Memorial Day has come to mean many things over the years. For some, it marks the unofficial start of summer. The holiday has become associated with backyard barbecues, long weekends, warm weather, and retail sales draped in red, white, and blue. Families gather, grills fire up, and people take advantage of a much-needed day away from work.

But what is Memorial Day actually meant to represent?

Originally established following the Civil War, Memorial Day was first known as “Decoration Day,” named for the tradition of citizens decorating the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers and flags. At its core, the day was created to honor the men and women who died while serving in the United States military.

For many veterans, myself included, this is not an abstract historical concept or simply another federal holiday on the calendar. Memorial Day is deeply personal. It is a day tied to the names, faces, and memories of friends, teammates, and comrades who never made it home.

For some veterans, the day can also stir survivor’s guilt, the lingering and often painful question of why they survived combat while others did not. Those thoughts do not simply disappear with time. They remain tucked away beneath the surface, often resurfacing on days like this.

Many veterans spend Memorial Day quietly. Some visit cemeteries or memorial parks. Others attend ceremonies, place flags at gravesites, or simply take time alone to reflect on the people they lost. These traditions are not about politics or public recognition. They are about remembrance.

If you never served, or do not personally know someone who has, it is worth remembering that while Memorial Day may carry a festive atmosphere for many Americans, for others it can be one of the hardest days of the year.

The freedoms and way of life enjoyed in this country have been protected through sacrifice. Memorial Day exists to remember those who gave everything and never had the opportunity to return home, grow old, raise families, or continue the lives they left behind.

I would challenge everyone this year to take a moment, even briefly, to think about those individuals and the families they left behind. Even during uncertain times, those sacrifices still carry meaning, and future sacrifices deserve our serious and solemn attention.

It is only one day out of the year. Remember them.

Memorial Day Is Not About the Long Weekend was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I recently came across an article about Rolex watches used during the Vietnam War, and it got me thinking about some of the escape-and-evasion tools we were issued before deploying to Afghanistan. Back then, Green Berets often relied on a Rolex as universal barter currency if they ever found themselves stranded behind enemy lines. By the time we were deploying, that practice had largely faded into history. Instead of carrying something tangible like a watch, you were more likely to carry a promissory note or documentation guaranteeing a substantial payout to anyone willing to help you evade capture and make it back to friendly territory.

Most people picture a Rolex as a status symbol, something worn in boardrooms or behind the wheel of an expensive car. During the Vietnam War, however, the Rolex Submariner and GMT-Master meant something entirely different to the Green Berets operating deep in the jungle.

For Special Forces soldiers working in remote camps, crossing borders, or disappearing into denied areas, a Rolex wasn’t about luxury. It was a survival tool.

In many cases, it was also an insurance policy.

Long before GPS watches, encrypted communications, and digital tracking systems became standard, Special Forces teams depended on gear that could survive brutal conditions without failing. Vietnam’s jungle environment destroyed electronics, ruined batteries, and consumed equipment at an unforgiving pace. Mechanical watches, especially Rolex models known for their durability, earned a reputation for reliability when reliability could mean the difference between extraction and disappearance.

The watches served a practical purpose during operations. Luminous dials allowed operators to coordinate movement in complete darkness during ambushes, raids, or extraction windows. The Submariner’s water resistance made it especially useful for dive teams and reconnaissance elements moving through rivers, swamps, and flooded terrain.

But the real value of a Rolex often had nothing to do with telling time.

For Green Berets operating deep inside hostile territory beyond friendly lines, the watch represented something universally understood across borders and cultures: value.

If a soldier was shot down, isolated, or forced to evade capture behind enemy lines, a Rolex could become currency. It could be traded for transportation, food, shelter, forged documents, or safe passage across a border. In some cases, it could buy silence. In others, cooperation.

Unlike gold bars or large amounts of cash, a Rolex was compact, instantly recognizable, and easy to conceal. The watches became so closely associated with escape-and-evasion culture that many operators referred to them as “border watches.”

Among Special Forces soldiers during the height of the Vietnam War, owning one gradually became part of an unofficial identity tied to elite status and operational experience. Veterans often joked about the “SF suit,” an unwritten combination of items frequently seen among Green Berets:

• A Rolex watch
• Randall knife
• A star sapphire ring

Together, they represented more than style. They reflected a culture built around self-reliance, unconventional warfare, and quiet professionalism.

While some Rolex and Tudor models found their way into military use through specialized dive detachments or procurement channels, many Green Berets purchased them personally through Post Exchanges during deployments. At the time, the watches could often be bought overseas for a fraction of their modern value, sometimes for only a few hundred dollars.

Today, collectors chase those same Vietnam-era models because of their connection to Special Forces history. Yet what makes those watches fascinating is not their rarity or price tag. It is the reality that, for the men who wore them, they were never intended to be collector’s items.

They were tools.

Tools carried into places where survival often depended on preparation, improvisation, and the ability to adapt when everything else went wrong.

And somewhere deep in the jungles of Southeast Asia, more than one Green Beret likely looked down at a scratched Rolex and understood that it might someday buy him a way home.

The Rolex in the Jungle was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There was a time when this was a constant topic of conversation.

In the immediate aftermath of the withdrawal from Afghanistan, the focus was on the people we left behind, the individuals who stood beside us, worked with us, and trusted us while we operated on foreign soil. Over time, that conversation has faded. It’s no longer front and center.

But it hasn’t gone away.

I was recently reminded of the men who supported us day in and day out. They served as interpreters, helped us navigate local environments, assisted with procurement, and provided critical support at outstations so we could stay focused on the mission. These weren’t passive participants. They took real risks, often placing themselves and their families in danger simply by working alongside us.

We made promises.

We told them we would take care of them. That we would do what we could to ensure their safety from Taliban reprisal. That they wouldn’t be left behind.

But when the time came, we executed a withdrawal that was rushed, poorly planned, and built on an unrealistic timeline. In the process, we left behind many of the very individuals we had promised to protect, without a clear or reliable pathway for asylum, and without a system capable of moving fast enough to match the reality on the ground.

And the reality was simple: the people now in control were actively seeking out those who had helped us.

As a service member, my job and the job of those around me, was to fight against those who threatened stability and security in the region. In the early days, that meant dismantling Al Qaeda and similar networks. Over time, our focus shifted toward the Taliban, drawing us deeper into what was ultimately a civil conflict.

We raised concerns about that shift. About the long-term implications of using the military as a nation-building tool. About what it would mean to commit ourselves to a fight that had no clear end state.

Those concerns didn’t change the trajectory.

As the years went on, the conversation evolved. It wasn’t just about strategy anymore, it was about responsibility. We pushed for a clearer, faster pathway for the individuals who had supported us to immigrate to the United States. For a time, it seemed like that effort was gaining traction.

Then came the withdrawal.

I lost friends — brothers — in that war. The cost of it is something I carry with me. Watching the country fall back into the hands of the very group we had fought against, the same group responsible for taking those lives, was difficult enough.

Knowing that we also left behind people who had stood with us, people who believed in what we were trying to build; made it worse.

This isn’t about politics. It’s about accountability.

It’s about recognizing that there are still individuals in Afghanistan today who took risks on our behalf and are now living with the consequences of those decisions.

One of those individuals is someone I worked with directly, Rahimullah. He supported our unit in a specialized role, helping us operate more effectively in environments where blending in was critical to mission success. Like many others, he did his job without hesitation, understanding full well what it could cost him.

There are others like him.

This isn’t a unique story. It’s a pattern.

And while I don’t have the ability to influence immigration outcomes or navigate the system on behalf of individuals, I do think it’s important that these stories aren’t forgotten and that the broader issue remains part of the conversation.

Because for the people still living it, this didn’t end when we left.

The Ones We Left Behind was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Coming home is only the beginning. For some veterans, it’s where the real fight starts.

There’s a reality we don’t talk about enough, one that exists in plain sight on street corners, under overpasses, and outside the places we pass every day without a second glance.

Some of those people are veterans.

And some of them are there because the war didn’t end when they came home.

I know this because I’ve lived close enough to that edge to understand how thin the line can be.

After multiple rotations in Afghanistan, I came back to a support system that didn’t let me drift. I had people who listened when I needed to talk, who gave me space when I needed to think, and who spoke up, firmly, when I needed to hear something I didn’t want to hear, especially when it came to seeking help. Without that, there’s no telling where I might have ended up.

Not every veteran has that.

For many, the transition from military life to civilian life is abrupt and disorienting. The structure is gone. The mission is gone. The sense of belonging, the one that once defined every day, is suddenly replaced with silence.

Sometimes that silence is filled with family and support. But sometimes it isn’t.

Some veterans come home to an empty house. Relationships strained by distance don’t always survive. Others made the choice to walk alone long before they left. Either way, coming back with no one to confide in can start a slow, quiet spiral.

One missed step becomes another. Stability starts to slip. And eventually, some find themselves without a place to live.

There are contributing factors that make this fall even harder to stop. Untreated mental health conditions. A lack of clearly transferable job skills. A rapidly changing job market that doesn’t always value the experience gained in uniform. Financial strain, especially among junior enlisted service members transitioning out.

Add isolation to that mix, and for some, substance use becomes a way to quiet the noise.

Veterans are significantly more likely to experience homelessness than the general population. Not because they are weak, but because the challenges they face after service are often complex, layered, and, too often, faced alone.

And here’s where we, as a society, play a role.

Our instinct is often to look away. We pass by, avoid eye contact, keep moving. Even when someone tries to engage, we convince ourselves it’s easier not to get involved.

But every unhoused person has a story.

The next time someone approaches you, take a moment. Listen.

If you come across a homeless veteran, try to learn a little about them. That information can be passed along to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, which offers programs designed to help veterans secure housing, access mental health care, and find employment.

What’s surprising is how many veterans don’t even know these programs exist.

And what’s powerful is what happens when they do.

Many who receive help go on to help others. They reach back, find those still struggling, and show them that there is a path forward. That they are not alone. That someone still cares.

So here’s the challenge.

If you consider yourself a supporter of our men and women in uniform, don’t let that support end when they come home. The uniform comes off, but the fight to reintegrate doesn’t.

Engage, talk to the unhoused individuals you encounter, ask their story.

You might be surprised by what you hear.

And if you meet a veteran, help point them toward resources they may not know are available. That small act, one conversation, one moment of acknowledgment, could be the turning point they’ve been waiting for.

Because for some veterans, the difference between falling through the cracks and finding their way back isn’t a massive system overhaul.

Sometimes, it’s simply someone choosing not to look away.

National Hotline: The National Call Center for Homeless Veterans (877–424–3838) provides 24/7 access to trained counselors for immediate help.

The Reality of Unhoused Veterans was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I recently joined my local VFW. For years, I had shied away from veteran organizations. I told myself I didn’t have the time. I assumed I wasn’t interested in meeting new people.

But these aren’t just people. These are veterans. Men and women who raised their right hand just like I did.

There’s something powerful about walking into a VFW post for the first time.

The walls are lined with photographs, plaques, and memories. Campaign ribbons. Old guidons. Names etched in brass. At first glance, it can feel like stepping into someone else’s era, a different war, a different generation.

But sit down long enough and you realize something important:

It’s your story too.

When I was welcomed into the post, I waited outside the room while the members voted on whether to admit me into this close-knit community. As I stood there, I studied the walls filled with veterans from past wars and conflicts. I noticed something that stayed with me; there wasn’t a single person of color in the photographs.

I understand the demographics. Our numbers in uniform have always been reflective of the broader population. But it struck me that representation doesn’t change on its own. If veterans like me hesitate to step forward, to join, to be present, then nothing evolves. It reinforced something simple: if we want these institutions to grow, to reflect the full spectrum of those who served, then we have to show up.

And that’s when it became clear to me that the Veterans of Foreign Wars is more than a building with a bar and a few folding chairs.

It is a place where service doesn’t end when the uniform comes off. It becomes a bridge; between generations, between wars, between the battlefield and the home front.

Service Doesn’t Stop at Retirement

The VFW provides veterans with a way to continue serving, not in a combat zone, but in their communities. Posts organize scholarship programs, support local schools, assist struggling veterans, and stand watch at funerals when families need quiet dignity and respect.

For many veterans, that sense of continued mission matters.

You leave active duty. The tempo drops. The phone stops ringing. The team disperses. And suddenly the identity that defined you for years feels distant.

Organizations like the VFW offer something subtle but essential: purpose without pressure. Service without deployment. Camaraderie without rank.

You Are Not Alone

One of the most overlooked aspects of veteran organizations is the simple power of shared experience

You can talk to your spouse about Afghanistan. You can describe Iraq to a coworker. But only another veteran understands the unspoken parts; the humor, the loss, the moral gray, the way silence feels different after war.

Inside a VFW post, you meet men and women who may have worn different uniforms in different decades, but who understand what it means to:

• Carry responsibility that doesn’t make the news
• Lose people you can’t fully explain
• Come home changed

War stories aren’t about bravado. They’re about processing. About laughter that masks memory. About realizing you’re not the only one who still thinks about certain nights.

For veterans navigating post-conflict struggles, whether that’s reintegration, loss of identity, or simply feeling disconnected, that realization can be life-changing.

The Hesitation of the New Generation

Here’s the hard truth: younger veterans are hesitant to join.

Some see the VFW as outdated. Others assume it’s not for “their war.” Some don’t feel they need it. And some simply don’t think about it at all.

Meanwhile, membership numbers are shrinking.

If that trend continues, something valuable will be lost.

The VFW is not just a relic of past conflicts. It is a living institution, but only if living veterans choose to participate.

Veterans of Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Africa, and other recent theaters bring something essential: perspective. Diversity. Modern insight. An understanding of today’s military culture and today’s veteran challenges.

Younger members don’t dilute these organizations, they strengthen them.

They modernize communication. They expand outreach. They reshape programming. They ensure the torch isn’t just carried, but carried forward.

Volunteering…Again

When you raised your right hand, you volunteered.

No one forced you to serve. You stepped forward.

Today, veteran organizations need volunteers again, not for deployment, but for preservation.

Preserving advocacy.

Preserving community.

Preserving the ability for veterans to gather without explanation.

Joining the VFW doesn’t mean surrendering your identity to an institution. It means investing in a place where service continues in a different form.

It means ensuring that when the next generation comes home, confused, proud, restless, searching, there’s still a door open with people inside who understand.

Carry the Torch

The future of the VFW and organizations like it depends on veterans who are willing to engage, not just observe.

If you’ve ever felt isolated after service…

If you’ve ever missed the quiet understanding of your team…

If you’ve ever wondered how to continue serving without another deployment…

Maybe it’s time to walk through that door.

Not because it’s perfect.

Not because it’s modern.

But because it matters.

Just like military service once did, these institutions need volunteers willing to step forward, to carry the torch into the next era.

And this time, the mission is community.

Veterans of Foreign Wars was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For as long as wars have been fought, those who fight them have searched for ways to stay connected to the people they left behind.

Weapons evolve. Tactics change. Battlefields shift.

But the need to read a familiar name, hear a familiar voice, or feel anchored to home has remained constant.

Communication has always been more than convenience in war. It’s morale. It’s identity. It’s survival.

When Words Traveled Slower Than Bullets

In World War I and World War II, letters were lifelines.

They were written by hand, often under dim light, sometimes from muddy trenches or temporary camps. Once sealed, the letters disappeared into a system that could take weeks, sometimes months, to carry them home. Replies took just as long to return. I remember speaking to my grandfather about his time in World War II. Newly married, he would write letters to my grandmother and then wait what felt like an eternity to hear back. By the time a reply arrived, the world it described might already have changed, or disappeared entirely.

Yet those letters mattered deeply. They were reread until the paper softened and the ink faded. They carried encouragement, normalcy, and reminders of who a service member was before the uniform. Families learned patience because there was no alternative. Silence didn’t mean something was wrong; it simply meant time was moving slowly.

In Vietnam, the system improved slightly, but not dramatically. Letters still lagged behind reality. News arrived late. Emotions were processed long after the moment passed. Communication was precious precisely because it was scarce.

The Digital Shift

Everything changed with the rise of the internet.

Email was the first real turning point. Messages that once took weeks could arrive in minutes. Service members could check in more often, explain themselves in real time, and respond before misunderstandings hardened into fear.

Then came chat platforms. Then video calls.

For the first time in modern warfare, a soldier on the other side of the world could see their child’s face, talk through a family decision, or simply sit silently on a call with someone they loved. Distance still existed, but isolation didn’t feel quite as absolute.

That shift mattered more than most people realize.

Communication became a stabilizing force. It allowed service members to remain connected to their roles as spouses, parents, sons, and daughters , not just warfighters. It allowed families to feel involved instead of helpless. It allowed life to continue, even under extraordinary strain.

The Double-Edged Sword

Instant communication brought new challenges as well.

Real-time access meant real-time stress. Problems at home didn’t wait until redeployment anymore. Bad news didn’t soften with time or distance. Arguments could happen mid-deployment. Decisions had to be made while wearing body armor or sitting in a dusty operations center.

There was no longer a buffer.

Yet even with those challenges, most would never choose to go back. The ability to stay connected, to remain human while operating in inhuman conditions, outweighs the cost.

What Never Changed

No matter the era, communication has always served the same purpose:

to remind those at war that they are not alone.

A letter folded into a pocket.

An email read before patrol.

A video call conducted between missions.

These moments don’t erase danger, fear, or loss, but they ground the people experiencing them. They reinforce why the sacrifice matters. They help service members endure days that would otherwise feel endless.

Wars may be fought with machines, strategies, and firepower, but they are survived through connection.

Words — whether handwritten or transmitted through fiber-optic cable — have always carried weight far beyond their size.

And they always will.

Letters from the Front was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There’s no doubt that when you attended your service’s transition assistance program, they talked a great deal about hard skills. Hopefully, they helped you translate those certificates, clearance levels, and acronyms that sound like a classified briefing into something a civilian employer can actually understand when they look at your résumé.

But what will truly carry you, the part no one really talks about or explains while you’re in uniform, are the skills that don’t show up in bullet points. The soft skills. The silent ones.

The Stuff You Can’t Measure but Everyone Feels

When you’ve lived through real pressure, you learn to read a room before you even step inside. You recognize tension before it turns into conflict. You listen not just to what’s said, but to what’s intentionally being avoided.

That’s emotional intelligence, though we rarely call it that in uniform. We just say, “He gets it,” or “She knows how to handle people.”

In the civilian world, that same skill has the power to move mountains. It turns coworkers into teams, and clients into believers.

Communication Under Fire Becomes Leadership Under Uncertainty

In combat or chaos, clarity is currency. You learn to say what matters and cut everything else — brevity. That kind of communication, concise, calm, and purposeful, doesn’t just happen in firefights. It’s the same energy needed in boardrooms when everyone’s talking but no one’s listening.

The difference is that now, no one’s calling it a mission. But you still are. You just need to learn the language they use for it: executive presence, stakeholder alignment, strategic communication.

You have to learn a new lexicon. Different words. Same skill.

Adaptability Isn’t a Buzzword, It’s Survival

Remember that you are bringing something truly unique to the office. You’re not afraid of change, it doesn’t rattle you. You’ve operated in countries where the plan changed every hour, where “good enough” wasn’t acceptable, and where “figure it out” was the only order you may have received. Not to mention the things you endured while stateside: transferring units every few years, never really living in one spot for too long.

That adaptability and resilience to working out of rhythm is gold in the civilian world. The problem is, no one translates it for you. So when an interviewer asks, “Tell me about a time you adapted to change,” you’re thinking, my entire military career, but that doesn’t tell the whole story.

Learning to break down scenarios and tell that story in civilian terms doesn’t cheapen what you did, it bridges the gap between experience and understanding.

Situational Awareness: The Unspoken Superpower

You’ve learned how to quickly read situations, how to anticipate outcomes before they unfold instead of simply reacting to them. It took real lessons in high-stakes environments to hone that ability, and it often stayed heightened long after returning from a combat rotation.

That same awareness can serve you in the office. You can absorb information quickly, assess multiple possible outcomes, and share those insights with your team. You notice body language, subtle shifts in tone, and phrasing others might overlook.

Wield this fire-forged skill to level the field and give yourself an advantage.

It’s not paranoia, it’s perception. And perception makes great leaders.

Turning the Intangibles Into Impact

The trick is not to downplay these silent skills just because they don’t fit neatly in a box labeled “technical.” They’re what made you good then and what will make you great now.

The civilian world values them more than you realize; they just describe them differently.

• Emotional intelligence = reading your team like a patrol route.
• Conflict resolution = defusing tension before it explodes.
• Strategic thinking = seeing the battlefield beyond the next hill.

Once you learn the language, your experience speaks volumes.

Final Thoughts

No certificate or credential can replicate what years of service taught you through blood, sweat, fatigue, and trust. Those lessons don’t expire when you separate or retire, they evolve.

You don’t need to reinvent yourself from the ground up. You just need to learn how to market what’s already there.

The world talks a lot about transferable skills, but few understand what that really means. You already carry the rarest kind: the ones that don’t need noise to prove their worth.

They just need the right stage.

Silent Skills was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

At The Mission Brief, we talk a lot about the quiet professionals, the ones who don’t make the headlines but keep everything running behind the scenes. The ones who see a problem and fix it, no fanfare required. Sanford was one of those soldiers. His stories aren’t about medals or rank; they’re about grit, improvisation, and the kind of old-school ingenuity that keeps an army moving when everything else grinds to a halt. As the first feature in The Mission Brief’s Veteran Spotlight, Sanford’s time in uniform may have been brief, but his laid-back demeanor and “there’s always a way” mentality left a lasting impression on everyone who had the honor to serve with him.

When I talk with him about his time in the Army, like most veterans, it starts at the very beginning, basic training. He still remembers the shooting range like it was yesterday. The sergeant barked at him to sit on his ankles while firing from the seated position, something he’d never been trained to do as a kid. He’d been shooting most of his life, like many who grew up on a ranch in those days. But as a young and impressionable soldier, he followed the drill sergeant’s orders, an order that cost him dearly. He’d been on track for the expert shooting title, which came with a certificate and medal. Straight out of basic training, that achievement would have helped him move up to the next rank. But that change in position threw everything off just enough to drop him three points behind another soldier. Three points that still echo, decades later, as one of those small injustices every soldier carries with a grin and a shake of the head.

Shoot, move, communicate. Every soldier hears it during training at one time or another. Sanford excelled at movement, picking up tactics easily and applying them effortlessly, likely just as well as some infantrymen. Among helicopter mechanics, though, his instincts for avoiding the enemy during training exercises were second to none. During one large-scale war game designed to prepare them for real conflict, Sanford and his team quietly moved into position, catching the opposing force, a fellow training unit; completely off guard and capturing them. It should’ve been a clean win, a textbook example of tactical execution. But his lieutenant, eager to push deeper into simulated enemy territory and maybe make a name for himself, allowed a few to escape. The decision could have compromised everything. Instead, Sanford and a buddy hauled up their heavy machine guns and took control of the situation the only way soldiers know how, with determination, coordination, and a healthy dose of fire superiority. When the dust settled, they’d turned what could’ve been a blunder into an undeniable victory.

But Sanford wasn’t just a fighter, he was a problem solver. One story, almost too good to believe, captures that better than any service record ever could. Every service member has been in a unit or at a duty station they couldn’t stand, Sanford was no exception. He wanted out, and when opportunity knocked, he was ready. One of the helicopter pilots, a captain from another unit, had a car that had been dead for weeks. Several mechanics had tried and failed to repair it, one even telling him it was hopeless. When Sanford caught wind of the situation, he saw his chance. If he could get that car running, he might just earn himself a ticket out. He asked the captain if he could take a look, and once he got under the hood, he spotted something the others had missed. He scavenged ignition points from a helicopter, welded them into the car’s system, and, against all odds, the engine roared to life. The captain, stunned, asked what he could do to repay him. Sanford didn’t hesitate. “Get me transferred to your unit.” By the time the officer returned from vacation, Sanford’s orders were already cut.

Most people who are mechanically inclined also have an inventive side. Sanford, always looking for ways to make life easier when it came to repairing helicopters, came up with a fix for bearing failures on one of the Hiller models. The bearings had to be pressed out and back in for repairs, something that normally required proximity to a shop. Sanford developed a portable system that allowed him to do the job in the field. When the real test came, he used the system to repair a helicopter that had been forced to land. Within an hour, it was back in the air. The innovation was such an improvement over the old process that the Hiller company sent an engineer to see it firsthand. Before Sanford had a chance to market the idea himself, the company mass-produced the kit and shipped it to military repair crews worldwide. Sanford took it in stride, content knowing he’d made life easier for others rather than dwelling on the idea being taken.

Before the Korean War, Sanford spent time at Fort Hood and Camp Polk, part of the massive logistical effort to prepare roads and staging grounds for heavy equipment that would push forward once the fighting began. As far as helicopter missions went, it was hard, gritty work; surveying, moving, and planning routes that tanks and troop carriers would later rely on. These weren’t the kinds of tasks that earned glory, but they were the ones that made victory possible.

Looking back, Sanford’s stories aren’t about fame or recognition. They reflect the time-tested tenacity of United States service members, soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen, and Guardians; who fix what’s broken, improvise when there is no plan, and do whatever it takes to get the mission done without complaint. Sanford embodied that ethos and carried the tradition forward with quiet pride. These are the kinds of stories that fade too easily with time, unless someone takes the care to write them down.

I think about men like Sanford often, men like my father-in-law, whose stories I’ve had the privilege to hear firsthand. The ones who made things work when they shouldn’t have, who never needed a spotlight to know their worth. They remind us that greatness isn’t always loud or recognized, it’s built quietly in hangars, motor pools, and muddy fields by people who just keep finding a way to get it done. That spirit, the ability to adapt, to fix, to endure, is what built the kind of military that shaped generations. And it’s why stories like Sanford’s still matter.

Veteran Spotlight: Meet Sanford Lowry was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We all train to fight the next enemy our country might face, branch and job immaterial. Our true strength has always been in the forward-leaning defense of our country. But there are times when we must take an offensive stand, stepping into the nation’s wars when diplomacy fails. What no one prepares you for, though, is the war that follows you home, the one no one sees. The battle in your head that doesn’t end when the mission does. It lingers in the quiet moments, sneaks up when the noise of life dies down, and strikes when you least expect it.

For most of us, the real fight begins after the uniform comes off. The machine that kept us moving, its rhythm, its structure, its purpose; suddenly goes quiet. The battles are no longer fought with tactics, maneuver elements, logistics trains, and equipment stocks. They’re fought in silence. Fought in the stillness of your own mind. They come with anxiety, sleepless nights, a loss of empathy, and a pull toward isolation. They show up as guilt, replaying every decision you made under fire, every call that saved lives, or didn’t. And they carry the weight of moral injury, watching a teammate or partner fall, or taking lives even when you know it had to be done.

PTSD isn’t always the Hollywood version of flashbacks and shouting yourself awake from nightmares. More often, it’s subtle. It’s snapping at the people you love for no reason. It’s avoiding crowds or loud places. It’s needing to sit with your back to the wall in every restaurant. It can look like struggling to concentrate, losing interest in things that once brought joy, or feeling detached from everyone around you. For some, it’s a constant state of vigilance, the mind never powering down, leaving you drained before the day even begins.

There’s no Purple Heart for carrying the weight of memory. There’s no medal for holding it together when everything in you wants to unravel.

I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to push the memories aside because you’ve got a job to do, people to lead, a family to provide for. But burying it doesn’t make it go away; it just lets it grow roots.

The truth is, acknowledging it isn’t weakness, it’s the first act of strength. For a long time, I thought holding it together meant shoving it down, keeping quiet, convincing myself that no one needed to know what I was fighting inside. But silence doesn’t make it disappear. It leaks out eventually, one way or another. I’ve learned that you have to face it head-on, name it, own it, and get help when you need it. Sometimes that means finding someone you trust, a teammate, a buddy, a counselor, or a spouse who knows when to give you space but won’t let you drift too far. Other times it means writing it down, putting words to the things that keep you awake at night so they stop owning you. The fight is real, but so is the strength you find when you refuse to fight it alone.

We’ve gotten better at talking about these struggles over the years, but not nearly enough. Too many of us still fight these battles in silence, and the heartbreaking suicide statistics are proof of that. My hope, shared by so many veterans and those who support us, is that we keep pushing for change. Not just with catchy slogans or hashtags, but with honest, raw conversations that remind us we’re not broken, we’re not done, and we’re not alone.

If you’re a veteran reading this and it resonates, I encourage you to reach out to someone you trust. And if you know someone who could benefit from knowing they have a friend or family member to lean on when the memories won’t turn off, tell them you’re there. Start small, but start. The war inside doesn’t get easier by waiting. Like any mission, it can be faced step by step with the right team around you.

And if you are a veteran and currently struggling, you can reach out to the Veterans Crisis Line by dialing 988 and pressing 1. They are available 24/7, and you do not have to face this alone.

Invisible Battles was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When we think of 9/11, our minds often go first to the nearly three thousand lives lost in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and on Flight 93. We also remember the brave men and women who answered our nation’s call in the years that followed — warriors who carried the fight to a new and asymmetric battlefield.

But today, as the anniversary approaches, my thoughts rest on the police officers, firefighters, and first responders who ran toward danger when others fled. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t stop to measure the risk. They sacrificed themselves for the good of those they swore to protect. In that moment, the very best of human empathy was on display — an act of courage and compassion that continues to define what it means to serve.

Over the years, countless ceremonies, tributes, and memorials have honored those heroes. But some events do more than remember; they allow us to physically experience, in some small way, what those responders endured before their rescue mission even began. One such event is the upcoming Estes Valley 5K and Stair Climb in Estes Park, Colorado.

The 5K walk or run traces the path around Lake Estes, symbolizing the heroic journey of FDNY Firefighter Stephen Siller. On 9/11, after hearing of the attacks, he ran from the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel to the World Trade Center — where he gave his life in the service of others. The stair climb challenges participants to ascend 110 stories in a local parking garage, mirroring the height of the Twin Towers. Every step is a reminder of the weight those responders carried, both physically and emotionally, as they climbed toward an uncertain fate.

These events are more than commemorations. They are opportunities; opportunities to honor the fallen, to connect with their sacrifice in a tangible way, and to ensure their legacy is not just remembered but lived.

If you have the chance to take part in the Estes Valley events; or any others like them across the country, I encourage you to do so. Show up. Take the steps. Carry the memory. In doing so, you help ensure that the courage of those heroes will never fade into history.

Information about the Estes Valley Fire event can be found here: https://www.estesvalleyfire.org/9-11-stair-climb-5k

Honoring the Sacrifice was originally published in The Mission Brief on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.