In Loving Memory of Corporal Jacob “Jakey” Turbett United States Marine Corps – Combat Engineer August 1988 – February 13, 2010 Jacob Turbett wasn’t just a Marine. He was a protector, a loyal friend, a quiet observer, a deep thinker, and the kind of person who made you feel safe just by being in the room. He was funny without trying to be, soft-spoken but steady. He didn’t say much unless it mattered. But when he loved you, you knew. There was no guessing. He had a way of showing up without needing attention for it. If something was broken, he fixed it. If someone was struggling, he leaned in. He didn’t make things about him, he made things better. Jake joined the United States Marine Corps right out of high school, not for glory or recognition, but because he believed in duty. He believed in being of service. He wanted to build a life he could be proud of, one with purpose, structure, and something bigger than himself. He served as a Combat Engineer (MOS 1371), one of the most dangerous roles in the Corps. Jake was trained in demolitions, breaching operations, and obstacle clearance, tasks that required precision, grit, and bravery under fire. He was often the one walking ahead to make the way safer for others. That’s who he was, even before the uniform. Over the course of his service, Jake deployed to Iraq, Bangladesh, Thailand, and Okinawa, forming tight-knit bonds with his brothers-in-arms. His work was hard and often thankless, but he never complained. He showed up, did his job, and made those around him feel stronger just by being beside them. But the part of Jake most people didn’t see the part that mattered most to me was who he was outside the uniform. Jake was my high school sweetheart. The first person who ever made me feel seen. At 15, I was living in a home shaped by addiction and survival. Doing homework by flashlight. Boiling water on the stove just to bathe. Hoping the lights wouldn’t get shut off again. Jake saw that. And instead of looking away, he stepped in. He asked his dad if I could move in until I graduated. No one had ever done that for me before, not without strings. Jake gave me something I’d never had: stability, safety, and unconditional love. We were young—just teenagers—but we knew what we had was rare. When Jake was stationed in Okinawa, we made it through long-distance with handwritten letters, expensive phone cards, and counting down the days until we could finally start our lives together. And we did. We got married when I was 18, and moved into our first apartment in Jacksonville, North Carolina. We had three months of everyday magic: grocery runs, game nights, bad TV shows, and the quiet peace of finally building something of our own. Then he got orders to deploy to Afghanistan. It wasn’t his first deployment, so we tried to stay strong. We made plans for when he got back. We talked on the phone the night before he landed after spending 2 months training afghani soldiers. It was a mundane conversation, nothing too special in the grand scheme, but I didnt know that would be the last time I would speak to him. Less than twelve hours later, he was gone. On February 13, 2010, Jake was killed in action in Marjah, Afghanistan, shot in the back by a sniper. He was 21 years old. He was awarded the Purple Heart, Combat Action Ribbon, and Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal—but none of that can ever fully capture the kind of man he was. The kind of partner he was. Jake carried his own pain too, his own struggles with depression and darkness. We were kids trying to hold each other together. I needed him to survive. He needed me to keep going. We saved each other in different ways. And when he died, I didn’t just lose my husband. I lost the person who had taught me what love could actually feel like. In the years that followed, I spiraled. I got into relationships where I let people treat me in ways I didn’t deserve, not because they were cruel, but because I didn’t know how to ask for more. I was desperate to be liked. I starved myself, drank heavily, punished my body and spirit, and numbed my pain in every way I could. I lost pieces of myself trying to survive his loss. But slowly—year after year—I started fighting for something more. Because Jake didn’t get to live. I did. And that’s the ultimate gift. The one I will never take for granted. So every year since he passed, I’ve tried to level up. Some years, that meant earning my degrees. Other years, it meant going to therapy, setting boundaries, healing trauma, forgiving myself. & this year, my word is expansion—expanding into the version of myself Jake always believed I was. What I’m most proud of is the way Jake continues to live through the work I do. As a therapist, a parenting coach, and someone who helps others navigate grief, I carry Jake with me every single day. Every time I help someone feel seen, or safe, or steady, I know I’m honoring the way Jake showed up for me. If I could sum up the two most powerful traits Jake gave me, they would be: Loyalty – the kind that’s quiet but unshakable. The kind that shows up even when it’s hard. Resilience – not because things got easier, but because you learn how to keep going anyway. Jake, your love saved me not once, but twice. Your loss shaped me. And your memory continues to guide every step I take. Semper Fi.

Crystal Turbett, Spouse