Beyond the Uniform: What Veterans Teach Us About Strength, Silence, and Healing

I grew up knowing the sound of boots on tile floors before dawn. The smell of starch and the weight of expectation hung in the air long before I understood what either meant. My childhood was painted in shades of olive drab and desert tan—structured, disciplined, and proud. The Army wasn’t just my family’s job; it was our way of life. You learn early on in a military household that time is a suggestion only if you enjoy push-ups. You also learn that “yes, sir” and “no, ma’am” come out faster than your own name, and that moving day is basically a competitive sport. Somewhere between the base housing and the backyard barbecues, I absorbed it all—the pride, the purpose, and the silence that follows service.

Now, years later, my partner—a Marine through and through—reminds me daily that the uniform never really comes off. It just changes shape. It’s in how he still sits facing the door, eats like he’s got five minutes before the next call, and can turn a simple grocery run into a tactical operation. It’s not fear—it’s instinct. It’s what happens when part of you never really clocks out.

But here’s the thing: the fight doesn’t always end when the deployment does. Sometimes, it just changes battlefields. When Veterans come home, they often leave behind the war zone but carry the war inside them. It lives in sleepless nights, sudden noises, and the quiet ache of memories that won’t quite fade. It shows up in unexpected ways—like double-checking locks, overthinking every sound, or having a sense of humor so dark it could block out the sun.

People love to say “support our troops,” but support isn’t a slogan—it’s a verb. It’s asking, How are you, really? and actually waiting for the answer. It’s sitting in silence when words are too heavy. It’s learning that sometimes love means giving space, and sometimes it means standing your ground when they try to retreat. In my house, Veterans’ mental health isn’t a theory—it’s part of the daily rhythm. It’s the late-night talks that start with small things and end with deep ones. It’s understanding that strength and vulnerability aren’t opposites—they’re siblings.

Growing up in the Army, there was an unspoken rule: emotions stay in check. You stand tall. You follow orders. You get the job done. And that mindset? It saves lives on the battlefield. But back home, it can quietly destroy them. Because somewhere along the way, “tough” became confused with “silent.” Needing help feels like failure to someone who’s been trained to handle anything. But let me tell you—some of the bravest acts I’ve ever seen didn’t happen overseas. They happened right here, in the quiet moments when a Veteran walked into a counselor’s office, called a friend, or simply said the words, I’m not okay. There’s a rare, stubborn kind of courage in that. It’s not surrender—it’s survival.

Loving a Veteran means learning to translate silence. It means realizing that sometimes, what they don’t say speaks volumes. Healing isn’t linear; it’s more like a ruck march through mud—some days steady, some days slipping backward. A very close friend once told me that coming home was harder than deployment. “Over there, I knew the mission,” he said. “Here, I don’t always know what I’m supposed to be fighting.” That hit me hard. Because it reminded me that “home” for Veterans isn’t just a place—it’s a network of people who get it. It’s belonging, not just being. It’s community, not just a welcome home parade. Support shouldn’t stop after the fireworks fade. It’s not just about ceremonies and hashtags—it’s about real, everyday work. It looks like affordable therapy, strong peer support, meaningful jobs, and communities that don’t make Veterans earn the right to rest.

And then there are the numbers—the kind that make your stomach drop. The 2024 National Veteran Suicide Prevention Annual Report from the Department of Veterans Affairs reports that about 17 Veterans die by suicide every day. That’s not just a statistic; it’s a tragedy of silence. And many never reached out for help. Not because they didn’t want to—but because they didn’t think they could. For some, that silence is compounded by substance use. Alcohol and drugs can start as coping tools—a way to quiet memories, to sleep, to breathe—but over time, they build walls instead of bridges. According to VA data, nearly one in three Veterans seeking mental health care also struggles with a substance use disorder, and that overlap increases the risk of suicide. It’s not weakness; it’s the weight of trying to manage pain with the only tools that feel accessible in the moment.

That’s where we come in. We can change the story—not with pity, but with presence. By normalizing conversations about trauma and substance use. By showing compassion instead of curiosity. By reminding our Veterans that strength isn’t just about what you carry—it’s also about knowing when to set it down.

In my work, I see the power of connection over and over again. A farmer-turned-soldier finding purpose through a peer network. A Veteran mentoring youth who need someone to believe in them. A group of old friends turning grief into a mission to help others. Healing isn’t always found in therapy rooms—it’s often found in belonging.

Sometimes healing is quiet. Its boots tied not for deployment, but for a morning walk. It’s laughter over coffee with someone who “gets it.” It’s realizing you’re not the only one who still dreams in desert tones. Other times, healing is loud—the rumble of a motorcycle convoy raising awareness, the clang of gym weights, the cathartic laughter at a Veterans’ open mic night where humor doubles as armor. (If you’ve never heard a Marine tell a story with zero filter, you’re missing out.) There’s no single way to heal, just as there’s no single way to serve. The point is: we keep showing up. We make room for the stories, the grief, the joy, and the process of coming home—again and again.

As November rolls around, the flags start flying and the tributes start posting, but here’s what I hope we remember: Veterans Day isn’t just about gratitude. It’s about responsibility. If you love a Veteran, check in. If you are a Veteran, reach out. If you’re part of a community with those who’ve served, make sure it’s a place where they can thrive, not just survive. And if you’ve never served but want to help—start by listening. Not to fix. Not to analyze. Just to listen. Sometimes the most powerful way to honor someone who’s been through war is to sit beside them in peace.

Growing up in the Army taught me resilience. Loving a Marine has taught me patience (and how to survive 4 a.m. workouts). But watching Veterans heal has taught me something deeper—grace. Grace for the hard days. Grace for the long nights. Grace for the courage it takes to keep moving forward when the mission isn’t clear. Because Veterans don’t need us to tell them to be strong. They’ve already mastered that. What they need is permission to be human.

So this November, as the leaves fall and the air cools, let’s do more than say “thank you for your service.” Let’s build communities that show it—with empathy, connection, and action. The battle for healing isn’t theirs alone. It belongs to all of us.

If you or a Veteran you know is struggling, call or text 988 and press 1 to reach the Veterans Crisis Line. Help is here, and healing is possible.

Be kind-always!

Jamie McGrew