There's a before and after...[edit]
Before Kabul, I thought courage meant carrying everything alone. My Afghanistan tours taught me that. I’d patch wounds while ignoring my own, swallow panic like pills, and believe asking for help was a weakness only the broken did. I’d stare at the sand where bullets hit, thinking: If I’d been faster, stronger, I wouldn’t have lost them. I carried that weight into therapy, treating first responders like I’d treated myself—silently, alone.
Then came the Kabul evacuation. Not on the battlefield, but in a crowded airport terminal. I was supposed to be the calm one, the medic guiding others. But when a young EMT collapsed, hyperventilating, I froze. Not from the chaos—from my own panic. I’d never let myself feel that raw, that helpless. In that moment, I saw my own reflection in her wide eyes: the same fear I’d buried for years. I didn’t fix it. I just stood there, shaking, until she whispered, "I need you to sit with me."
That’s when it cracked. Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the absence of fear—it’s the choice to say, "I can’t do this alone," while the fear is still screaming. I’d spent a decade teaching others to be strong, but I’d never let myself be human. I’d seen the worst—bodies in the dust, the silence after the last call—and I’d seen people survive it. But I hadn’t seen myself survive.
The shift wasn’t dramatic. No grand speech. Just me sitting on that airport floor with that EMT, breathing with her until the panic eased. Then, in my office the next week, I did something I’d never done: I told a client, "I don’t have all the answers. Can we figure it out together?" Her relief was a physical thing—like she’d been waiting for permission to be human too.
Here’s what works: Stop waiting for courage to arrive. It’s not a feeling. It’s the next step you take while your hands are shaking. It’s saying, "I’m struggling," and then asking for the one thing you need. Not a grand gesture. Just the next right thing.
I’m not the medic who carried the world alone anymore. I’m the therapist who sits with the panic. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it—not by being unbreakable, but by learning to ask for help. That’s the real strength. That’s how you rebuild.
— Lois Brown, still serving