Standing up for someone in my unit wasn’t about a medal. It was about a kid, barely 19, being bullied by a sergeant for being quiet. I spoke up. Loudly. In the mess hall.
Here’s what it cost: My quiet friendship with that sergeant. The easy camaraderie I’d built over months. The unspoken understanding that sometimes, you look the other way. I lost the trust of people who’d been my backup in the field. I got a formal reprimand. And for months, I carried the weight of knowing I’d fractured something solid. I missed the easy laughter, the shared silence after a tough mission.
What I gained? Not just the kid’s relief—though seeing him finally relax in the squad was worth the cost. I gained something deeper: the certainty that silence isn’t safety. It’s complicity. I learned how to hold space for others’ pain without flinching. That’s why I sit with first responders now, asking them the same question I asked myself: What’s the cost of staying quiet?
Was it worth it? Yes. But not because it was easy. Because the cost of not speaking—of letting the bullying continue—would have been heavier. I’ve seen the ghosts of people who stayed silent. They carry it longer than any reprimand.
Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar of the crowd. It’s the quiet choice to step into the discomfort, knowing you might lose something precious. It’s the trade-off you make because the other option—watching someone else break—is a cost you can’t bear.
Here’s what works: Start small. Speak up when you see the quiet kid. Not for the glory. For the moment you see them breathe easier. Then do it again tomorrow. The cost is real. But the gain? It’s the only currency that lasts.
— Lois Brown, still serving