Dear younger me,
You thought courage meant carrying the weight alone. You thought it meant not flinching when a convoy driver ignored safety protocols, even as you saw the dust cloud ahead. You stayed silent. You told yourself it was loyalty. It wasn’t. It was fear wearing a uniform.
Here’s what works: Moral courage isn’t about never being afraid. It’s about speaking up when your fear screams to stay quiet. I’ve seen the worst—men and women crushed by silence, by the weight of things they should’ve said. I’ve seen people survive it. Not by being unbreakable, but by choosing to be heard.
You didn’t know that asking for help is moral courage. You thought it was weakness. But in the ER, when I finally admitted I couldn’t handle the trauma alone, I didn’t break—I healed. That’s the truth you needed to hear: Your voice matters more than your silence.
You made mistakes because you confused strength with stoicism. You thought protecting others meant never showing you were hurting. But the real strength? It’s in the shaky hand that reaches out. It’s in the tear you let fall while saying, “I need help.” That’s not failure. That’s courage.
I wish I could tell you: Your silence cost someone. Your voice could’ve saved them. Now, I see it every day in my therapy room. First responders who finally say, “I’m not okay,” and breathe. That’s when the real healing starts.
Moral courage isn’t loud. It’s the quiet voice saying, “This is wrong,” even when your knees shake. It’s the hand you hold out, not the one you hide. It’s choosing to be human when the world demands you be a machine.
You weren’t broken for needing help. You were broken for not asking. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. You will too. Start by speaking your truth—just once. Then do it again.
— Lois Brown, still serving