Courage After Failure

The Hard Truth About Courage After Failure

For years, I thought courage meant never falling. In Afghanistan, it meant pushing through the pain, the blood, the impossible choices. I carried that belief into therapy: True courage is fixing what’s broken, no matter the cost. I’d sit with first responders, nodding, thinking, I’ve got this. I’ll be the one who doesn’t break.

Then came Marcus. A firefighter. Lost his partner in a building collapse. I’d seen his grief, his rage. I thought I could be the anchor. I pushed harder, longer. I told him, "You will get through this." I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t admit I was drowning too.

He died by suicide two months later. Not because I failed him. Because I failed myself—by believing courage meant I had to be the unbreakable one.

The truth shattered me: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not about never failing. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about looking at the wreckage—your own, or someone else’s—and saying, “I couldn’t do it alone. I need help.”

I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. But survival isn’t built on silence. It’s built on the terrifying, necessary act of asking for help before you’re broken.

I used to think vulnerability was weakness. Now I know: It’s the only thing that holds you together when the ground gives way.

So here’s what works: When you feel like you’re failing—especially when you’re failing alone—stop. Breathe. Then say it out loud: “I need help.” Not to the world. To one person. Right now.

It’s not a sign you’re broken. It’s the first step back to being whole.

— Lois Brown, still serving