Veterans Corner

My Journey: The Untold Struggles of Mental Health as a Black Female Veteran

When people think of veterans, they often see the strength, the resilience, the unwavering courage. And while I’ve worn that armor with pride, the truth is, beneath it all, I’ve been fighting a silent battle—a battle with my mental health that doesn’t end when the uniform comes off. When I finally sought therapy, I was told that my struggles stemmed from being raised in a single-parent home, not my experiences in the Navy. That moment shook me to my core, invalidating the pain and trauma I carried as a Black woman who had served her country.

As a Black woman who served in the military, I’ve carried a unique weight, one that too many of us bear without recognition. Yes, military life taught me discipline and strength, but it also left me with scars—both visible and invisible. And for Black female veterans like me, those scars often run deeper than most people realize.

In the military, I learned to be strong. I learned to keep my head up, even in the face of fear or exhaustion. I learned to take care of others before I took care of myself. But when you’re a Black woman in the military, there’s an added layer to the pressure: you’re expected to prove yourself constantly, to show you’re just as capable, just as worthy, just as strong as anyone else.

And so, I wore my "armor" every day, both in service and out. I buried my struggles under a mask of resilience because that’s what I thought I had to do. Vulnerability felt like a weakness, and I didn’t want to let anyone—my peers, my family, or myself—see me break. But inside, I was breaking. Anxiety, sadness, and exhaustion became my constant companions. I knew something wasn’t right, but the weight of admitting I needed help felt heavier than anything I’d carried in combat.

For me, and for so many of my sisters in service, the trauma doesn’t end on the battlefield. It follows you home. Some of it is the direct result of military service—combat-related PTSD, the things you see and endure. But for Black women, there’s often another layer of trauma.

I’ve faced discrimination. I’ve faced the isolation of being one of the few Black women in the room. And like many others, I’ve faced harassment that left scars I didn’t even know how to process. These aren’t things we talk about openly, but they’re real, and they stay with you long after the uniform is folded away. And then there’s the transition to civilian life. For me, leaving the military felt like losing a piece of my identity. Who was I now? Where did I fit? The world I’d served felt so far removed from the world I returned to, and the sense of unfulfillment was overwhelming.

As a Black woman, even recognizing that I needed help was a battle. In my community, mental health hasn’t always been something we openly talk about. I grew up hearing that you just "pray about it" or "push through it." And while faith has been a foundation for me, I’ve learned that sometimes you also need therapy, support, and practical tools to heal.

Despite moments like that, I’ve learned that healing is possible. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been quick, but it’s been worth it. I’ve learned to take off the armor, piece by piece, and allow myself to be vulnerable. I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make me weak—it makes me human. I’ve also learned the importance of finding people who see you, who truly understand what you’re going through. For me, that’s meant connecting with other Black female veterans, sharing our stories, and reminding each other that we’re not alone.

To my fellow Black female veterans: I see you. I see the strength you carry and the battles you fight, both seen and unseen. I know what it’s like to feel like you have to keep it all together, even when everything inside is falling apart. But I want you to know this: you don’t have to carry it all on your own. Seeking help isn’t giving up—it’s stepping up for yourself. You’ve already faced so much with courage; now it’s time to face the next chapter with the same determination.

And to the world: It’s time to prioritize the mental health of Black female veterans. We’ve given so much of ourselves in service, and we deserve spaces that honor our unique experiences. We deserve access to culturally competent care, to resources that don’t just see us as veterans but as women, as Black women, as individuals with stories that matter.

I’ve walked this road, and I’m still walking it. But I know I’m not alone, and neither are you. Together, we can break the silence, find healing, and reclaim the peace, joy, and fulfillment we’ve earned. Because we deserve nothing less.

If there is enough interest, I will start a check specifically for this group.

The 18-Year Journey to Recognition: A Veteran’s Struggle for Justice and Healing

For 18 long years, I fought a seemingly endless battle to secure the benefits I deserved for my service-connected injuries. This journey was not just about paperwork or bureaucracy; it was a deeply personal fight to have my pain, both physical and emotional, acknowledged. For nearly two decades, my life was a cycle of being sent to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, none of whom seemed equipped to truly help me. Their assessments often felt dismissive, leaving me to endure the aftermath of my service alone.

My story begins in Bosnia, where I fell from a truck during deployment. The accident left me injured, and I was, shockingly, left behind. By the time I was found, I was sent to what they called “the crazy tent.” That label and the stigma attached to it marked the beginning of years of struggle. I returned home with wounds that weren’t just physical. Noise became my enemy, anxiety my constant companion. Crowded or noisy environments overwhelmed me, and sitting in closed spaces like office cubicles triggered an unbearable level of stress.

Despite these challenges, I tried to reintegrate into civilian life. I took jobs, hoping to find a sense of normalcy and stability. But time and time again, I was fired, not because I lacked skills or determination, but because my mental health made it impossible to conform to traditional workplace expectations. Each termination was a blow to my self-esteem and a reminder of the unresolved trauma I carried.

The fight for service connection was grueling. Every denial felt like a slap in the face, as if my suffering wasn’t real or significant enough. But I persevered, driven by the hope that one day, someone would listen—someone would believe me. Finally, after 18 years, I was approved. The back compensation was a bittersweet victory. It validated my pain but also reminded me of the years lost to a system that failed to support me when I needed it most.

Even with the compensation, the journey to healing is far from over. The resources available to me still feel inadequate. I’ve learned to cope in my own ways, but I’m acutely aware that true healing requires more than financial acknowledgment. It requires a system that prioritizes mental health care, that listens to veterans without judgment, and that provides the tools needed to navigate life after service.

My story is not unique. Thousands of veterans face similar struggles, fighting for years to have their voices heard and their sacrifices recognized. The system that is supposed to support us often feels like an adversary, forcing us to prove our worth and our pain over and over again.

To those who are still fighting, I say this: don’t give up. Your pain is valid, your experiences matter, and your voice deserves to be heard. And to those who have the power to make a difference—policy makers, mental health professionals, and advocates—I urge you to listen to us. The scars we carry are not always visible, but they are real. We need more than compensation; we need compassion, understanding, and effective care.

It took me 18 years to get to where I am today. I hope that by sharing my story, I can shed light on the challenges veterans face and inspire change in a system that desperately needs it.

-Anonymous

Living with ALS: A Journey of Strength and Gratitude

I have ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. It’s a progressive, terminal illness that has changed my life in ways I never imagined. Despite its challenges, I am determined to beat this. My resolve stems from the love I have for my children, who have already endured so much after losing their father. The thought of leaving them breaks my heart, but it also strengthens my resolve to fight, to live, and to cherish every moment I have with them.

I don’t know where or how I picked up this disease. Perhaps it was my time at Camp Lejeune—a possibility that lingers in the back of my mind. But dwelling on the “why” doesn’t change the reality I face. What matters now is how I choose to live, and I choose to live with purpose, gratitude, and love.

Through this journey, I’ve come to appreciate the people around me more deeply than ever before. I thank God every day for my new husband, who has been my rock. He has stood by me, unwavering, even when I tried to shield him from the difficult realities of my illness. At first, I resisted letting him accompany me to appointments, wanting to spare him the weight of my struggles. But he insisted, reminding me that we’re in this together. Now, he’s there by my side at every appointment, a constant source of strength and comfort.

ALS is a cruel disease. It robs you of your physical abilities, little by little, until the simplest tasks become monumental. But it cannot take away my spirit, my love, or my gratitude for the life I have. I’ve learned to find joy in the small things—the laughter of my children, a quiet moment with my husband, or the warmth of the sun on my face. These moments remind me that life, even in its fragility, is beautiful.

I know what lies ahead, but I refuse to let fear dictate my days. Instead, I focus on what I can control: how I spend my time, how I show love to those around me, and how I choose to see the world. Every day is a gift, and I’m determined to make the most of it.

To everyone who has supported me, who has shown kindness or offered a helping hand—thank you. Your love and care mean more than words can express. And to anyone facing a similar journey, know that you are not alone. There is strength in vulnerability, and there is beauty in every day, no matter how hard it may seem.

ALS may be progressive and terminal, but it has also taught me to appreciate everyone and everything I can. Life is precious, and I will live it fully, with gratitude in my heart and love in my soul.