When Courage Fails[edit]
There’s a before and after. Before, I thought courage meant never flinching. It meant holding the line when the mortar rounds hit, stitching wounds while the dust tasted like blood, and carrying the weight of every life in my hands without a single crack. I wore my silence like armor. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it—so I told myself, I could handle anything. I’d say it to my team, to myself, like a mantra. Until I couldn’t.
It was Kandahar, third tour. A young soldier, barely 19, took a direct hit. I worked on him for 27 minutes. I did everything right. But his breathing stopped. I kept going, voice raw, hands shaking, until the medevac arrived. They told me later he’d been holding on. I’d been holding on too hard. I didn’t let myself feel the failure. I just pushed harder, harder, until I was hollow. That’s when courage failed me. Not because I wasn’t brave—I was. But because I’d confused bravery with isolation. I thought asking for help was surrender. It wasn’t. It was the only thing that could save me.
The shift wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Sitting in a VA office months later, staring at my own hands—still shaking, still stained with blood I couldn’t wash off. A therapist asked, "What do you need right now?" I froze. I’d spent a lifetime answering "Nothing." But for the first time, I whispered, "I need to not be alone." That’s when I realized: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the absence of fear. It’s the choice to reach out while you’re afraid. It’s admitting you can’t carry the weight alone.
Now? I don’t just treat first responders. I am the one who shows them how to ask for help. I tell them: "Your silence isn’t strength. It’s the enemy." I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it—because they asked for help. Not despite it. Because of it.
Here’s what works: When you feel that weight, that urge to push through alone? Stop. Breathe. Say it out loud: "I need help." Then say it again. To one person. Today. Not tomorrow. Not when you’re "ready." Now. That’s the courage that lasts.
— Lois Brown, still serving