Our Own Battle for the Alamo

As I stood before the worn stone walls of the Alamo—this place I’ve long wanted to see with my own eyes—I felt the weight of history settle onto my shoulders. It wasn’t just the history of Texas, or of the men who fought and died here in 1836. It was the history of all those who dare to make a stand when surrender would be easier. It was, in many ways, our story too.

I closed my eyes for a moment, listening not just to the hum of tourists or the chirping birds in the trees, but to something deeper. I tried to imagine the sounds of that long-ago siege—the thunder of cannon fire, the grit of boots on stone, the voices of men who knew they would not survive, but fought anyway. I could almost feel their presence, ghosts not just of war, but of defiance, of faith, of hope in the face of the impossible.

And I thought of Tim.

Of all the places we’ve stood together on this winding road of life, none have echoed our journey more profoundly than this one. The Alamo was a battle for freedom, a battle to be heard, a battle to be seen. Tim's battle with PNES has been all of that and more.

Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures—such a clinical term for something that steals so much. People don’t understand what it is. They look at him and expect something visible, something dramatic, something they can name and categorize. But this is a battle fought in shadows, behind the eyes, deep in the heart, in the mind. It's a war zone within him—an invisible Alamo he wakes up in each day.

And I, in my own way, am fighting beside him.

Much like the defenders of the Alamo—Davy Crockett, William B. Travis, James Bowie, and the others—there was no certainty of victory in our fight. Those men came from different backgrounds: frontiersmen, lawyers, soldiers, dreamers. Some were hardened warriors, others were idealists. But they stood side by side, held together by something bigger than themselves. A belief that even if they lost the battle, their stand would matter.

And isn’t that what we do? Every morning that Tim wakes up and tries again. Every seizure he pushes through. Every tear I quietly wipe away before he sees. Every time I hold him through the storm and say, “You’re not alone.” These are our stands. Our declarations of defiance.

There are days—so many days—when it feels like we’re surrounded on all sides. By medical systems that don’t understand, by financial stress that threatens to crush us, by the emotional toll of caregiving and enduring and loving through pain. There are casualties in this war too—dreams deferred, friendships that faded, our own innocence chipped away. Sometimes I wonder how much more we can give, how much longer we can hold the line.

But then I remember the Alamo.

I remember that history isn’t just made in the moments of triumph. It’s shaped in the holding on. In the standing firm when everything in you screams to run. The defenders of the Alamo didn’t win. But they became a symbol of courage because they stayed. Because they fought. Because their cause was worthy, even if the cost was high.

Tim’s courage humbles me. It’s quiet, often unseen by the world. There are no headlines for a man who battles invisible demons. But I see him. I see the weight he carries. The effort it takes just to stay present. The emotional bruises no one else notices. And I see how he still manages to smile. How he still reaches for my hand. How he lets love in, even when the fear tries to shut it out.

He is my hero. Not because he’s flawless, but because he fights.

And me? I suppose I am like one of the women behind the walls of the Alamo—tending wounds, providing strength, witnessing horror and refusing to break. Loving the fallen, even as the walls shook. Carrying the stories forward so that they are never forgotten.

It’s strange, the things we learn to carry when life hands us a siege. How endurance becomes its own kind of victory. How faith can root itself not in the certainty of outcomes, but in the fierce belief that we are not done yet. That we are still here. That love is still worth defending.

Standing in that sacred space, I didn’t feel defeated. I felt honored. Because we are not the first to fight a losing battle with everything we’ve got. And we won’t be the last. But maybe, like the Alamo, our story matters not because of how it ends, but because of how we stood in the face of it.

Tim and I may never have a monument. But we have moments. Moments of laughter even in darkness. Moments of connection even in pain. Moments when we look at each other and know—we didn’t give up.

And maybe that’s what the Alamo has always meant. Not just loss, but legacy. Not just battle, but bravery. Not just tragedy, but truth.

So as I turned away from the old mission walls and felt the Texas sun warm my face, I carried something new in my heart. A renewed sense of why we keep going. A reverence for the sacredness of endurance. A quiet pride in our own battle, our own courage, our own love.

And most of all, a promise—to remember.
To honor what has been lost.
To keep telling the truth of what we face.
To keep standing, no matter the odds.

Because like those brave souls at the Alamo, we are not fighting for nothing.
We are fighting for everything.