There was precious little time to catch one's breath.
Every minute a new crisis rose up, a new front was opened, another squadron was lost. Everything required her attention; everyone wanted a word, a minute of her time. Just a minute. Those minutes became hours. Those hours became missions in the hope that they would benefit their fight against the Reapers. Sometimes they did, most of the time they didn't.
It didn't matter to Shepard. This was what she was fighting for. Each person she rescued, each family that wasn't decimated, each colony that was left standing was a victory. She was fighting for the galaxy and all of it's inhabitants. She knew sometimes her crew wondered why she was diverting to some backwater colony or distant system as if it were just a whim but she couldn't ignore a plea for help. People needed help and she wouldn't turn her back on them.
Too often it wasn't enough. Too often she didn't arrive in time. Too often all she could do was mourn the dead instead of rescue them.
That's why she visited the memorial wall on the Citadel each time they docked.
The photos and trinkets left were reminders of the people this war had swallowed. They were reminders of all the families torn apart, of all the mothers mourning daughters, all the fathers burying sons. Every breaking heart. Every stifled sob. Every clenched fist and heart set pounding when a message popped up from an unknown sender. Was this the notification that a loved one was dead?
In a fight like this it was easy to lose sight of the small things. It wasn't hard to let it overshadow all of the little battles and tiny fronts where ordinary people had been thrust up against extraordinary odds. This war was so huge; it encompassed all of them. Every race.
And in this battle they were all the same. The war had shown her that. Human. Asari. Turian. Salarian. Krogan. They were all just fighting in the hopes that they would see an end to the Reapers, that their fates would be their own again. The odds were stacked against all of them. They didn't favor one race any more than the others. In the stark reality set before them they stood as equals.
Old grudges had to be set aside; old scars had to be allowed to fade. Every race had posters plastered on this wall; each had mourners on their knees before it crying over loved ones lost. They had to stand together because it wasn't just about salvaging their governments or armies or capital cities. They had to fight so that children could grow up free of worry across the galaxy. They had to take the blows so that innocents might escape unscathed. They had to sacrifice so others might never know the prices paid for their own freedom. They had to unite or they would all fall.
This wall was her reminder. It showed her how much had already been taken and how much more was at stake. It renewed her enough to make her pull her boots on when a distress call woke her from what little sleep she found these days. It made her take pause when a displaced civilian with hopelessness written in the lines of their face needed just a minute of her time. Sometimes it was just a soft word they needed, sometimes an assurance to do everything she could to help find a lost loved one. She always listened, whatever the reason. It gave them a bit of courage, a sliver of hope, and that was something they all needed desperately.
And that was why whenever they docked at the Citadel she always took one of those precious minutes for the lost.