I Need to Admit Something[edit]
I need to admit something I never told a soul for seven years. Not my commander. Not my wife. Not even my therapist during my first year of civilian practice. I quit. Not my job. Not my duty. I quit myself. I quit the idea that I was supposed to be unbreakable. And that confession? It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Because in my world, quitting wasn’t an option. It was a death sentence.
Back in Kandahar, I was the medic who never flinched. I’d patch up a guy with a shrapnel wound to the leg while bullets kicked up dirt inches from his head. I’d sit with a kid who’d just lost his father to an IED, holding his hand until his breathing slowed, whispering, “You’re not alone.” I’d tell him that. I’d tell myself that. Never leave a brother behind. That was the creed. The only creed. And I lived it. Until I didn’t.
For years, I carried that mantra like a shield. When I got home, I took the job at the VA hospital for first responders. I thought I’d be the rock. The one who could handle the weight of every trauma, every broken veteran, every silent scream. I’d seen the worst in Afghanistan – the blood, the fear, the sheer wrongness of it all. I’d seen people survive it. I knew I could. So I pushed. Harder. Longer. I’d stay late, re-read case notes until my eyes blurred, tell myself “This is why you’re here.” I’d skip my own therapy sessions because “I don’t need it. I’m the therapist.” I was a walking contradiction: a trauma specialist who refused to acknowledge her own.
The hiding was brutal. I hid the exhaustion. The way my hands would shake when I tried to write a report. The panic attacks that hit me in the sterile quiet of my office, triggered by a veteran’s voice that sounded too much like a soldier I’d lost. I hid it behind a mask of efficiency. “Just keep moving,” I’d tell myself. “If you stop, you’ll fall apart.” I thought admitting I was drowning meant admitting I was weak. That I’d failed the very people I was sworn to protect. That I’d failed myself.
It got to the point where I’d stare at a veteran’s file – maybe a cop with severe PTSD from a shooting – and feel nothing. Not compassion. Not even the usual clinical detachment. Just… numbness. Like I’d already been hollowed out. One Tuesday, a young firefighter came in, barely 25, his eyes wide with the terror of a call where he’d watched a child get hit by a car. He was shaking, whispering, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be the strong one.” And I looked at him. Really looked. And I saw me. The me I’d been hiding from. The me who’d been screaming inside for months. I opened my mouth to say something – “It’s okay to not be okay,” or “Let’s figure this out together” – but all that came out was a dry, flat, “You’ll be fine.” And I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. The same flicker I’d seen in my own mirror every morning.
That was the moment. Not a dramatic collapse. Just a quiet, crushing realization: I’m not fine. And I’m hurting him by pretending I am. The shame was a physical thing – a hot, tight band around my chest. I’d spent my whole career teaching others how to be strong. And I’d forgotten how to be human. I’d forgotten that strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about knowing when you need to break, and having the courage to let it happen.
I called my therapist. Not for a scheduled session. Not for a “quick check-in.” I called at 10:47 PM, after the office was empty, my hands trembling so badly I could barely dial. I didn’t say, “I need help.” I said, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m not okay.” And I cried. Not the quiet tears I’d held back for years. Real, ugly, gasping sobs. I told her about the shaking. The numbness. The way I’d been avoiding my own reflection. I told her I was terrified I’d let down every veteran who’d ever sat in that chair.
The moment I said it? It wasn’t the end of me. It was the beginning of me. The shame didn’t vanish. But it shifted. It stopped being a secret and became a truth. And that truth was the only thing that could save me. I stopped trying to be the unbreakable medic. I started being the human who was learning to heal.
Here’s what changed, and why it matters for you:
1. Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar of the soldier on the front line. It’s the whisper of the therapist admitting she’s drowning. It’s the firefighter saying, “I need help,” instead of “I’m fine.” I’ve seen the worst – the shattered bodies, the broken spirits – and I’ve seen people survive it. Not because they were unbreakable. Because they allowed themselves to be broken, and then chose to rebuild. That’s the courage that lasts. It’s not the absence of fear or pain. It’s the decision to face it, even when it feels like quitting.
2. Quitting isn’t failure. It’s the first step to staying. I thought quitting meant walking away from my duty. But the real quitting was walking away from myself. The moment I admitted I couldn’t keep carrying the weight alone? That’s when I could finally carry it with others. I started taking the time I needed. I started going to my own therapy. I started saying “No” to extra shifts when I was depleted. And guess what? I became a better therapist. I was present. I was compassionate. I could actually help people because I wasn’t drowning myself.
3. The moment of honesty is the hardest part. You don’t have to do it perfectly. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to say it. “I’m struggling.” “I need help.” “I can’t do this alone.” It doesn’t have to be a grand confession. It can be a text: “Can we talk? I’m not okay.” It can be a whispered word to a trusted colleague. It can be the shaky voice on a phone call to your therapist. That moment – the act of speaking the truth – is where the real healing begins. It’s where you stop hiding and start living.
Here’s what works (because I’ve been there, and I’ve seen it work):
Start small. You don’t need to say, “I’m quitting my job.” Start with “I need to talk about something heavy.” Or “I’ve been struggling with sleep.”* Just get the truth out of your head and into the air. It’s the first step to not carrying it alone. Find your “safe person.” It’s not your boss. It’s not your spouse (unless they’ve earned that trust). It’s your therapist, a peer support group, a trusted friend who gets it. Text them: “Can I be real for a minute? I’m not okay.” If they’re real, they’ll say, “I’m here.”* If they’re not, that’s information too. You don’t need to carry that weight with someone who can’t hold it. Reframe “quitting” as “resetting.” You’re not quitting your mission. You’re resetting your capacity to serve. You’re not weak for needing a break. You’re strategic*. You’re making sure you can be there for the next person who needs you. That’s not weakness. That’s the ultimate act of strength.
I used to think courage was about never falling. Now I know it’s about getting back up – and having the humility to ask for a hand when you’re down. I used to think I had to be the rock. Now I know I’m only strong when I’m allowed to be human. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. Not by being unbreakable. By being broken – and then choosing to mend.
So if you’re reading this, and you’re tired. If you’re numb. If you’re staring at a file or a patient or a mirror and feeling like you’re failing… I need you to hear this: It’s okay to not be okay. It’s not a sign you’re failing. It’s a sign you’re human. And that’s the only place real courage can begin.
The bravest thing you can do today isn’t to push harder. It’s to say, “I need help.” Then, take that one step. Text the number. Call the office. Say it out loud. It’s not quitting. It’s the only way to truly stay.
— Lois Brown, still serving