift stage, and he offered his hand to each to help them climb aboard.
Well, that didn’t take long, I thought. Tom and his wife were welcomed into the TMF family in no time. When I invited the Hixons to join us for an inspirational evening of honoring fallen heroes and celebrating the inspirational work of our members and volunteers, somehow I didn’t anticipate that a dive bar performance of Journey would be part of the night. It was a little shortsighted on my part, I admit.
After all, why shouldn’t it be? I truly believe that good begets more good; that pain shared is halved, and joy shared is doubled. If any community knows that to be true, it’s ours. We’ve all had different journeys, different experiences of struggle and difficulty. We’re all at different stages on the road to becoming the people we want to be, but we share the desire to continue down the path. And we’d much rather do it together than go it alone.
The company we keep is a critical indicator of the attitudes we adopt and the way we see ourselves in the grand scheme of life. I’ve heard that each one of us is the average of the five people we spend the most time with. If that’s the case, I feel very fortunate. Through TMF, I spend my time in the company of people like Heather, Amy, the Hixon family, and thousands of the most inspiring Americans I know. Good begets more good.
After our family lost Travis, I remember receiving a lot of advice on how to navigate grief. I was advised both professionally and casually; I participated both in groups and alone; and the counsel was both solicited and unsolicited. But of all the guidance I received, one moment stands out to me, because it served as a turning point in my grief journey. I was with Amy on this particular occasion, when one well-intentioned grief counselor told us, “You may cry every day for the rest of your life. And that’s perfectly all right.”
We looked at one another incredulously. We were thinking the same thing: Um, no. No, it’s actually not.
We left that session trying to imagine what Travis and Brendan would think if we spent the rest of our years tearfully mourning their absence rather than continuing on with the lives we were meant to lead.
We knew there was something else in store for us besides a life of wallowing in sadness. I’m sure the counselor’s larger intention was to show that grief was a journey of ups and downs, and that it would never be fully in the rearview mirror.
I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. Each day looks different from the one before it, and I don’t know that any one of us could ever claim that we’ve “conquered” our grief.
But that’s not the point of grief, is it? It’s not something to be crushed or thwarted. If we try to stamp out the difficulties in our life, all we’re really doing is ignoring them. That’s not helpful. Instead, we learn to accept and incorporate those difficulties as part of our growth journey. Then we find the courage and humility to allow our struggles to transform us.
As much as we may want to, we can’t stick our heads under the pillow when we hear our knock at the door. We find the strength to open the door and address what waits for us on the other side.
Since the days when we lost Travis, Brendan, and Rob, the three of us have wanted only to live our lives in a way that was worthy of their sacrifice. Most people who have received a knock on the door—regardless of the form it took—feel the same. Pain and struggle offer us the gift
of perspective. They give us the chance to reexamine and alter our lives for the better. It’s up to us to decide whether we take that chance or not.
Loss has a staggering impact on our lives. It can make us cold, fearful, and distant; it can also help us to love more, enrich our relationships, and experience joy and gratitude, uplifting those around us. It can turn us inward, causing us to forever ask ourselves why and to blame the world for its unfairness. But loss can also turn us outward toward our friends, families, and communities, and awaken us to opportunities we’d never noticed before.
We’ve learned that, if we take this latter path to others by channeling grief into service, tragedy can ultimately be our biggest triumph. It can show our true character, reveal the best versions of ourselves. By reminding us of the fragility of human connections and by forcing us to question why we’re here on this earth, tragedy can help us serve others and our communities and do other extraordinary things.
We see these extraordinary examples every day at the Travis Manion Foundation, where we’re fortunate to have thousands of volunteers who have been through some of the most trying circumstances known to humanity.
We’ve climbed some of the tallest summits in the world with survivors of IED blasts that had torn off their limbs. We’ve been into schools throughout the United States and talked with hundreds of thousands of students about the importance of character. We’ve run alongside double-amputee marathoners. We’ve traveled to Third World countries to build houses for homeless families.
Loss also gives us insight into the human experience. It can help us to find a new sense of purpose in our lives. For us, finding purpose comes down to two interrelated things—love and service. The crushing pain of our loved ones’ deaths reminded us just how capable we were of loving someone, and just how frequently we took it for granted when they were around.
We can’t replace the love that we felt for Travis, Brendan, and Rob. But we can recover the deepest expression of that love in service to others and to our communities. In our experience, every time we give away a piece of ourselves—our time, our attention, our story—we find that that investment comes back to us tenfold.
Tucked away in a drawer at home, I keep a literal reminder of my knock at the door. It’s a small piece of a metal hinge, worn with age and rust. It was torn from my parents’ front door when my mom slammed it in the faces of the uniformed men who were there to tell her that her son was dead.
She simply couldn’t bear to face them, and her involuntary and visceral reaction was to try to shut out the pain that was coming for her. This is a tempting response for any of us who have been forced to face loss, pain, or struggle.
It’s not something I look at often, but I still can’t bring myself to throw away that hinge. It’s a sobering reminder to me that a knock at the door is inescapable. It’s part and parcel of being human. It may come when we least expect it, and when we feel the least equipped to handle it.
But it’s also a reminder of what’s possible when we embrace that struggle and allow it to fuel us, as my mom did. We can’t avoid the knock at the door. We can only prepare ourselves to greet it when it comes. When it does, we may respond imperfectly. Such is human nature. But in our imperfection and vulnerability, we also find untapped strength and courage that we never knew we had.
Epilogue
* * *
It is a bit overwhelming at times to think about how far out our losses become as each year passes. I remember thinking in the early days after Travis’s death that I could not fathom hitting the one-year mark, and just like that, one year came and went.
But time has a way of granting a unique perspective. This exercise has led us all collectively to revisit things we weren’t sure we were ready to revisit and to share things we never thought we would share.
Ultimately, it has given each of us another opportunity to process the knock at the door. We set out to share our stories knowing that the only way to do it properly would be to allow ourselves to be vulnerable.
Over the past few years, people have told me countless times, “You are so strong. I don’t know how you keep it together.” It is a nice compliment and one I never tire of hearing, but this book was a way for us to tear down that picture-perfect exterior and let people know that we all fall down sometimes.
We live in a world today where taking the perfect picture for Instagram is achieved by trying several times and using a good filter. I myself am guilty at times of creating an online persona that is completely unachievable, but I think we have all learned, through this process, that true strength is achieved when you can show the world the most authentic version of yourself, no matter how ugly that may look.
We all take a certain pride in knowing we are works in progress. Not having all the answers is the best answer we can give to how we have navigated these past several years, and there is a true beauty in that. Beauty not because we have all been dealt the same cards, but because each of us has played our hands a bit differently with a combination of success and failure.
It was during that CBS This Morning interview that the anchor asked me a question about our work at the Travis Manion Foundation and I answered by saying that I felt “blessed” to wake up every day and have the opportunities I have.
As I soon as I said that, I felt awkward, and the look on the anchor’s face only added to that feeling. “Blessed?” she asked. “That is a unique choice of words, given that the work you do is as a result of your brother’s death.”
I gave a canned response that, luckily, was cut from the interview before the piece aired. I have asked myself many times why I chose that word and whether it in some way diminished the loss I had suffered. The truth is that I do feel blessed. Blessed that I have been granted the chance to continue to walk this earth for another day with passion and purpose.
How many of us get the chance to work alongside individuals who make us a better version of ourselves? That is what Amy and Heather do for me. I thank them for having opened their hearts to share their stories alongside my own, and I am forever grateful to Travis, Brendan, and Rob for bringing us together.
Acknowledgments
* * *
There are countless people to thank for helping this project come together.
To our agent, Keith Urbahn, and the entire team at Javelin: Thank you for presenting us with the opportunity to share our story and for your unmatched guidance through this journey.
To our publisher, Center Street, and the entire Hachette Book Group: Thank you for your belief in our story and your incredible support.
To Molly Boyle Bartnick: This book would not be a reality if not for you. Your talent is endless, and our appreciation for your efforts knows no bounds.
To our families and friends: In good times and in bad, you have been there for us. We love you all.
To Travis, Brendan, and Rob: Thank you for giving us the strength to keep going after the knock at the door.
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
Tap here to learn more.
About the Authors
* * *
Ryan Manion is the surviving sister of Marine 1st Lt. Travis Manion, who was killed in Iraq on April 29, 2007. His death served as the inspiration for establishing the Travis Manion Foundation, a nationally recognized veteran service organization. Today Ryan leads the foundation as its president, and as a highly regarded advocate for the military community, she addresses national audiences frequently.
Amy Looney Heffernan is the surviving spouse of Lt. Brendan Looney, a West Coast–based Navy SEAL who was killed in Afghanistan on September 21, 2010. Brendan was also the best friend and Naval Academy roommate of Travis Manion. Amy has a master’s degree in public administration and serves as the vice-president of the Travis Manion Foundation.
Heather Kelly is the surviving spouse of Marine 1st Lt. Robert Kelly, who was killed in Afghanistan on November 9,
2010. Serving as the West Region program manager for the Travis Manion Foundation, Heather works closely with veterans returning to civilian life and the surviving family members of those who make the ultimate sacrifice, helping to foster America’s next generation of leaders.
Photos
Ryan Manion and her husband, Dave, with their three children, Maggie Rose, Honor Emma, and Travis Brendan.
Ryan’s best friend, Krista, with Travis, circa 1999. The girls were forever trying to convince Travis to join them in a bit of trouble.
Ryan with her dad, Colonel Tom Manion, at the start line of the Marine Corps Marathon in 2007.
Travis and Ryan getting ready for a night out in Los Angeles in 2006, right before his second deployment to Iraq.
Ryan with her daughter Maggie Rose in 2007, four months after Travis’s death and still wearing that red USMC sweatshirt.
Travis and Ryan circa 1984.
Ryan’s son, Travis Brendan, standing between the graves of his uncle and his uncle’s best friend, in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery.
One of the last pictures ever taken of Travis, while on deployment in Iraq, 2007.
Amy and Brendan Looney at a Bruce Springsteen concert in Washington, DC.
Amy and Joel Heffernan, at their wedding ceremony in Chicago, IL.
Amy, Brendan, and Travis Manion, at the wedding of a mutual friend after graduation in 2004, in Texas.