There's a before and after. Before, I thought courage meant never showing the crack in the armor. In Afghanistan, I carried the weight of others' lives like a second skin. Back home, I carried it in relationships too. I’d say "I’ve got this" while pushing people away, mistaking silence for strength. My therapist’s office became a battlefield I refused to surrender. "How are you?" I’d deflect, eyes fixed on the wall. I’d seen the worst—bodies in the dust, the silence after the blast—but I’d never let anyone see me in the quiet aftermath.
The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday. A first responder client, a firefighter, sat across from me, voice breaking: "I can’t do this alone anymore." She’d been hiding her panic attacks for months, afraid to admit she was drowning. I watched her hands shake, and suddenly I saw myself in her. Not the medic who’d stabilized a bleeding soldier in the mud, but the woman who’d cried in the shower after her own deployment, too scared to call her sister.
That moment cracked me open. I’d spent years teaching others to ask for help, but I’d never done it myself. I’d thought vulnerability was surrender. I was wrong. Courage isn’t what you think. It’s the terrifying, necessary act of saying, "I need you."
I called my sister that night. Not to talk about the weather. Not to "be strong." I said, "I’m struggling. Can we talk?" My voice trembled. She didn’t fix it. She just listened. And for the first time since I’d left the service, I didn’t feel alone.
What shifted? Everything. I stopped treating my own wounds like a secret. I started asking my colleagues, "How are you really?" not as a polite formality, but with the same urgency I’d demand from a patient. I learned that real strength isn’t carrying the weight alone—it’s letting someone share the load. I became someone who could sit with discomfort, not just treat it. I became human.
I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. But I never saw myself surviving until I stopped pretending I didn’t need to.
The bravest thing I’ve ever done? Letting someone see me fall. And then, slowly, learning to stand up with them.
— Lois Brown, still serving