When Walls Become Prisons

When Walls Become Prisons

I’ve seen soldiers who thought locking down was brave. I’ve seen first responders build walls so high they couldn’t hear their own hearts beat. And I’ve seen them crumble—not from weakness, but from the prison they’d built.

Here’s what I wish people understood: Walls aren’t strength. They’re isolation.

The common myth? That “toughing it out” is the only way to survive trauma. That showing pain is surrender. I’ve heard it from cops, nurses, veterans: “I can’t ask for help—I’d look weak.” But courage isn’t silence. It’s not the absence of fear. It’s the choice to step toward the fear, not away from it.

The reality? Walls trap you. They make you feel alone in a crowd. They turn small wounds into permanent scars because you’re too busy guarding the door to let light in. I’ve seen people survive the worst—combat, loss, betrayal—and then get stuck in their own prisons, thinking “I’m fine” while drowning. That’s not resilience. That’s exhaustion.

Why does this matter? Because if you believe walls = strength, you’ll never ask for help. You’ll miss the lifeline when it’s thrown. You’ll stay trapped while the world moves on. Healing isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about refusing to let it hold you hostage.

So here’s what works: Name one wall. Not “I’m fine.” Not “I’ll handle it.” Just name it. “I’m scared to talk about the accident.” “I’m angry I cried.” Say it out loud. To a friend. To a therapist. To the mirror. That’s not weakness. That’s the first step out of the cell.

Courage isn’t what you think. It’s the quiet act of lowering a wall, one brick at a time. I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. You can too. Start where you are.

— Lois Brown, still serving