*Originally posted to Substack in August of 2025. Posting here to keep a record on a platform I control.
My husband has PTSD. He received the diagnosis at the beginning of 2019 although the signs were a long time coming.
At first we kept it to ourselves – he asked me to as he worked through the implications of naming this thing out loud, this baggage he carried always, this thing that comes with stereotypes and stigma. I did, but as a verbal processor and lover of community it was a profoundly lonely experience to navigate the meaning of it all and the implications moving forward, for our marriage, for our family, for him. Graciously, he recognized the loneliness of it for me and acknowledged it wasn’t something to hide although he carries reservations still on how the words are perceived. The weight of assumption it carries.
That was then.
This is now. And while the particular flavor of his symptoms are not for public consumption, the most profound emotion I feel (for myself) in all of this is grief – a deep and poignant distress.
In 2016, I acknowledged for the first time that perhaps we might not be okay. I told myself we won’t ever be fine. We will just be, living in the gray area between fine and invisibly wounded. No public meltdowns. No medical board, no obvious disfunction. Just the white noise of guilt, the razors edge of hyper vigilance, and the gaping hole left by the abrupt departure of high speed, high intensity, and life and death in the balance. I asked myself then – “Now we are left with the aftermath of the crash. Where do we go from here in managing how we live the rest of our life in the gray spaces?”
The gray spaces are here now, not imaginary. The grief lies in the loss of what was, what could have been. …
My depression is flaring in response. I don’t know how to describe it – like a cosmic fist on my chest, pinning me to the bed, dampening my movements, my emotions. I’m trailing over the words I’ve written here for over a decade in my digital spaces and it makes me want to live my best life in tribute — and also to weep and weep and weep.
Sometimes the cost feels unbearable. Sometimes the sorrow overflows the grace. Sometimes the sheer act of existing is the resistance.
//
When news broke of the US bombing of Iran nuclear sites, my heart cracked in my chest a little. I was angry, yes—If you follow me in any social media space, my political stance on most issues is very clear—but more so angry (perhaps unfairly so) of the casualness in which those who have not ever paid this particular cost were so enthusiastically cheering on these actions without considering the potential aftermath. I posted the following:
“The Friday after 9/11 I sat in the sanctuary of Lookout Mountain Presbyterian church and wept, asking the Lord over and over what will be the cost for me? 24 years later I can tell you we will live the after effects for the rest of our lives in a way that most of you will never comprehend. Friends lost to combat. Friends lost to suicide. Friends who fought their demons in vain. PTSD is our reality – loud noises, big crowds, new spaces, superstitions – all a daily battle. War is hell and we will relive it in some form or fashion for the rest of our lives
I see you who post Americans flags and cheer the unilateral action bombing Iran. Ignorant of history and choosing blind fealty to a naked emperor. Politicians who choose war without oversight, without reason, Are you sending your sons and daughters in the wake of this? Will you sacrifice your children on this altar? We all know who will bear brunt of this, should we go to war. Not the wealthy, not the privileged. Not the ones who respond with clapping hands. Will you clap your hands over American graves?? It seems so.”
Admittedly a challenge — I am much less diplomatic these days on social media — but I wrote this with tears streaming down my cheeks as I tore it from my own experience and my terror and fear for the next generation, a generation that holds my family members in the military, my friends’ children, my son who wants to serve his country the way his father did. I want you all to know the grief, the sorrow that undercuts every minute of every day for the rest of our life. It is no small thing, and no cause for celebration, regardless of how righteous any cause may seem.
If you don’t know, perhaps, take this glimpse to heart. Pray for us, for me as we plot the course through it.
(Homecoming 2009 after our dual deployment-one of my favorite pictures. That is my unguarded smile of pure joy.)
I do not, will never, regret the sacrifices we made for this country and my pride for WHO has served and is still serving with courage and distinction has never wavered.
**If you or someone you know is considering suicide, please reach out. You are so loved. If you are a veteran, there is a dedicated phone number with resources specifically for you.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255. Available 24 hours everyday.
Both of these are available 24 hours a day via call, text or chat