I Need to Admit Something About Courage[edit]
I need to admit something I’ve never written down before. Not to my therapist. Not to my wife. Not even to myself until this exact moment. It’s the thing I hid for years, the thing I called “weakness” when it was actually the only thing that could save me.
I avoided therapy after my second tour in Afghanistan.
Not just avoided. I refused. I’d sit in my living room at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, my heart hammering like it was back in Kandahar during that IED blast, and I’d think: I don’t need help. I’m the one who gives it. I’m the one who holds people together when they’re falling apart. I’d pour coffee until it was cold, then drink it black, ignoring the tremor in my hands. I’d tell myself I was “fine.” I was a walking checklist of symptoms: insomnia, hypervigilance, the way my shoulders would lock up when a car backfired. But I’d say, “I’m fine,” because admitting I wasn’t fine felt like admitting I’d failed. Like admitting I couldn’t handle what I’d already survived.
Why It Was Hard to Face
Because I’d spent my life being the one who didn’t break. In the medevac chopper, I was the calm voice saying, “Breathe, soldier. I’ve got you.” On the battlefield, I was the one who didn’t flinch when the dust settled on a body. I’d seen the worst—children in the rubble, a medic’s hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding from a gut wound—and I’d survived. I’d helped others survive. So why couldn’t I survive my own quiet collapse?
The shame was a physical thing. It sat in my chest like a stone. Every time I’d think about calling a therapist, I’d hear the echo of my own voice from a training exercise: “Vulnerability is a liability in combat. It gets you killed.” I’d been a medic, not a patient. I’d been the healer, not the healed. Admitting I needed help felt like betraying every soldier I’d ever treated. It felt like saying, “I couldn’t handle what you did.”
I’d even avoid the word trauma in my own head. I’d call it “stress.” Or “a rough patch.” I’d tell myself, “Just push through. You’re stronger than this.” But pushing through just made the stone heavier. It made me snap at my wife over spilled coffee. It made me miss my daughter’s school play because I was “too tired” to go. I was a ghost in my own life, moving through the motions while the real me was drowning in silence.
The Moment of Honesty
It happened on a Tuesday. Not a dramatic moment. Just another Tuesday. I’d been avoiding a therapy appointment for three weeks. My wife, Sarah, had left a note on the fridge: “Dr. Evans called. Again.” I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Then I sat down at the kitchen table, staring at the empty coffee cup I’d been holding for an hour. My hands were shaking. Not from caffeine. From the sheer, exhausting weight of pretending.
I called Sarah and said, “I need help.” Not “I think I need help.” Not “Maybe I should see someone.” I said it like I was reporting a casualty: “I need help.” And then I said it again, because my voice cracked. “I need help.”
That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t asking for help. I was admitting I couldn’t do it alone. And that wasn’t weakness. That was the opposite of weakness. That was the only thing that could save me.
Sarah didn’t say, “I knew it.” She just said, “Okay. I’ll call Dr. Evans now.” And that’s when I finally let myself cry. Not the quiet, controlled tears I’d held back for years. Real, ugly, gasping sobs. I cried for the soldier I’d held while he died. I cried for the medic I’d been too scared to be. I cried for the man who’d been too proud to ask for help.
What Changed
Here’s the truth I’ve spent years avoiding: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar of a squad charging a compound. It’s not the silence of a medic holding a dying man’s hand. It’s the quiet, shaking voice that says, “I can’t do this alone.”
When I finally sat in Dr. Evans’ office, I didn’t expect to feel safe. I expected to feel judged. Instead, she said, “You’ve been carrying this for a long time. It’s okay to put it down.” And for the first time, I believed her.
Therapy wasn’t about fixing me. It was about seeing me. It was about realizing my avoidance wasn’t strength—it was a survival tactic I’d turned against myself. I’d been so focused on being the hero that I’d forgotten how to be human.
Here’s what works—not just for me, but for anyone who’s hiding in plain sight:
1. Start small. I didn’t say, “I need therapy.” I said, “I need to talk to someone.” That’s the first step. The smallest step. It’s not about the grand gesture. It’s about the next step. One minute. One word. “I need help.”
2. Stop calling it weakness. I’ve heard first responders say, “I’m weak for needing help.” That’s the lie. Asking for help is the bravest thing you can do. It’s the opposite of weakness. It’s the act of choosing to survive. When I finally said it, I didn’t feel weak. I felt stronger. Like I’d finally stopped fighting myself.
3. Let someone else hold the weight. I spent years thinking I had to carry everything alone. But you don’t. You can’t. I had to learn to say, “I’m struggling. Can you sit with me for a minute?” Not “Fix it.” Just “Sit with me.” And that’s enough. That’s the beginning of healing.
4. You don’t have to be the hero anymore. This is the hardest one. I spent my life being the one who did the thing. The one who was the thing. But you don’t have to be the hero to be worthy. You don’t have to be strong to be loved. You don’t have to be perfect to be enough. I’m still learning this. Some days, I still catch myself thinking, “I should be able to handle this.” But now I say, “I don’t have to handle it alone.” And that’s the truth.
The Real Cost of Hiding
I’ve seen too many first responders—police, firefighters, medics—die by their own hands because they thought asking for help was the end of their story. They thought it meant they’d failed. But it’s the beginning of the story. The story where they get to live.
I’ve also seen people who did ask for help—the ones who said, “I need help,” and then kept saying it—become stronger than they ever were before. They became the people who could finally give help without breaking. That’s the real courage. Not the absence of fear. Not the absence of pain. But the choice to face it anyway.
A Practical Step You Can Take Right Now
If you’re reading this and you’ve been hiding, here’s what to do: Text one person. Not a therapist. Not a counselor. Just one person. Someone you trust. Type: “I’m having a hard time. Can we talk?”*
- Say it out loud. If texting feels too hard, say it. “I’m having a hard time.” It’s not a big deal. It’s not a lie. It’s the truth.
- Do it now. Not tomorrow. Not when you’re “ready.” Now. Because the stone in your chest? It’s getting heavier. And you don’t have to carry it alone.
I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. I’ve seen the cost of silence. I’ve seen the cost of hiding. And I’ve seen the cost of choosing to be honest. The cost of honesty is nothing compared to the cost of silence.
I’m still learning. I still have days where I want to say, “I’m fine.” But now I know better. Now I know that “I’m fine” is the lie that keeps me from living. And I’m not fine. I’m human. And that’s okay. That’s more than okay. That’s the only thing that’s real.
So if you’re hiding, if you’re pretending, if you’re carrying that stone in your chest—stop. Just stop. Say it. One word. One text. One minute. It’s not weakness. It’s the bravest thing you’ll ever do.
Because courage isn’t what you think. It’s the moment you choose to be seen.
— Lois Brown, still serving