Thanksgiving: A Journey from Combat Zones to Gratitude

Thanksgiving in Combat Zones

Thanksgiving has always been a complicated holiday for me. For years, it wasn’t about turkey, family gatherings, or laughter—it was about survival. I spent holidays in combat zones, eating MREs while sitting on the hood of a vehicle or crouched behind a wall, boots caked with dust, and the sound of distant chaos in the air.

There were no festive tables or comforting traditions—just the cold, quiet understanding shared among my brothers and sisters in arms. We were far from home, clinging to the thin thread of connection we could find in the midst of the chaos.

Coming Home and Feeling Lost

Coming home didn’t magically make the holidays easier. In those first years, I was a stranger to myself. The world I’d fought to return to felt alien, as if it had moved on without me.

Thanksgiving became just another day to work doubles—not to make ends meet, but to escape the silence, the weight of an empty house, and the ache of feeling like I didn’t belong. I surrounded myself with people but felt utterly alone, drowning in a sea of familiar faces.

The Weight of This Week

Even now, life isn’t always smooth. This past week reminded me just how hard it can hit. Depression crept in, and the heaviness of it pinned me down. Even getting out of bed felt like a battle I couldn’t win.

I was so excited about a new adventure—something I poured my heart into—but it didn’t unfold the way I’d hoped. On top of that, people I trusted in my professional life acted unprofessionally, trying to tear me down. It felt like a tidal wave of disappointment, crashing over me until I could barely breathe.

Finding Perspective

But here’s the thing: when I take a step back and reflect, I realize these moments, as consuming as they feel, don’t define me. They are just storms, passing through.

When I think about where I started—sitting in the dust of a combat zone—and how far I’ve come, the challenges I face now feel smaller. They pale in comparison to the life I’ve built and the good I still have to give.

Gratitude for the Journey

I’m reminded of the incredible people in my life—family, friends, and mentors—who have stood by me, even when I couldn’t stand on my own. They’ve helped me heal wounds no one could see, wounds I once thought would never close.

And I’m reminded of my brothers and sisters still out there—whether deployed, struggling to find their place, or just fighting to make it through another day.

A Message to Those Still Struggling

To those of you who feel like you’re in the thick of it right now, I want you to know this: You are a fighter. The fact that you’re here, reading this, is proof of your strength. You’ve survived every hard day so far, and that’s no small thing. Things will get better. The hardest seasons don’t last forever, even when they feel endless.

Holding on to Hope

This Thanksgiving, I’m holding gratitude close to my heart—not just for the good I have now, but for every struggle that shaped me and brought me here. I’m grateful for the people who’ve lifted me up when I felt like giving in. I’m grateful for the chance to use my story to serve others, to make an impact in the lives of those who need hope.

And most of all, I’m grateful for the reminder that even in the darkest times, light is always within reach.

To everyone reading this, thank you for being a part of my journey. Your presence, your strength, and your resilience inspire me to keep going and to keep giving back. If you’re feeling alone this Thanksgiving, reach out. To a friend, to a fellow veteran, or even to me—because none of us have to walk this journey alone.

Even in the darkest of nights, the stars remind us that light is always there, even if it feels far away. This Thanksgiving, I’m holding on to that light and the hope it brings—and I hope you are, too. Wherever you are today, know that you are seen, you are valued, and the best chapters of your story are still ahead.

Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are. Keep fighting, and keep hoping—the best is yet to come.