Words by Kaitlin Tait // photo by Bridget Wood
When I first met Aaron, he was running a small bar in Spain. His hair was long, he wore a silver earring, and he read poetry between pouring drinks. He asked questions that made me think deeply about life, purpose, and what it means to make the world better.
He mentioned once that he was “escaping something,” and I left it at that. It wasn’t until weeks later that he told me he had served in the Navy.
He had taken a bed sheet from his rented apartment and a bottle of wine from the bar and we sat on the beach for one of our first proper dates. By then I felt comfortable enough to pry a little and asked him what he was escaping from. He shared that he was in the Navy, had spent time in Iraq after 9/11 and had recently lost a close friend from the Defence Force Academy.
As an American, I was shocked. I had grown up with firm ideas about what military men were like, men who were loud, rigid, and hyper-masculine. Aaron was none of those things. He was gentle, curious, creative, and a little wild. The revelation didn’t fit the picture I had in my mind. I had so many questions: Why did he join? What was that experience like? What happened to his friend? But he didn’t give away much. He wasn’t ready then.
Over time I came to understand his story. He had joined young, drawn to adventure, belonging, and a sense of purpose. But he had also been left disillusioned by the lack of freedom and the moments that tested his values. I have seen the gifts that this experience left behind. He is disciplined, quick thinking, and calm in chaos. I have also seen the shadows. Some of the men he served with are still struggling, physically and mentally, to make peace with what they lived through.
At home, Aaron’s Navy past appears in subtler ways. In the early years of parenting, he leaned toward authority and structure, while I leaned softer, wanting to prioritise empathy and emotional safety. It took work to find our rhythm, but we eventually met in the middle, firm but kind, structured yet flexible.
But old habits die hard. Even on a slow Saturday, he’ll have the car perfectly packed for a day at the beach, engine running, ready and waiting, while I’m still chasing hats and snacks. We’re not late for anything, but that muscle memory hasn’t quite left him and we’re learning to laugh about it.
Our boys are young, bright, and full of energy. They wrestle, build, and run everywhere. They play-fight and laugh until they fall over. Like many parents, I struggled with that roughness at first until I realised it helped them explore fairness and self-control.
Because of Aaron’s service, they have asked about war, whether he hurt anyone, and why people fight. Those are difficult questions to answer. We talk about conflict as something that happens when people forget how to listen, when they stop seeing one another’s humanity. We tell them that real courage lies in finding peace. We do not buy toy guns or violent games. When one finds its way into our home, from a friend’s birthday or a relative, we talk about what it represents and why we choose differently.
Those conversations usually happen in everyday moments like bedtime or the dinner table and we try to keep them simple but honest. They’ll protest a little at first, as the novelty is tempting, but once we explain that guns are designed to harm, they tend to accept it and move on. At least until the next one crosses their path and we revisit the conversation.
When Aaron began writing his memoir Far Horizons, I watched him sift through memories that were painful, tender, and complex. Writing became its own form of therapy, a way of making sense of what he’d carried for so long.
What has moved me most since the book came out is the way other men respond to it. So many have reached out to say it made them feel seen, or that it gave them permission to talk about things they had buried. That, more than anything, feels like the quiet purpose behind it all showing that healing and vulnerability are also forms of strength.
People often ask what we would do if our sons wanted to enlist. I can recognise the value the military gave Aaron, but the idea still scares me. I have seen the toll it takes, the trauma, the healing, and the long road back to softness.
If they ever did choose that path, I would want them to go in with their eyes open, to understand the gravity of it and to carry empathy wherever they went.
Loving Aaron has taught me that people are always more complicated than the stories we project onto them. The young man I met on a Spanish beach was not the stereotype I had grown up imagining, and his journey has shown me that courage can look very different to what we’re taught. Sometimes it’s bravery in chaos, and sometimes it’s the willingness to soften, to heal, and to let yourself be known. That’s the kind of strength I hope our boys grow into – not the armour, but the honesty.
Aaron Tait’s memoir Far Horizons is out now (Hardie Grant Books, RRP $36.99) and available in all good bookstores.
