15 Names

May 25, 2026

I woke up this morning, and before I even opened my eyes, they were already there. Fifteen names. Lined up in my chest like they’ve been standing in formation for the last two decades, waiting for me to acknowledge them.

Today is Memorial Day.

Most of America will fire up the grill, crack a cold one, and enjoy the day off. That’s fine. That’s freedom. That’s the whole point.

But this is what Memorial Day looks like for me.

The Math Doesn’t Math

I served 13 years in the United States Army. Four combat deployments. Three to Iraq. One to Afghanistan. Fifty months of combat. Over four years of my life spent in places that were actively trying to kill me and everyone I loved.

I came home every time.

I need you to sit with that for a second.

Four times. Fifty two months. And I walked off the plane every single time. Some of these men deployed once and never came home. One of them never even made it out of a guard tower.

The math doesn’t math. It never will.

The Cottonbalers | Iraq

In Iraq, I served with the 2nd Battalion, 7th Infantry Regiment. The Cottonbalers. Named for the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, where soldiers fought from behind cotton bales. Our motto was “Willing and Able.”

Eight men from my unit didn’t come home.

SSG Steven G. Bayow, SGT Daniel Torres, PFC Travis W. Anderson, PFC Wesley R. Riggs, 1LT David L. Giaimo, SGT Kurtis K. Arcala, SPC Joshua J. Kynoch, PFC Kenny D. Rojas

Eight men in eight months.

Bayow and Torres were killed together when an IED hit their vehicle. Two men. One blast. One day. Anderson was killed by a car bomb. Riggs, days later. Giaimo was a lieutenant who died when his HMMWV struck a mine. Arcala was killed on September 11th, a date that already carried enough weight for one lifetime. Kynoch died in his Bradley. Rojas hit a mine on patrol.

And those are just the ones who died. They don’t account for the dozens more who came home missing pieces of themselves. Legs. Arms. Eyes. Parts of their brain that the blast carried away. Men who technically survived but left something in that sand that they’ll never get back.

That was one deployment.

The Tomahawks | Afghanistan

In Afghanistan, I served with the 1st Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment. The Tomahawks. We operated in Panjwai District, Kandahar Province. The birthplace of the Taliban.

Seven more names.

SPC Philip C.S. Schiller, CPL Juan P. Navarro, SSG Richard A. Essex, SGT Luis A. Oliveras, PFC Michael R. DeMarsico II, PFC Jon R. Townsend, PFC Brandon L. Buttry

Schiller was killed by small arms fire on a foot patrol.

July 7, 2012. Navarro sat on an IED. That’s the day that broke something in me that I’m still putting back together. Not the most casualties. Not the biggest headline. But for Alpha Company, 1-23, July 7th is a scar that doesn’t fade.

August 16th was the worst day by the numbers. Essex and Oliveras died when their Black Hawk went down in Zabul Province. DeMarsico was killed by an IED in Panjwai the same day. Three men in 24 hours.

Townsend was 19 years old. Killed in an insider attack. A man wearing an Afghan police uniform turned his weapon on Americans. Nineteen years old. He hadn’t even started his life yet.

And then there’s Buttry.

Brandon Buttry was 19 years old, and he never made it out of the guard tower. He didn’t get killed by the enemy. He took his own life with his service weapon while deployed in Afghanistan.

I need you to understand what that means. It means the war was killing him, and nobody could see it. It means a 19-year-old kid was carrying something so heavy that dying felt lighter than another day of holding it. It means the enemy doesn’t always wear a uniform or plant a bomb. Sometimes the enemy lives in your own head, and no amount of armor or training or brotherhood can stop it.

People talk about the “22 a day.” Brandon is one of them. And if you don’t think he belongs on a Memorial Day list, you’ve never watched the war eat someone alive while they’re still breathing.

The Gap

I’m 41 years old.

Most of these men never saw 26. That gap gets wider every year. Every birthday I get, every morning I wake up, every stupid, beautiful, mundane thing I get to experience, I’m living on time they never got.

Steven Bayow will never burn a steak on a grill.

Daniel Torres will never complain about his lawn needing to be mowed again.

Travis Anderson will never fall asleep with his kid on his chest.

Wesley Riggs will never sit on a tailgate and watch a sunset.

David Giaimo will never get stuck in traffic and complain about it.

Kurtis Arcala will never walk his daughter down the aisle.

Joshua Kynoch will never crack open a cold one after a long day and feel the weight come off.

Kenny Rojas will never argue with his wife about what’s for dinner.

Philip Schiller will never take a road trip with the windows down and nowhere to be.

Juan Navarro will never teach his son to throw a football.

Richard Essex will never grow old enough to forget where he put his keys.

Luis Oliveras will never stand in his own backyard and feel like he made it.

Michael DeMarsico will never slow dance at his wedding.

Jon Townsend will never buy his first beer.

Brandon Buttry will never get the chance to heal.

I get all of it. Every sunrise. Every argument. Every lazy Sunday. Every deep breath.

And some days that feels less like a gift and more like a debt I can never repay.

The Debt

That debt almost killed me, too.

Fifty two months of combat. Fifteen names in my chest. Dozens more who came home shattered. And I’m supposed to just... be normal? Go to barbecues? Say “I’m fine” when someone asks how I’m doing.

I have tried to destroy myself because I couldn’t make sense of it. Four deployments and I’m still here? Eight months in one of the most violent stretches of Iraq, and I’m still here? Panjwai, the birthplace of the Taliban, and I’m still here? July 7th, and I’m still here?

Why?

I looked for an answer at the bottom of every bottle. In every dark night, when the names get so loud, they drown out everything else. In every moment where I thought the only way to stop carrying them was to put myself down the same way the war put them down.

But I didn’t. And I’m still here.

The Fuel

Here’s what 20 years of carrying 15 names has taught me.

There is no answer to “why me.” The math doesn’t math, and it never will. But the question was never really “why did I survive?” The question is “what am I going to do with the time they didn’t get?”

And my answer is this: I’m going to live in a way that would make them proud.

I wake up every morning, and I build something that matters. I help veterans find their footing when they take off the uniform. I’m loud. I’m honest. I’m uncomfortable. I’m relentless. Because 15 men don’t get to be any of those things anymore, and someone has to be.

I don’t carry them as a burden anymore. I carry them as fuel. Every time I show up, they show up with me. Every time I build something, they build it too. Every time I push through something that feels impossible, 15 names remind me that I don’t get to quit.

Because they didn’t get the option to keep going. And I did.

Remember Them

Over 1 million Americans have given their lives in service to this country since Memorial Day was first observed after the Civil War.

One million.

That number is so big it becomes a statistic. A line in a textbook. Something people scroll past on their way to the grill deals.

So let me make it real.

SSG Steven G. Bayow. SGT Daniel Torres. PFC Travis W. Anderson. PFC Wesley R. Riggs. 1LT David L. Giaimo. SGT Kurtis K. Arcala. SPC Joshua J. Kynoch. PFC Kenny D. Rojas. SPC Philip C.S. Schiller. CPL Juan P. Navarro. SSG Richard A. Essex. SGT Luis A. Oliveras. PFC Michael R. DeMarsico II. PFC Jon R. Townsend. PFC Brandon L. Buttry.

These are my 15. I’ll carry them until it’s my turn.

I hope they’re proud of me.

My name is Adam Peters, and I’m here to unfuck the transition.