The Woman My Grandmother Chose to Be: How her wartime letters revealed a legacy of strength, ambition, and enduring love
I’ve never been a fan of romance novels. I usually laughed at the films based on Nicholas Sparks books. That might seem a bit heartless, but it’s a more positive reaction than anything any Hallmark movie has ever gotten from me. It’s not that I hate love, because I don’t. I hate the concept of limiting one’s entire existence and personality to the mere concept of another individual in the name of love. Sure, relationships may require a bit of sacrifice to maintain in the long term, but I loathe seeing the idea of sacrificing yourself and all your hopes and dreams being portrayed as romantic. As a woman with ambitions beyond just being someones partner, I’m tired.
Maybe that’s why I have spent most of the afternoon quite literally squealing over the love letters my grandmother, Veazey, sent her deployed beloved in 1943. She’s 18 at the time of writing, but beyond the mentions of college classes it’s hard to tell. She knows what she wants and is not shy about admitting it, and to those of us eavesdropping over 80 years after the fact, she speaks with the commitment of someone ready to conquer the world and the innocence of someone that hasn’t yet been discouraged from doing so. She calls herself lazy and a rotten cook, but Veazey is determined to graduate with a nursing degree and be a good wife to Kay. There are hints of the expectations placed upon wives in the early 20th century peeking through her desire to meet them, but underneath the daily messages reminding him of her love and devotion, there is an unbreakable will to achieve her goal of total independence.
It’s clear Veazey worships the ground Kay walks on in a way that nearly mimics puppy love. She missed him too much to even throw away the toothbrush he once used when visiting her parents. One of her letters detailed how she sat in every spot around the house that he once occupied and was overcome with sadness that he wasn’t there anymore. But even that puppy love has its limits. In what is potentially my favorite quote from any of the letters I’ve read so far, Veazey counters his desire to see her quit school and let him take care of her fully once the war is over with the following:
“You know I want to do what you like, and I always shall, to a certain extent. I shall do as I planned. It will be hard but I will be prepared to support myself if I need to at any time, and if that time ever comes, I’ll be even better prepared with a BS & RN behind my name.”
Honestly, what an icon. She’s a paradox — tender and unyielding. It is so unbelievably refreshing to see someone choose themselves, especially a woman that was likely taught by the world around her that her ultimate goal should be marriage and motherhood. It’s clear Veazey wants these things, and there’s nothing wrong with that at all, but to see someone so boldly proclaim that they are going to continue to exist beyond the specific role laid out for them is nothing short of inspiring. At least it is in my cold-hearted opinion.
It’s easy to love Veazey. She’s stubborn and independent and witty and she’s not willing to sacrifice anything; she’s determined to have it all. It makes it that much sweeter to see how she invites Kay to join her, as if she’s saying they can be themselves, just together. I think it’s easy to relate to her despite, or perhaps because of, the dichotomy that comes with being both mature for your age and having an air of youthful innocence. Veazey focuses on the future, all while reminding him she’s always waiting for his return and writing all kinds of sweet nothings by the candlelight.
Maybe that’s why I find myself so drawn to these letters — not solely for their romantic tropes, but for the balance Veazey manages to strike between love and self-preservation. She doesn’t shrink to fit inside the boundaries of what a woman in the 1940s was supposed to be. She loves Kay with all her heart, but she also loves herself enough to ensure she’s building a life on her terms. It’s a rare dynamic in the stories we often see — where too many female characters dissolve into their relationships like sugar in tea, sweet but indistinct.
In Veazey’s letters, love is something that coexists with her ambition. When she writes about her goals, she isn’t asking for permission or validation. She’s stating facts. She will graduate. She will earn that degree. And if life ever throws her a curveball, she will be ready. That’s not just romance — that’s a kind of strength and self-awareness that transcends time.
In a world where so many love stories feel shallow and dependent on sacrifice, Veazey’s defiant self-respect is a revelation. She didn’t need to sacrifice her identity for love. She knew she could have both — and she dared to believe in a future where that was possible.
Reading her letters makes me wonder how many more stories like hers are out there — hidden in dusty attics, folded between the pages of forgotten journals, passed down quietly through generations. Stories of women who dreamed of both love and a life of their own. Women who didn’t wait for permission to live boldly, even if the world wasn’t ready for them yet.
In a way, these letters are more than just a window into my grandparents’ lives. They are a kind of connection to generations of women who dared to ask for more. As I continue reading Veazey’s words, I feel both humbled and inspired. She’s given me a vision of what love can look like: rooted in partnership, strengthened by independence, and unafraid to take up space.
Maybe that’s why I’m here now, smiling over the words of an 18-year-old girl who lived and loved decades before I was born. She’s a reminder that you can desire a deep connection while still refusing to compromise your own dreams. It’s proof that women like Veazey, in all their stubborn, determined brilliance, have always been worth celebrating.
