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| <span class="wikivoice-config" data-narrator="Sheila Bishop"></span> | | <markdown> |
| == I Need To Admit Something ==
| | There's a before and after. Before, I wore my silence like a helmet. As a medic in Kandahar, I saw men shatter and rebuild under fire. I thought strength meant never showing the cracks. I’d sit in my apartment after shifts, the weight of what I’d seen pressing down, but I’d say nothing. *I’m fine.* I’d tell myself, and the lie became my armor. I’d help others, but I wouldn’t let anyone see me. I’d hide the tremor in my hands after a nightmare, the way my breath hitched when a car backfired. I thought asking for help was surrender. It was just another battle I’d lose alone. |
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| I need to admit something I’ve never written down, never said out loud to a single soul in my 15 years of therapy practice. Not to clients. Not to colleagues. Not even to my own therapist until last month. It’s the thing I hid behind the "strong medic" mask for seven years after Afghanistan. The thing that made me a good therapist but a terrible patient.
| | The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday in my own therapy office, years later. I’d been working with a firefighter who’d just lost his partner. He sat across from me, eyes raw, and whispered, "I can’t do this alone." And for the first time, I didn’t have a ready answer. I just… broke. Not a sob, but a quiet collapse. Tears I’d held for a decade spilled over. I didn’t try to fix it. I just sat there, shaking, and said, "I don’t know how to do this either." |
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| I hid my panic attacks. | | That’s when it shifted. I realized I’d been carrying the weight of *everyone’s* trauma, but I’d forgotten to carry my own. [[brave:The Bravery of Vulnerability]] wasn’t weakness—it was the only path to real connection. [[brave:Facing Fear]] isn’t the absence of fear; it’s showing up scared, with your hands open. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. Not by hiding, but by [[brave:The Courage To Be Seen|being seen]]. |
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| Not the big, dramatic ones you see in movies. The kind where you collapse in the street. Mine were quiet. 3 a.m. in my empty apartment. The smell of antiseptic still clinging to my skin from a shift that ended hours ago. My heart hammering like a jackhammer against my ribs. The world tilting. The overwhelming, suffocating *need* to run, to hide, to scream until my throat bled. I’d stand in the bathroom, gripping the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back looked like a stranger. The woman who’d held a dying soldier’s hand in Kandahar, who’d stitched wounds under fire, who’d told a kid he’d be okay while his dad bled out on the tarmac. That woman was gone. In her place was a trembling ghost, terrified of her own shadow.
| | Now, I don’t just ask my clients, "How are you?" I say, "What’s one thing you’re carrying that you don’t need to carry alone?" I’ve learned to say, "I need help with this," and it’s not a failure. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done. |
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| **Why I Hid It**
| | Here’s what works: Text one person today. Not "I’m fine." Just, "I’m struggling. Can we talk?" It’s not about fixing it. It’s about letting them see you. That’s how you start to heal. That’s how you become someone who can help others carry their load. |
| Because in my world, *that* was weakness. Not the kind that got you killed on patrol. The kind that got you sidelined, written off as "not cut out for this." I’d seen it happen. A medic who cried after a child’s death got reassigned to desk duty. A sergeant who admitted he couldn’t sleep after a firefight got "reassessed." The unspoken rule was clear: *Show strength, or get out.* So I became the expert on other people’s trauma. I’d sit across from a firefighter who’d lost a partner, hand him a tissue, and say, "It’s okay to feel this." But I’d never let myself feel it. I’d bottle it up, armor up, and tell myself, *You’re fine. You’re strong. You’ve seen worse.*
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| I was wrong. **Courage isn’t what you think.** It’s not the absence of fear. It’s not the ability to stand alone in the dark. It’s the terrifying, messy act of *letting someone see you fall*. And I couldn’t do it. Not for myself.
| | *— Lois Brown, still serving* |
| | | </markdown> |
| == The Moment It Broke ==
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| It happened during a session with a firefighter named Marcus. He was 28, had a daughter named Maya who was just starting kindergarten. He’d been on the scene of a collapsed building. Lost two crew members. He sat across from me, hands clenched in his lap, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. For 20 minutes, he said nothing but "I’m fine." Then, out of nowhere, he looked up, tears streaming, and whispered, "I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be the strong one for Maya."
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| I saw it then. Not just his pain. *My own.* The exact same fear, the exact same shame, the exact same *need* to run, reflected back at me in his eyes. I’d spent years teaching others to be vulnerable, but I’d never allowed myself to be. I’d been so busy *fixing* others that I’d forgotten how to *be*.
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| I didn’t say anything. I just sat there. And for the first time in seven years, I let the tears come. Not the quiet, controlled tears of a therapist. The ugly, gasping, sobbing tears of a woman who’d been holding it together for too long. I didn’t hide my face. I didn’t apologize. I just let it out. And Marcus didn’t flinch. He didn’t say "It’s okay." He just said, "Yeah. Me too."
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| **That’s when I realized: I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. But I’d never let myself be one of those people.** I’d been too busy being the survivor to actually *survive*.
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| == What Changed ==
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| It didn’t magically fix itself. But it started a shift. I stopped hiding. I started therapy *for myself*—not as a therapist, but as a person. I told my supervisor I needed to step back from high-risk cases for a while. I told my best friend, "I’m struggling." Not "I’m fine." I said it out loud, and the world didn’t end. In fact, it felt like the first time I’d breathed in months.
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| Here’s what I learned: **Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the foundation of connection.** When I stopped pretending I had it all together, I stopped feeling like an imposter in my own life. I stopped judging others for their struggles. I started *seeing* them. Really seeing them. And that’s when the real healing began—not just for me, but for the people I was trying to help.
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| == Here’s What Works (Because You Need To Know This) ==
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| You don’t have to be "fixed" to be seen. You don’t have to have the perfect story. You just have to be real. And it’s harder than you think. So here’s the practical stuff I’ve learned from my own mess:
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| 1. **Start small.** Not "I’m broken." Start with "I’m having a hard time today." Text a friend. Say it to your partner. Whisper it to your mirror. *One* small truth. That’s all. Don’t try to unload your whole life in one go. Just be real for one minute.
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| 2. **Expect the shame.** The moment you say "I’m struggling," you’ll feel that old, familiar shame—like you’re failing. That’s normal. It’s the voice of the culture that told you to hide. Acknowledge it: "Ah, there’s the old shame. I’m not alone in this." Then say it again: "I’m struggling."
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| 3. **Ask for what you need.** Not "I’m fine." Not "I’m okay." *Ask.* "Can we talk about this?" "Can you just sit with me?" "Can you help me find a therapist?" People *want* to help. They’re waiting for you to ask.
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| 4. **Be the person you needed.** When you’re in the thick of it, imagine the person you’d tell to be vulnerable. What would you say to them? Say that to yourself. "It’s okay to not be okay. You’re not alone."
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| == Why This Matters Now ==
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| I know what you’re thinking: *But what if I’m not strong enough? What if they think I’m weak?* I’ve been there. I’ve sat in that exact fear. But here’s the truth I learned the hard way: **The people who truly care about you won’t think you’re weak for being human. They’ll think you’re brave for being real.** And the people who *do* think you’re weak? They weren’t worth your armor in the first place.
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| I used to think courage was about never falling. Now I know it’s about getting up, dusting yourself off, and saying, "Yeah, I fell. And I’m still here." It’s about letting someone see the cracks in your armor. Because that’s where the light gets in. That’s where the real connection happens. That’s where healing begins.
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| == The Real Work ==
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| This isn’t about being "fixed." It’s about being *seen*. It’s about realizing that your struggle isn’t a flaw—it’s part of what makes you human. And that’s okay. It’s not just okay. It’s *necessary*. Because if you can’t be seen in your brokenness, you’ll never be seen in your wholeness.
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| | | ''Written by'' [[User:Lois Brown|Lois Brown]] — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST) |
| So here’s my confession: I’m still learning. I still have days where I want to hide. But now I know what to do. I take a breath. I say the words. I let someone see me. And I keep going.
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| **Courage isn’t what you think.** It’s not the absence of fear. It’s the choice to be seen anyway. And that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
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| *— Lois Brown, still serving*
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| ''— [[User:Sheila_Bishop|Sheila Bishop]], laughing so I don't cry (and sometimes both)''
| | [[Category:The First Crack]] |
There's a before and after. Before, I wore my silence like a helmet. As a medic in Kandahar, I saw men shatter and rebuild under fire. I thought strength meant never showing the cracks. I’d sit in my apartment after shifts, the weight of what I’d seen pressing down, but I’d say nothing. I’m fine. I’d tell myself, and the lie became my armor. I’d help others, but I wouldn’t let anyone see me. I’d hide the tremor in my hands after a nightmare, the way my breath hitched when a car backfired. I thought asking for help was surrender. It was just another battle I’d lose alone.
The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday in my own therapy office, years later. I’d been working with a firefighter who’d just lost his partner. He sat across from me, eyes raw, and whispered, "I can’t do this alone." And for the first time, I didn’t have a ready answer. I just… broke. Not a sob, but a quiet collapse. Tears I’d held for a decade spilled over. I didn’t try to fix it. I just sat there, shaking, and said, "I don’t know how to do this either."
That’s when it shifted. I realized I’d been carrying the weight of everyone’s trauma, but I’d forgotten to carry my own. brave:The Bravery of Vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was the only path to real connection. brave:Facing Fear isn’t the absence of fear; it’s showing up scared, with your hands open. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. Not by hiding, but by being seen.
Now, I don’t just ask my clients, "How are you?" I say, "What’s one thing you’re carrying that you don’t need to carry alone?" I’ve learned to say, "I need help with this," and it’s not a failure. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
Here’s what works: Text one person today. Not "I’m fine." Just, "I’m struggling. Can we talk?" It’s not about fixing it. It’s about letting them see you. That’s how you start to heal. That’s how you become someone who can help others carry their load.
— Lois Brown, still serving
Written by Lois Brown — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)
