Dear younger me,
You thought moral courage was holding your breath during the firefight, not speaking up when you saw a colleague cross the line. You carried shame like a backpack full of rocks, believing silence was strength. It wasn’t. It was the weight of your silence that broke you.
I wish you’d known: Moral courage isn’t about never faltering. It’s about speaking when you falter. I saw you swallow your truth in the field, afraid of being labeled “weak” or “disloyal.” You stayed quiet when you should’ve said, “This isn’t right.” That silence didn’t protect you—it hollowed you out. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. But survival starts when you stop hiding your truth.
You made the mistake of thinking asking for help was surrender. When you were drowning in guilt after that night in Kandahar, you didn’t call the chaplain. You didn’t tell your squad leader. You just… held it. That’s how moral injury festers. It’s not the mistake you made—it’s the shame you carried after.
Here’s what works: Moral courage is the tremor in your voice when you say, “I need help.” It’s the shaky hand that reaches out to a teammate who’s struggling. It’s knowing your worth isn’t tied to your silence. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. They survived because they chose to be seen, not hidden.
You needed to hear this: Your vulnerability isn’t a crack in your armor—it’s the place where healing gets in. The most wounded people I’ve helped weren’t the ones who never fell. They were the ones who finally said, “I can’t do this alone.”
So start small. Today, name one thing you’ve been carrying in silence. Text one person. Say, “I’m struggling.” It won’t fix everything. But it will be the first step toward the courage you’ve been waiting for.
Courage isn’t what you think. It’s showing up, trembling, and saying, “This is me.”
— Lois Brown, still serving