My Grief Journey As A Gold Star Military Spouse

Disclaimer: I do not share my story to instill fear, but to encourage you to live each day like your last and to find joy in the small moments. (10-minute read)

Trigger warning: death, T-38 mishap

This is My Journey

As an Air Force pilot wife, I worried each day my late husband Scot left for work that he would not come home. On February 19, 2021, my biggest fear became a reality… my husband died while flying, doing what he loved to do most. 

I have recounted our story many times, often to anyone who will listen. I have learned I can be a bit long-winded, so I hope you have the patience and trust to read this in its entirety. I also hope God will use my voice to bring comfort while telling more people about the incredible man Scot was.

Our Story

Our story started in late February 2018, when a handsome man with a flannel and cowboy boots walked up to me in a bar in Terre Haute, IN. I was out with Scot until 3 AM that morning, and what I did not know then was that it started our incredible love story. One of my favorite memories from that night was Scot asking me how I felt about mustaches because he had just started growing his out. Whether I did or did not like the mustache was not important, because (as most of you now know) the ‘stache was here to stay. And, side note, I loved his mustache.

While Scot was at Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT) for two years, we lived 9 hours apart. We spent many evenings on FaceTime and many weekends meeting halfway to see each other. Scot was the type of man who drove 9 hours to surprise me at my parent’s house (from MS to IL) with no air conditioning in his car in the middle of July. He is the only man who has ever loved me unconditionally and sacrificed a little to prove it. The years of long-distance were tough, but we cherished every second we spent together and knew the miles apart would end once he got his first assignment. I hated every goodbye, and I am not sure I made it through one during those two years without crying… but each time Scot would remind me “it is not goodbye, it is I’ll see you later. You’ll blink and we will be together again before you know it, baby!” Always an encouraging, loving man.

In November 2019, the time finally arrived to learn what plane and where Scot would be flying next. After 12-hour days flying and long hours into the night studying, I was so proud of how hard he worked to get to this point. Ultimately, we found out that he had been selected as a FAIP (First Assignment Instructor Pilot) for the 50^th Flying Training Squadron. Now, I would be lying if I said I was immediately ecstatic about this. In fact, I may have had tears going down my face—I remember being so caught off guard because (as his partner) I wanted to see a fighter jet on the screen for him, but it was also the culmination of years of support and the reality that I would be moving to MS. A lot of life decisions had just been planned for us, and out of our control, in just a few seconds. But, after talking with Scot, he assured me it was an honor to be a FAIP, and that he was excited—while he never stated this to me, I will state it for him… he was the perfect man for a FAIP position. Scot was fun, outgoing, smart, selfless, and a damn good pilot. 

In June 2020, after 6 months apart during the COVID shutdowns and while Scot was at PIT (Pilot Instructor Training) we were finally reunited at our home in Mississippi. In fact, Scot was so excited that he drove all through the night to surprise me a day early, tapping on our bedroom window at 5 AM to let me know he had made it. Shortly thereafter, we secretly eloped at the courthouse in Columbus, MS, and for 8 months, life was perfect. We often said we could not believe we finally got to go to sleep and wake up next to each other every day; we could not have imagined a better marriage. He was my best friend, and he did everything in life with his whole heart. 

Scot was also humble and well-respected. During his 8 months as an IP (Instructor Pilot) he was voted a favorite by students and was loved by his colleagues. I had no idea he was voted as the favorite IP until after he died—he left the awards at his desk and didn’t boast to me; he was simply doing his job, something he loved so much. Scot brought a positive energy into the squadron and made everyone feel respected always. He was the type of person you wanted to know and have as a friend, and he was great as his job—confident, but not arrogant. The instructor his students and colleagues wanted to fly with.

Every day, I would ensure I woke up to hug and kiss him goodbye and tell him to fly safe and that I loved him before he hopped in the backseat of the T-38. Whether he had an 0540 brief or an 0840 brief, I was up telling him bye. The day Scot died was no different. He got up about 8 AM and I helped him pack his cross-country bag. He kept asking for my opinions on what to bring and what he might wear while in Tallahassee, FL. He also asked me to quiz him on various items as he had a test to take when he got to the squadron, ensuring he was proficient in T-38 knowledge. He got every answer correct. Then, it was time for him to go to work. I hugged and kissed him goodbye in our kitchen and I told him, “Please fly so safe today… I love you so so so much.” To which Scot replied, “always. I love you so so so much more.” He gave me one more kiss before walking to his truck, placing his duffel bag into the back passenger side, hopping in the driver’s seat, and backing out of our driveway. I will never forget these moments.

If I had known that was the last time I would ever get to hug him, I would have held on a lot longer and squeezed him tighter. 

The rest of our story is all over the internet now, but I can tell you, it does not happen like in the movies. Around 5:17 PM, Scot’s plane crashed in a wooded area outside Dannelly Field in Montgomery, AL. About 30 minutes after he crashed, I checked his location on my phone. I was confused because I thought they were going straight to Florida but thought maybe they had an in-flight emergency and had landed in Alabama. About 2 hours later, I checked his location again. At this point, it had refreshed but did not move from the wooded area. Instantly, I had a pit in my stomach, I was nauseous, and all my fears that something was wrong overpowered the “stop worrying, he is fine” thoughts I kept trying to tell myself. And then I saw an article on the news with the headline, “Alabama plane crash: T-38 jet crashes in Montgomery killing 2”.

I remember falling to my knees, immediately knowing it was Scot. Begging, pleading to God that it couldn’t be him, that he had to be OKAY… and somewhere amid my panic, I heard someone knock at my backdoor. The same door Scot had walked out of less than 12 hours earlier was now surrounded by uniformed men and women. Scot’s squadron commander was standing there in his blues with tears streaming down his face, and all I can remember him saying was, “Audra, I am so sorry…”

I think it is impossible to describe the instant heartbreak you feel when you learn your husband, your best friend, your soulmate, has been killed. Instantly, nothing matters anymore. You cannot think clearly, but you can feel the weight of grief upon you—knowing that everything your life was and everything you thought it was going to be, all your dreams and plans together, just blew up and shattered into a million pieces in only a few seconds. 

Grief is an ugly, messy part of life, but we grieve greatly because the love we share is so meaningful. I have often described love and grief like the ocean. Instantly, I went from being safe in my vessel with Scot to being capsized, floating around alone. Early grief could be described as the storm that capsized the boat… the wind was strong, the waves were tall, and the water took me under frequently; I was unable to catch my breath and I could not see shore anywhere on the horizon. I felt utterly hopeless. It took me about 9-12 months before I felt I could breathe without getting sucked under the grief waves every time my head made it to the surface. Currently, I would say I am in the long-term grief stage… I floated to where I can see the shore, but I just cannot make it. Occasionally, unexpectedly, a grief wave will overtake me, and it will be a minute for me to find my footing and swim back to the surface to catch my breath, see the sunshine, and find sight of the shore again. Unfortunately, reaching the shore is not an option. To live without the waves, the grief, is impossible… so I must learn how to best handle the waves when I can or cannot see them headed my way. 

I have been blessed to have had some incredible family and friends in my corner, who helped me keep putting one foot in front of the other. The first two weeks after Scot’s passing is a blur… many meetings with the Air Force about finances, what is happening to Scot, asking questions of me, etc.; attending a memorial on base; planning a funeral; making it through Scot’s visitation; the news coverage of his death; and going through the process of burying the love of my life. There were some horrific things I had to go through that I simply could not have gone through without my loved ones holding me up. However, my story would be a lie if I did not mention how much I relied on God to get me through, and the ways He spoke through others to provide me comfort and strength. To share my testimony would be a much longer story, but I do not believe I would be here telling you this story right now if it were not for God. I was on my knees, tears streaming down my face, begging and pleading with God to “please help me” more times than I can remember. There were often not any words or prayers that I could muster… but I am so grateful for the people and events that God used to help me make it through, especially those early days.

I cannot say enough positive things about the 50^th Flying Training Squadron and the spouses. I did not know many of them at the time Scot passed (thank you, again, COVID), but they welcomed me in with open arms and allowed me to stay in Columbus far longer than I could have otherwise. It was a blessing to grieve in Scot and I’s home for many months after his passing.

While the news coverage of a military death is often incredibly overwhelming, I am also grateful for the other Gold Star Spouses (and partners) and my TAPS mentor (Sonia) who reached out and connected with me when they learned who I was. While I wish none of us were part of this group, I am forever blessed by the ways they let me know I am not alone and how we have grieved alongside each other. I found the most comfort and support from the ladies who have also lost their loved ones in military aviation accidents. 

And to my family and friends, I do not think it is possible to write how thankful I am for the ways you supported me the last two years. There were so many actions that I did and did not see, and I simply can never repay you all for your love and encouragement. 

There were many days that I felt alone. Despite the support from those around me, there was always that feeling and reminder that there was not anyone who has gone through exactly what I have. I think everyone who has lost anyone has felt that way before. Each grief journey is unique in the same way the love story between two people is exclusive and special. On those days, in particular, I prayed a little extra and reminded myself that Scot was cheering me on and wanted me to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how difficult it may have been. 

Be bold, courageous, and joyful

During our years together, Scot taught me many things I will never forget. Arguably one of the most important things I learned from him was how to live each day as if it were my last—how to be bold, courageous, and joyful. Scot told people he loved them, he did not waste a moment going after his dreams, and he woke up every morning with a smile on his face. In the days following Scot’s death, another widow relayed some of God’s good news… that someday, I would see a light at the end of the tunnel, and I would be able to find some hope and joy again. About a year after Scot died, I was driving home from a widow’s retreat and stopped to pray and talk to Scot. While doing so I felt Scot remind me that my days are not promised either and I must live each day the best I can. I cannot waste a moment because I want to have many stories of courage, love, hope, and joy to share with Scot when I see him again in eternity. Since that day, a little over a year ago, I simply let go and entrusted God to lead me into more joyful days. 

Yes, my worst fear became my reality… but I am not the first nor the last spouse, fiancé, partner, mother, etc. to lose someone they love to the military, specifically, to aviation mishaps. Tragically, we just lost 9 lives last week to another aviation mishap… 9 more families dealing with the intense grief of losing someone they love so much. I wish I could end this post by telling everyone that their loved ones, especially those in the military, would make it home safely every day, but that is simply not reality. Unfortunately, I am proof that (on the rare occasion) the worst case really does happen. However, I hope that my story is also proof that we all can persevere and make it through situations we may deem impassable. And I hope my story has not only put words to what many of us have gone through but has provided hope through suffering.

Learn more about and support/donate to the Scot “Rowdy” Ames Jr. Foundation HERE.