Medical Trauma

When I transitioned back to civilian life, I was filled with hope and excitement. I saw my early discharge as a fresh start—a chance to move forward from the limitations my injury had placed on me. I wasted no time enrolling in college, eager to forge a new path and picture a future beyond the military. For a little while, my anticipation carried me. I focused on classes, set ambitious goals, and believed I could adapt easily to this new world.

But reality set in as the semester unfolded. Sitting in classrooms surrounded by students years younger than me, I couldn’t ignore how out of place I felt. I became acutely aware of my age, especially as I watched my classmates—many fresh out of high school—move through campus seemingly carefree. The distance between our experiences felt vast. It was in these moments that my physical pain and the limits imposed by my injury became harder to ignore, and the initial excitement began to fade.

My struggle became even more apparent when my medications started to dwindle. Before leaving the military, my doctor helped me stock up as much as possible, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever. My injury is chronic and progressive—there’s no “getting better” for me—so the looming shortage was frightening. The task of finding new providers, explaining my history all over again, and trying to get the care I needed made me feel vulnerable and, honestly, broken and useless at times. The weight of my situation pressed down hard, especially as I navigated the healthcare system on my own.

It didn’t get easier when I entered the VA system. My experiences with staff and other veterans were a mixed bag. Some days, I’d be told my injuries weren’t as severe as others—only to later find out my provider had been looking at the wrong imaging report the entire time. At times, I faced disrespect from other veterans simply because I’m a woman. Even after transferring to a new VA facility, the cycle continued: a primary care doctor dismissed my pain as “normal,” staff seemed annoyed by veterans’ needs, and I was mistaken for waiting on a male patient more than once. The frustration built up, and after 2020 threw everything off course, I eventually stopped seeking care altogether.

Things began to shift when I reached out to my local Veteran Service Organization (VSO). After joining I was constantly helping other veteran find care, providing transportation, and helping with claims but I had put myself on the back burner so to speak. It was time that I took my own advice and got back into the system to take care of myself.

Looking back, the journey was harder than I ever imagined. The feelings of isolation, brokenness, and uselessness were real—and they lingered for longer than I’d like to admit. But reaching out for help, finding even one person who understood, was what turned things around for me. It took time, and it wasn’t a straight path, but I learned that the only way to move forward was to keep advocating for myself and not give up, no matter how many setbacks I faced.

If you’re struggling to find the right care or support, know that you’re not alone. Your local Veteran Service Organization can be a lifeline—they’ve navigated the system and can point you toward resources you might never find on your own. Take care of yourself—physically and mentally—and don’t be afraid to make yourself a priority. You deserve the support and respect you’ve earned. Keep pushing for your rights and the care you need. Your story matters, and so do you.