As many little girls do when growing up, I dreamt about marrying a knight in shining armour- a handsome hero who would save me –and the rest of the world- from all things evil. By day he would slay dragons and by night he would return home on his white horse and hold me in his arms.

Little did I know then, that I would indeed marry a handsome knight (or at least the modern day version of one), but that life wouldn't turn out to be the fairy tale that I had expected.

When I first met my knight, I was working as a freelance photographer for a local newspaper. It was a rainy day, which didn't suit the sunny mood of the residents in the population 3000 town. Their boys were coming home and no stormy weather could dampen their jubilant mood. It was the biggest event the town had seen in eight months, apart from that Tim McGraw concert in June, hence the presence of two journalists and myself.

It was when my foot got caught in Bessie Wyatt's microphone cord, right in the middle of her rendition of the national anthem, that my knight came swooping in. My hands reached for the camera around my neck and lifted it to the sky, and as if in slow motion, I was falling to the ground when two strong arms, clad in camouflage, caught me. To say that it was love at first sight, might sound silly, but when I looked into Captain James O'Connor's brown eyes, it was just that.

I loved everything about James O'Connor. I loved his southern drawl and the way he raised his eyebrows when he was amused. I loved the thin white scar that stretched from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. I loved the dimple in his right cheek and the golden flecks in his brown eyes, but most of all I loved the way he made me feel. Safe. Warm. Loved.

Two months after we met, and a month before he had to return to his station, we got married in a beautiful little cathedral surrounded by snow covered hills. We were madly in love and spent our entire month-long honeymoon cooped up in our new little home with the blue shutters, only going into town when it was absolutely necessary.

Before long, it was time for James to go and saying goodbye to him that first time, was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do. Even though I knew from the start that that day would come, no amount of mental preparation could steel me for it. I promised myself that I wouldn't cry, that I wouldn't upset him with my tears. The entire day I held my composure, but when the night came and I looked into his beautiful brown eyes, not knowing if I'd ever get the chance to see them again, I couldn't keep back the tears. Once again my knight was the hero, holding me in his arms, telling me about all the things we were going to do one day when we were sitting on the retirement home's porch. I prayed to God that it would be true.

No one told me this beforehand, but when you are married to a soldier, you live in constant, sickening, paralyzing fear, from the second they leave, up to the moment they return home. There's this ever present uncertainty in you, not knowing where they are, what they're doing, if they're alright... When the doorbell rings, it's like a punch to the gut and you're praying not to see men in uniform-hats in hand- on the other side of the door. The first few weeks after James left, I didn't know how to cope with this fear and I submerged myself in my work and the renovation of our new home.

It was only when I ended up fainting while taking pictures at the mayor's son's bar mitzvah that I realised I had to find another way to cope with it all, so I joined a prayer group for soldier's wives at the local church. There I found a lot of women like me, struggling with the same fears. Some of them were also married recently, others have lived this life for more years than I was old. I didn't know how they did it, how they could be so strong, carrying on with their lives as usual, but after going to the meetings for a few weeks, I could feel the change inside of me as well. The fear was still there, but the restlessness was gone, replaced with a calm inside of me which I could only describe as coming from Above.

Abigail, one of the younger wives in the group, and I became instant friends when we realised that her husband John and my James were stationed together. Abigail was a schoolteacher with three kids: a six year old boy named Max, and two year old twin girls, Chloe and Sarah. I loved the kids and often looked after them when Abby had to attend school functions. I sometimes looked at them and wondered if James and I would ever have the opportunity to have kids of our own and if so, whether I would be able to raise them almost entirely on my own, as Abigail did. It was hard on her, having to comfort Max when he cried himself to sleep because he missed his dad. She was the one who had to do pyjama-drills on her own, barely sleeping the entire night and having to go to work the next day, but somehow she did it.

Finally 11 months had passed and James could return home. When I walked into his warm embrace and his strong arms surrounded me, I could feel the cold fear of the long months fading away. Every nightmare I ever had disappeared from my memory and the realisation that he was there with me-safe- filled me with more gratitude than I ever could explain. We were blessed with more time together and a lot of people couldn't say the same.

Abigail and I didn't see each other a lot during the next few months, but we didn't blame each other for not making an effort to visit. The little time we had with our husbands was so precious and we both completely understood the need to just be with them. James and I went to the Maldives for our second wedding anniversary and on our return were overjoyed to discover we were going to be parents. A little bit of the old fear came creeping back into my heart, and I could see that it was in him too. James grew up without a father and didn't want to see his child do the same. Many of our midnight conversations which followed were about these fears. Eventually we came to the conclusion that God wouldn't give us more than we could handle and we believed in his plan for our future, whatever that might be.

I was at the start of my second trimester when James had to return to duty. I think I handled it better this time, because now I had a part of him with me, growing inside me. On days when the longing for him became too much and the fear wanted to swallow me, I sat in the nursery we painted together before his deployment. To me it was a room filled with hope for the future, hope for our baby and us as a family.

The doorbell rang on a beautiful Saturday in June. James's battalion was attacked. His body wasn't found among the others and it was likely that he was kidnapped by militants. You think you are on some level prepared for bad news, but when it comes, you are paralysed with shock. Pain ripped through my heart and all the dreams for our future together shattered. My mind was numb and everything I saw and heard was as if through a haze. All I kept seeing was James being tortured, his strong body broken, covered in thick red blood. Then something the uniformed men said brought me back to reality. Lieutenant John Martin was dead...

I found Abigail lying on her bathroom floor, curled up in the foetal position, while sobs racked her entire body. I automatically looked for the children, calming down when I remembered they were with their grandma for the day. I sat down next to her and we just held on to each other, crying for our husbands, crying for each other. How we got through the days following the news, I still don't know. Abigail's mother came to stay with them, looking after the children, while I helped Abby with funeral arrangements. Somehow helping Abigail, made me forget about my own grief for a while. It took two weeks before John's body got repatriated and the funeral was held the next day.

Standing at John's grave, I wondered if James was still alive, if he was in a lot of pain... I saw what the militants did to hostages. I saw the YouTube beheadings. My heart was so conflicted. On the one side I so badly wanted for him to be alive, for him to return to me. On the other side I prayed that he rather be dead, than for him to suffer under merciless hands.

After the funeral Abigail and the kids went to her parents where they were going to stay for a few days and I was at home alone, with nothing left to distract me from my own grief. I think it was the stress of the funeral combined with uncertainty and the terror of the haunting images my mind conjured of James's suffering that led me to lose our baby that night. I remembered crying for James through the waves of pain that engulfed me. I needed him. I couldn't go through this alone! Later on I just kept crying to God, asking him why this had to happen, why he had to take away everyone dear to me.

When I woke up the next morning I was surrounded by the familiar faces of the prayer group's wives. In the days to come, they would stand me by, taking care of me, not just physically but spiritually as well. Together we prayed for my healing, for James's safe return and for God to mend the hole left in Abigail's family.

Several weeks passed and nightmares kept plaguing me, the longing in my heart ever growing. Longing for James and my baby which I never got the chance to hold. I knew I had to do something- I had to get away. I prayed for direction and the direction came in the form of the morning newspaper. They were looking for a  photographer who was willing to work in the warzones in Syria. I applied, hoping I would have enough experience. Two days later, I got the job. It turns out there aren't a lot of people willing to risk their lives like that. My prayer group friends, weren't very happy with my decision, but in the end supported me in my decision and promised to take care of my house while I was gone.

I worked in the warzone, amidst suicide bombings, civilian unrest, poverty and starvation. Coming face to face with the terror so many people had to live with each day definitely helped me to put my own suffering into perspective. I became more accustomed to the world James spent such a big part of his life in. In a sense it made me feel closer to him and it was as if I could feel his presence.

Approximately two months after I arrived in Syria, the militants broadcast a video featuring a number of hostages, of which James was one. Although he was a lot thinner, he appeared to be in good health. Negotiations between goodwill organisations and the militants were underway to get him and several other hostages released.

About nine months after the video was released the military, without the families' knowledge, organised a rescue operation for James and the other hostages in that specific camp. It was only the next day, while I was photographing the scene of yet another suicide bombing, when I received a call telling me that my husband was freed. He was admitted to a local hospital and was very weak, but would be fine. . I was overjoyed and so grateful for having James back., but it was a huge shock to see the condition he was in- the proof of his suffering visible on his body. I knew that the road to his recovery was going to be long, for it wasn't only his body that suffered but also his soul. He was very surprised to see me, even more surprised to hear that I had been working in a war zone myself,  for the past months. Then he asked the question I dreaded most. He wanted to see our baby. Having to tell him what happened and seeing the pain in his eyes, I felt so much guilt and my heart wanted to break. James drew me close, yet I could feel the void between us starting to form.

After two weeks in the hospital, James was well enough for us to go home. I quit my job at the news agency and we settled in to our little blue shuttered home once again. I wish I could say our lives were what they used to be, that everything went back to normal, but it didn't. Our lives consisted of countless sleepless nights where James woke from nightmares, screaming and covered in sweat. At first he didn't want to talk about them, but later he told me how he had to witness his unit losing their lives over and again. One day we took a drive to Abigail's parents, with whom she was living permanently now. I thought it might do him good, but it had quite the opposite effect. He couldn't handle seeing John and Abigail's children, knowing they were fatherless. Somehow he blamed himself for John's death-feeling that he should have been able to do something to safe them all. And then he told me that he wished it was him who died. It was not like he had any children to leave behind- so it would be fair. The accusation in his words, couldn't have been any clearer. He blamed me for losing our child.

The worst part was, I blamed myself too. If I had been stronger, handled the shock better, it might not have happened. I wanted to hit him, tell him how much his words hurt and I wanted to tell him how angry I was. How could he say he should have died? So he didn't have a child to leave behind, but he still had me. What about me?! I was still here. I needed him. I loved him. Instead I just turned around, left and made my bed in the guest room. Moments later I heard the front door slam and his car speed off. I lay awake until the early hours of the morning before he returned- drunk as a lord. For the first time I felt disgusted with my husband- a man I admired and adored. I knew that this wasn't who he really was, that this was all a side effect of the trauma he went through. He didn't know how to cope with all the stress and emotions he was going through. Still a little malicious voice told me: What if? What if this emotionally abusive drunk was who he really was. What if I married him too soon, before really knowing him.

When the alarm clock finally went off at 8am the next morning, I was already wide awake, prepared for the confrontation with my husband which was bound to happen. I climbed out of bed and strode to the guestroom door with purpose. I couldn't believe the sight that greeted me when I opened the door. There James was, curled up in the foetal position, sleeping in front of the door. Then all the walls I built around my heart the previous night, melted to the ground. I gently woke him up, stroking a lock of hair from his forehead. The tender, apologetic eyes which looked into mine, were those of the James I knew and loved. When asking him why he slept in front of the door, he said that he couldn't stand that he hurt me. He wanted to be near me, but he knew I needed my space. James didn't apologise with only words, but with every action in the following days. Still, I couldn't forgive myself. We decided to have a baby again, but months passed and we couldn't get pregnant. The desire to have a baby, worsened by my own guilt at losing our first, put strain on our relationship. It felt like nothing could ever be the same as it was in the beginning. I slumped into a depression, which I couldn't escape and our marriage deteriorated day by day.

Then one day, James brought home the most adorable puppy I have ever seen. He took me in his arms and said that if that was all he ever had, me and that puppy, that it would be enough. We had a long, open hearted talk that night. He begged me to forgive myself for our baby's death and then told me about how he finally forgave himself for surviving while his platoon didn't. He told me about the amazing Grace that was given to him. Together we prayed for it to sweep away my guilt as well.

We started working on our blue-shuttered home again and one-day got the strength to enter the nursery- of which the door had been closed ever since that night. We decided to paint it a bright yellow- instead of the pastel blue and put in a bed instead of a crib.

One night we were sitting curled up in front of the television, with Rex, now almost twice the size he was when we first got him, lying between us. We were watching a sitcom, when Rex's foot hit a button on the remote and the channels changed. In front of us we saw dozens of orphaned children in the warzone where James used to work and it was like a message from Above. A message, both James and I heard. I looked at him questioningly and he nodded with a smile. Tears streamed down my eyes.

Three days later we were on a plane to the middle east. A social worker from the adoption agency took us to one of the orphanages and there we met the most beautiful baby girl, named Ziya. We prepared ourselves for a long adoption process, but a month later, we took her home.

It was only later that I found out the Arabic meaning of the name Ziya. Source of light. Radiance. Something that shines brilliantly and lightens up the area around it. Even in her name, I could see God's hand, for Ziya lightened up our lives and hearts.

Like many young girls, I dreamt of a fairy tale life with my knight in shining armour. As a grown woman I realised that we all have dragons in our lives- and some of them we need to slay alone. I realised that happily ever afters are fictional and that being happy in a marriage takes work. There are good times and bad times and sometimes the princess questions why she ever had to fall in love with the knight. I realised that real life isn't fairy tale-perfect and sometimes we don't get everything we want, but sometimes what we do have, is better than we could have ever dreamed of.

*If you are soldier's wife yourself or know someone close to you that is, I would love to hear your opinion on this story.  Although this isn't purely focused on the relationship between the soldier's wife and her husband, I hope it captures the essence of some of the hardships a soldier's wife faces. 

*The woman in this story is never named. This was a conscious decision I made, as I feel it makes the story more universal and the woman more relatable.