Veteran families, past and present

While participating in the Anzac Day commemorations at Villiers-Bretonneux in France in 2026, Emma Donaldson felt moved to share a personal reflection on service, sacrifice and the experiences of veterans’ families.

Drawing on her perspective as a veteran and the spouse of a serving member, Emma's words are a powerful reminder that behind every person who serves is a network of loved ones carrying their own journey of waiting, resilience and hope.

The quiet side of service

Standing here in the Somme, knowing Australians once stood on this same ground, I keep thinking about distance.

The distance between here and Australia.
The distance between war and home.
And the distance between the people who serve … and the families who wait.

More than a hundred years ago, young Australians stood on this French ground.

Most of them were barely older than the young men and women serving today.

They came from farms, small towns and city streets across Australia… and travelled to the other side of the world.

Many of them never went home.

And behind every one of them was a family.

A mother waiting for a letter.
Parents watching the gate or the mailbox.
A wife hoping for letters … and dreading the telegram.

As the wife of a serving member, that part of service is something I understand deeply.

I know what it feels like to stand in a driveway and watch the deployment bus disappear around the corner.

I know what it feels like to hold your child’s hand while they cry, asking when Dad is coming home … when all you can do is smile for them and whisper words you’re still trying to believe yourself.

And in that moment, your whole world quietly becomes the waiting.

Waiting for the message.
Waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for the day they come home.

In our world, there’s a phrase families live by — “no news is good news.”

It sounds simple … but what it really means is hoping the phone doesn’t ring with bad news … hoping the knock on the door never comes … until the day you can finally hold them again.

And when I think about the families during the First World War, I realise they lived that same reality.

Except their silence lasted weeks … sometimes months.

No quick messages.
No reassurance.
Just silence.

Just waiting.
Hoping.
Holding their families together.

Standing here today reminds me that while the wars, the uniforms and the technology may have changed … the human side of service hasn’t changed at all.

Behind every person who serves, there is a family carrying the worry, the waiting, the lonely decisions … and sometimes, the pieces that come home.

And that’s why being part of this Anzac Day service matters so much to me.

Because places like this don’t just tell the story of the soldiers who fought here.

They also carry the story of the families who waited for them … and the lives forever shaped by their service.

And more than a century later, that quiet part of service is still being carried by families today – in the waiting, the worry, and the hope of bringing their loved ones home.

[Original poem shared with the Department of Veterans’ Affairs, 2026.]