When My "Courage" Failed a Vet[edit]
Mark came in after his third deployment. He’d been quiet, then suddenly froze during a session—sweating, shaking, unable to breathe. I saw the panic. I knew it. I’d seen it in my own unit after Kandahar. My instinct: Fix it. Be strong for him.
I leaned in, voice steady. "Breathe, Mark. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. This is just adrenaline. You’ve handled worse." I’d said it a thousand times to others. To myself.
It failed. Hard.
He pulled away, eyes wide with something worse than fear—disappointment. "You don’t get it," he whispered. "You’re not here." Then he left. Didn’t come back.
I sat in my office, the silence screaming. I’d been the one who’d told him, "Ask for help. It’s strength." But I’d refused to see my own fear—fear that if I truly listened, I’d have to face the raw, unfiltered pain I’d buried. My "courage" wasn’t strength; it was me pushing him away so I wouldn’t have to sit with the mess.
The aftermath? Mark’s not the only one who stopped showing up. I started noticing how I’d dismiss others’ struggles with "I’ve been through worse." I’d been using my trauma as armor, not a bridge.
Here’s what works: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the loud "I’m fine" when you’re crumbling. It’s the quiet, shaky moment you say, "I don’t know how to help right now. Can we sit with this together?" It’s admitting you’re scared with someone, not hiding it.
I failed Mark. I failed myself. But I’m learning: real courage starts when you stop performing strength and start asking, "What do I need right now?"
— Lois Brown, still serving