Conversations With Myself

Sometimes, in the quiet hours when the world sleeps, I stare at my reflection in darkened windows. The man looking back at me is familiar and strange - a puzzle I'm still trying to solve after all these years.

I see the lines around my eyes; each earned in moments of laughter or grief. The gray that has overtaken my head and beard marks time like rings in a tree trunk. But it's not the visible changes that catch my attention. It's what lies beneath them.

Who am I now? The analyst who went to war? The survivor who came back? The man who builds things and takes photos? Or am I some strange amalgamation of all these versions of myself, like layers of sediment pressed into stone?

There's a strange geography to the mind after trauma: valleys carved by grief, mountains built from resilience, desert stretches of emptiness where memories refuse to grow. I've spent years mapping these territories, learning their contours, and understanding their seasons.

Some days, I feel like an archaeologist of my past, carefully brushing away layers of time to understand what lies beneath. Each memory I uncover asks its questions: Why did I survive? What was it all for? Who would I be if Afghanistan hadn't rewritten my story?

The answers don't come easily. They're like water in cupped hands - the tighter I try to hold them, the more they slip away. But maybe that's the point. Maybe understanding isn't about grasping but about letting go.

I've learned to be gentle with myself in these moments of reflection, to acknowledge the weight of what I carry without letting it crush me, and to recognize that healing isn't a destination but a journey—one that sometimes leads through dark places before finding the light.

The man I was before Afghanistan feels like a stranger now. He is young, naive, and certain about things that should never be certain. I want to reach back through time and warn him about what's coming, but I also want to thank him. His innocence had to die so that I could learn to truly live.

Combat changes you. Not just in the obvious ways - the hypervigilance, the nightmares, the way loud noises make your heart race. It changes how you see everything. The colors are brighter. The sounds are sharper. Everything matters more because you know how easily it can all be taken away.

But there's beauty in this transformation, too. I understand now what it means to be truly alive, to be present in each moment, and to find joy in small things—a child's laugh, a sunrise, the taste of good bourbon, the warmth of a loved one's embrace.

These quiet moments of introspection aren't about dwelling in the past. They're about understanding how it shaped my present and acknowledging the scars and the strength they represent.

I'm learning to make peace with all my versions: the soldier, the survivor, the man. They're all me, all real, and all worthy of acceptance. The trauma doesn't define me, but it's part of my story—a chapter, not the whole book.

In these reflective hours, I'm reminded that healing isn't about becoming who you were before. It's about growing into who you're meant to be after. It is about taking all the broken pieces and creating something new, stronger, and true.

The man in the window stares back at me, and I finally understand - he's not a puzzle to solve. He's a story still being written. And that's okay. Some of the best stories are the ones that surprise even their authors.