I Need To Admit Something
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.
I hid my panic attacks.
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.
Why I Hid It 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.
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.
The Moment It Broke
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."
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.
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."
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.
What Changed
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.
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.
Here’s What Works (Because You Need To Know This)
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:
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. 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." 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. 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."
Why This Matters Now
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.
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.
The Real Work
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.
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.
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.
— Lois Brown, still serving