The Courage To Start Again

There's a before and after. Before, I thought strength meant silence. I carried the weight of every life I couldn’t save in Afghanistan, then carried it home. I was the rock for other first responders, the one who said, "Just keep moving." I didn’t let myself feel the tremor in my hands after a call, the way the smell of antiseptic could still trigger me. I called it resilience. It was just exhaustion wearing a mask.

The moment of change wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday in my office, sitting across from a firefighter who’d just lost a partner. He looked at me, eyes raw, and whispered, "I can’t do this alone anymore." I opened my mouth to give the usual pep talk, but my throat closed. I saw my own reflection in his eyes—the same fear, the same shame. I didn’t have a ready answer. I just said, "Me neither." And for the first time in ten years, I didn’t pretend I was fine. I admitted I needed help too.

What shifted wasn’t a single moment—it was the decision to stop pretending. I stopped seeing vulnerability as a crack in the armor and started seeing it as the foundation. I’ve seen the worst: the broken bodies, the shattered trust, the silence that screams. And I’ve seen people survive it. Not by being unbreakable, but by letting themselves be broken, then rebuilding with help.

Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar of the battlefield or the stoic face in the ER. It’s the quiet, terrifying act of saying, "I need you." It’s texting a friend at 2 a.m. instead of scrolling through old photos. It’s sitting with the discomfort instead of running from it.

After that day, I stopped being the therapist who had all the answers. I became the one who says, "I’ve been there. Let’s figure it out together." I started therapy myself. I learned to ask for coffee breaks when the grief hits. I stopped carrying the weight of others’ pain like it was mine to bear.

I’m not "fixed." I’m still learning. But now I know: real strength isn’t about never falling. It’s about who you let lift you up when you do.

So today, do one thing. Text one person. Say, "I’m struggling. Can we talk?" Not because you’re weak. Because you’re human. And that’s the bravest thing you’ll ever do.

— Lois Brown, still serving