Among the Living: A Veteran’s Journey Through Identity, Spirit, and the Weight of Memory

Where We Are Now: Veterans Among the Population

For many of us who served, there’s a quiet reality that rarely makes its way into everyday conversation. Twenty years ago, we were warfighters—young, disciplined, sharp, and physically elite. We were trained to survive, to protect, and to confront violence the average person will never witness. We lived inside a brotherhood that shaped our identity in ways that follow us long after the uniforms were folded away. Today, we’re scattered among the population. We raise families. We go to work. We stand in grocery store lines like everyone else. Yet inside, there are days when we wish we were back there, not because we loved the chaos, but because we miss the clarity and the unspoken bond between us.

The Identity Shift After Service

The struggle for identity after service is real. Many veterans feel like their “peak” happened between the ages of 18 and 23, during the years when they were considered prime and elite. When life moves forward and our bodies age, that version of ourselves becomes a memory and sometimes, a shadow we chase. Some try to hold onto that level of masculinity, that intensity, that sense of purpose. Others quietly wonder who they are now that the mission is different. It’s not that we are “less” today in many ways, we are more. But we are more in a different, deeper, and often spiritual way.

The Spiritual Evolution of a Veteran

Spiritually, every belief system, whether rooted in God, the universe, energy, or ancestral guidance, teaches that life unfolds in cycles. We go through phases that demand strength, sacrifice, discipline, and grit. And then we evolve. We shift into seasons that require wisdom, compassion, healing, and presence. The battlefield forged our bodies, but life after service builds our spirit. What we learned back then prepares us for what we carry now. That chapter wasn’t the end of us; it was the shaping of us.

Did Our Service Matter? The Home We Once Lived In

Some veterans wrestle with the feeling that their service “didn’t matter,” especially when the U.S. withdrew from certain countries and everything seemed to fall apart overnight. But the truth is simpler and far more human: War is like a home you once lived in. While you’re there, you take care of it. You protect it. You clean up what you can. You fix what you’re able. And when you leave—whether by choice, by orders, or by time—it’s no longer yours. But that doesn’t erase the impact you had when it was entrusted to you. Your service, your sweat, your fear, your brotherhood, and your sacrifices—none of it was wasted. You fulfilled your duty while that space was in your possession.

A Moment That Changed Me: The Spiritual Lesson Hidden Inside Combat

Al Karma, Iraq—A Day I Can Still See Clearly

There’s a moment from Iraq that I can remember with perfect clarity, as if it happened yesterday. It was mid-to-late 2005 in Al Karma. My platoon was running what should have been a simple supply run from our FOB to a small OP we used as a checkpoint. Normally, something that close wouldn’t require a battalion-level convoy, but in our area, “quiet” didn’t mean safe; it meant complicated. Underneath this city were echoes of Falluja residents and insurgents who had fled and were forced to relocate following Operation Phantom Fury.

Even with those residents in the midst, as infantry Marines, a supply run felt like child’s play compared to the endless foot patrols. Those were the real grinders: hours of walking, staying hyper-vigilant, and weaving through crowds, danger areas and open desert where danger blended into everyday life.

This run, though? Light. Quick. Easy.

We delivered the supplies, joked around, laughed, and enjoyed the small break from the intensity of patrol life and being on post for 12 hours. On the way back through the city, we kept our eyes outward as we always did, relaxed enough to breathe but trained enough to watch everything.

The Moment That Didn’t Make Sense—Until Years Later

As we rolled closer to a row of worn-down shops—the kind with old metal doors and faded signs—I noticed two individuals standing off to the side. Far enough not to draw suspicion, but close enough to catch my eye. The shops were closed, which seemed normal for that time of day.

Except their eyes.

There was something hollow in their expressions. dark, distant, almost detached, a kind of emptiness that didn’t fit the surface of the moment. A middle-aged man and a young boy. A father and son.

As we passed them, I saw a subtle flinch.

Then came the THUNK.

A heavy impact beneath our 7-ton, like running over something large. Dust kicked up behind us, but nothing looked out of place. We shrugged it off and kept moving toward the checkpoint.

The second we rolled through the serpentine wire, the Marine on post ran up, asking:

“Did y’all see that?” “See what?” “A fireball! An explosion went off beneath your truck.”

It hit me instantly: they had tried to kill us.

That was the first time I ever looked directly into the eyes of someone attempting to take my life and the lives of my brothers.

Meeting the “Enemy” Face-to-Face—And Realizing He Wasn’t My Enemy

Two years later, as an Urban Warfare Instructor at 29 Palms, the true lesson finally came. We were testing a new acoustic weapon system: part loudspeaker, part non-lethal deterrent. With some downtime before training resumed, I sat with our interpreter for the day: an Iraqi refugee who had been in the U.S. for ten years and had even deployed alongside American forces.

We started talking cautiously at first, then openly. Religion, beliefs, identity, and culture. I was just months removed from my third combat tour, still carrying tension in my chest around anyone from Iraq, even unintentionally.

And then he said something that cracked my worldview open:

“I believe Muslims and Christians are brothers. And we view Jesus with great respect.”

Growing up as a Christian, anything religious that was non-Christian was taught to be avoided. Add in 9/11, and the Middle Eastern Muslim identity was painted as dangerous, extreme, and untrustworthy. Yet this man was kind, wise, grateful to the U.S., and nothing like the people who once tried to kill me.

He wasn’t my enemy. He was human.

The Spiritual Lesson Hidden Inside the Attempt on My Life

With time, that moment in Al Karma transformed spiritually. I learned to separate humanity from ego, culture, and circumstance.

The father and son who targeted us weren’t born with hatred; they eventually grew into something that turned into hatred. They were shaped by environment, ideology, desperation, or fear. Just as American children follow their fathers, that boy was simply following his.

Spiritually, the experience became:

• the death of a rigid religious worldview

• the beginning of a more expansive understanding of humanity

• a reminder that truth is bigger than doctrine

• evidence that people act from the world that shaped them

Years later, I still ask myself: In another timeline, did I die that day?

But in this timeline, that moment became part of my awakening. One of many experiences that helped shape the man, father, and spiritual being I am today.

The Weight of Memory: Violent Realities That Never Fully Fade

We got lucky that day, but there are the memories no one prepares you for: violent death, the smell of fear, the weight of loss, and the sounds that never completely fade. These are not things the human mind was designed to hold forever. They return in quiet moments when we least expect them. I was reminded of that moment above while watching a Key and Peele comedy skit. They echo. They trigger. And that doesn’t make anyone weak; it makes us human. Being “hard” is a façade we were required to wear, but it is not a personality. Blood and gore were never meant to be normal. The fact that it disturbs you now doesn’t make you soft; it makes you healed enough to understand what you survived.

A Different Lens: How Veterans See the World

Many of us also respond to situations differently than the average person, scanning rooms, reading crowds, noticing exits, and anticipating danger. It doesn’t make us better or paranoid; it simply means we were trained. It means our nervous system remembers things our mind sometimes tries to forget. There’s no shame in that. Awareness is not trauma; it’s preparedness. OSMEAC (If you know, you know).

Strength in Healing: Seeking Help Is Not Weakness

And above all, it’s okay to seek help. It’s okay to admit that the transition from warfighter to civilian, from 19-year-old machine to a grown man raising kids, carries weight. A spiritual journey doesn’t erase mental health needs; it complements them. Healing is not a betrayal of who we were; it’s the evolution of who we are becoming. I can tell you firsthand that talking to a mental health professional can go a long way!

Still Becoming: The Veteran Beyond the Battle

We are veterans, not relics of a past life, not ghosts drifting through a world that doesn’t understand us, but living, growing, evolving souls. The world may never fully grasp what it meant to put on a uniform, to move with purpose, to live with danger, or to carry the weight of memories that don’t fade.But it does understand what it means to be human. It understands that choices matter. It understands frustration, fear, anger, hope, and above all, it understands love.

Our service was one chapter. Our humanity is the rest of the book.

And the book is still being written.

We are shaped by the battles we fought, but not defined by them. We carry the discipline of our training, the wisdom of our scars, the humor, sometimes dark, that kept us alive, and the spirit that refuses to dim even on the days when the world feels quiet and we long for the brotherhood we once had.

Today, our mission and purpose are different. It’s slower. Softer. More internal. But no less meaningful.

It’s the mission of raising families, healing our minds, strengthening our spirits and learning to love again. For me as an infantryman I spent most of my time outside the wire. Now its all about finding purpose inside the wire, and building a life that honors the version of myself that never made it home.

We are proof that strength evolves. We are proof that warriors don’t fade, they transform. Proof that survival isn’t the end of the story; it’s the beginning of awakening.

So to every veteran still searching for identity, still wrestling with memory, still learning how to be human again, know this:

You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not finished.

You are becoming.

And the world needs the man and woman you are now every bit as much as it needed the warrior you once were.