Mountain Medicine

The Colorado Rockies weren't my first mountains. Those were the Hindu Kush…harsh, unforgiving peaks that taught me about fear and survival. But these mountains, these gentle giants reaching toward endless blue skies, they're teaching me something different. They're teaching me how to heal.

At first, I came here seeking escape, trading memories for hiking boots and trail maps. I thought maybe if I climbed or drove high enough, I could leave the memories behind—the firefights, the losses, the weight of decisions made in moments of terror. But mountains don't work that way. They won't let you run from yourself.

Instead, these peaks offered something unexpected: perspective.

With each step up rocky trails, each lungful of thin, pure air, I found pieces of myself I thought were lost. The hypervigilance that haunted my civilian life became a tool for noticing wildlife and appreciating subtle changes in weather. The need to scan for threats transformed into an eye for beauty. The way morning light catches on alpine meadows, how aspen leaves dance in the wind.

Where Afghan mountains echoed with gunfire and the thrum of helicopters, these slopes whisper different stories: the soft crunch of snow under my boots, the gentle rustle of pines, and the cry of an eagle riding thermals high above. These sounds don't make me flinch anymore. They remind me that peace is possible.

Above the treeline, where the air grows thin, and the world stretches out forever, my ghosts feel less heavy. They don't disappear; they never will, but they walk beside me now instead of haunting my steps. Those memories feel different here, less like weight and more like a presence watching over me as I forge new paths.

The mountains have become my therapy, church, and proving ground. Each summit reached is a victory not over an enemy but over the darkness within. Each descent brings me back to the world a little more whole and at peace with who I've become.

These peaks remind me that some scars, like the lines carved into ancient rock faces, tell stories of survival. Of endurance. Of beauty born from pressure and time. They've taught me that healing isn't about erasing the past but about finding new ways to carry it.

Now, when I stand on these mountains, watching clouds cast shadows across valleys below, I understand that these peaks aren't helping me escape my memories but helping me make peace with them. They're showing me that the same strength that kept me alive in combat can carry me forward into healing.

The Hindu Kush taught me how to survive. But these mountains, these wise old sentinels of stone and sky, teach me how to live again.

And for that, I am forever grateful.