The Courage To Be Seen

I Need To Admit Something

I need to admit something I’ve never written down before, never said aloud to a single soul in my 12 years of therapy practice. Not to my patients. Not to my colleagues. Not even to my own therapist. I spent years hiding the truth about my own trauma. I was the one handing out the tools for resilience while I was drowning in the silence I’d built around myself.

Here’s what I hid: I was broken. Not in the dramatic, visible way you’d expect after two tours in Afghanistan. Not the kind that gets you a Purple Heart or a medal. The quiet kind. The kind that lives in the way you flinch at sudden noises, the way you can’t sleep without a light on, the way you swallow the panic when someone asks, “How are you really?” I’d perfected the art of looking fine. I’d tell myself I was fine. I’d say it so often it became the only truth I’d let myself believe.

The Lie I Told Myself

For years, I wore my military badge like armor. Medic Brown, no problem too big, no wound too deep. I’d seen men bleed out on the dirt in Kandahar, I’d held a child’s hand as she stopped breathing in a bombed-out school, I’d carried the weight of decisions that still haunt me. But I’d never let anyone see me carry that weight. I’d say, “I’m good,” when I was barely holding it together. I’d skip coffee with my team because I couldn’t face the question, “How’s the family?” I’d stare at the wall during debriefs, counting the cracks in the plaster instead of sharing the nightmares.

Why was it so hard? Because in the military, and in the first responder world I now serve, vulnerability is weakness. It’s the enemy. I’d been taught that since basic training: “Suck it up, soldier. Weakness gets you killed.” I’d seen colleagues crack under pressure and get kicked out of the unit. I’d seen the judgment in their eyes when someone dared to admit they were struggling. So I buried it. Deeper than the bodies we’d buried in the desert. I thought showing pain meant I wasn’t strong enough to do the job. I thought it meant I’d failed.

The Crack in the Armor

It happened in a therapy session with a firefighter. I was working with him on his PTSD after a building collapse. He’d been quiet for weeks, just nodding. Then, one Tuesday, he looked up and said, “Doc, I can’t do this anymore. I’m scared I’m going to lose it in front of my kids.” He didn’t say it like he was asking for help. He said it like he was confessing a crime.

I felt that old panic rise in my throat—the urge to say, “You’re fine. Just push through.” But I stopped myself. I looked him in the eye and said, “What if you’re not supposed to push through? What if it’s okay to not be fine?”

And then it happened. I felt the dam break inside me. I didn’t mean to say it, but the words just came out: “I used to think that too. I used to say ‘I’m fine’ when I was screaming inside. I thought if I let anyone see me fall, I’d lose everything.” I didn’t even realize I was crying until I saw the shock on his face.

That moment wasn’t dramatic. No thunderclap. Just two people in a room, both realizing they’d been lying to themselves for years. And in that moment, I stopped lying to myself.

What Changed When I Stopped Hiding

The first thing that changed? I stopped being afraid of my own tears. I’d spent so long believing tears were a sign of failure that I’d stopped letting them happen. But when I let myself cry in that session, I realized something: I wasn’t falling apart. I was coming back together.

Then, I started noticing the shift in my patients. The ones who’d been silent for months suddenly started speaking. One paramedic told me, “I’ve never admitted I’m scared to my partner. But after you said that, I did. And he said he was scared too.” That’s when it hit me: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not about never being afraid. It’s about being afraid and saying, “I’m scared,” anyway.

I stopped pretending I had all the answers. I started saying, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I’m here with you.” And guess what? My patients trusted me more. They felt safe because I wasn’t hiding.

The biggest change? I stopped seeing vulnerability as a weakness. I saw it as the only thing that connects us. When I stopped hiding my own struggle, I stopped seeing others’ struggles as flaws. I saw them as proof they were human. And that’s when I finally understood what I’ve seen a thousand times: I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. Not because they were strong, but because they let themselves be seen.

Here’s What Works Now

So if you’re reading this and you’re still hiding, here’s the truth: You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy. You don’t have to be strong to be seen. And you don’t have to wait for a crisis to ask for help.

Here’s what I do now, and what I tell my patients:

1. Start small. Don’t try to confess your deepest trauma to your boss. Start with, “I’m having a hard time with X. Can we talk?” It’s not about the size of the confession—it’s about the act of speaking. I started with my coffee buddy: “I’m not sleeping well. Mind if I talk about it?” It felt like a mountain, but it was just one step.

2. Let yourself be messy. You don’t have to have it all figured out. I’ll say it again: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not about being calm and collected. It’s about saying, “I’m not okay,” and then taking the next step anyway. My patients who do this—really do it—don’t become superheroes. They become human. And that’s enough.

3. Find your tribe. Not everyone will get it. That’s okay. But find one person who will. It’s not about fixing you. It’s about being seen. I found mine in a support group for first responders. We didn’t share our trauma to get help—we shared it because we were tired of pretending.

4. Stop waiting for permission. You don’t need to be “ready” to ask for help. You don’t need to have your life in order. You just need to say, “I need help.” That’s it. That’s the courage.

The Realization

I used to think strength was about carrying everything alone. Now I know it’s about knowing when to let someone else carry the weight. It’s about looking someone in the eye and saying, “I’m not okay,” and not feeling like you’ve failed. It’s about realizing that the people who love you don’t want you to be perfect—they want you to be real.

I’ve sat with thousands of people in my office. I’ve seen them break down, cry, and say, “I’m not strong enough.” And I’ve told them what I finally learned: Vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s the birthplace of courage. It’s the moment you stop hiding and start living.

I’m still learning this. Some days, I catch myself saying “I’m fine” before I even realize it. But now I stop. I take a breath. And I say, “I’m having a hard time.” And then I ask for what I need.

That’s the courage I’m talking about. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. It’s messy. And it’s the only kind of courage that lasts.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been hiding, I’m asking you to do one thing today: Look in the mirror. And say it out loud. “I’m not okay.” Not because you’re broken. Because you’re human. And that’s enough.

— Lois Brown, still serving