Unburdened

The last light of the day paints the Colorado Rockies in shades of amber and gold as I stand at the summit overlook, my camera capturing the moment. I've hiked up to this spot, timing my arrival perfectly for sunset. Another moment of beauty that reminds me of how far I've come from those distant Afghan peaks that changed everything.

In recent years, the camera has become a companion, a way to focus on the present when the past threatens to overwhelm. Through the viewfinder, I've learned to find fragments of beauty in a world that once seemed defined only by threat and loss.

I lower myself onto a flat boulder, legs tired from the climb but spirit refreshed by the solitude and panoramic views. Up here, away from everything, memories surface like stars appearing in the darkening sky.

"I'm tired," I whisper to the vast emptiness around me. "Tired of carrying this. Tired of the weight."

The wind picks up, whistling through pine trees that cling to the mountainside. I swear I hear Mac's drawl carried on that breeze for a moment: "You ain't dropping your pack yet, kid. Still got miles to go."

Miles to go. Always miles to go.

I scroll through today's images on my camera: the trail winding through aspen groves, the way light filtered through leaves, a hawk circling against a blue sky, and now this sunset painting the peaks in fire. Photography has given me a language for things I couldn't say aloud.

Each image is a testimony: I was here, I saw beauty, I survived.

The ravens tattooed across my back seem to shift beneath my shirt, Hugin and Munin restless with memories I can't escape. The knife, the skull, the moment everything changed. No matter how many photographs I take, some images remain burned only in memory, too sacred or too terrible to capture.

Twenty-three years of trying to outrun ghosts. Twenty-three years of nightmares and hypervigilance, of seeing threats in shadows, of being startled by backfiring cars. Twenty-three years of trying to justify my existence when better men didn't make it home.

"I wasn't even supposed to be there," I say to the vast mountains and gathering darkness. "I was just an analyst. A tech guy. I wasn't trained for what happened."

But that's the thing about war. It doesn't care what you're trained for. It takes and takes and leaves you to make sense of what remains.

I snap one more image as the last light fades: a solitary pine standing against the darkening sky, partly in shadow, partly illuminated. Presence and absence are captured in a single frame.

"I don't know how to let go," I admit to the night. "I don't know how to release this weight without betraying what you did. What it cost you."

The stars appear, one by one, like memories surfacing in the darkness. I remember sitting with Mac under skies like this in Afghanistan, the vastness above making our human conflicts seem so small and meaningless. I remember him pointing out constellations, and his knowledge surprised me.

"Didn't know you were into astronomy," I'd said.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, kid," he'd replied. "Life's bigger than what we're doing here. Remember that."

Life's bigger. The thought echoes now, resonating with something I've been missing all these years. Mac didn't step in front of that blast so I could spend decades drowning in guilt. He did it so I could live. Really live, not just exist in the shadow of his sacrifice.

I look down at my camera, at all the beauty I've captured. Images testify to life's persistence, light finding its way into darkness, and moments of grace in a broken world. I've been seeing it all through my lens, documenting it faithfully, but somehow failing to fully inhabit those moments.

I stand and walk to the very edge of the overlook, camera still in hand. I lift it one last time, capturing the dark silhouettes of mountains against the star-filled sky. No human eyes will ever see exactly what I'm seeing in this moment. This particular configuration of stars, the specific outline of these peaks, the quality of this darkness. This moment belongs only to me, and to the ghosts who walk with me.

"Till Valhalla, brother," I whisper. "But I've got some living to do first."

The mountain stands silent around me, but somehow, the solitude feels different now. It is less a weight of isolation and more a reminder of connection that even death can't sever. The ravens on my back seem quieter now, their wings folded, their vigil momentarily eased by the vastness of this place. There will be other nights for remembering, but tonight, I've taken the first step toward release.

Not from Mac's memory or the brotherhood we shared. Not from the responsibility to live well with the gift he gave. But from the chains of guilt that have kept me tethered to that moment in the mountains when he chose my life over his.

I'm learning that release isn't about forgetting. It's about finding the courage to remember differently, to carry both the pain and the grace, and to honor sacrifice not through suffering but through living.

I begin descending the mountain trail, my headlamp illuminating the path, camera safely tucked in my pack. Photography has been my way of keeping the world at a safe distance for too long, looking at life through a viewfinder rather than engaging with it directly. Tonight feels different. The images I've captured aren't just documentation. They're stepping stones on a path toward something new. Not just seeing life but living it.

As I move through the darkness, finding my way home, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.

It might be peace.

It might be hope.

It might be the long-delayed beginning of letting go.