A century ago, soldiers returning from war faced a world that didn’t understand them. In 2025, despite all our progress, too many veterans still describe the same sense of dislocation, of belonging nowhere.
The military helped define who I am; it instilled deeply rooted values and principles. It fostered in me a sense of identity that in no small part came from my new sense of belonging and gave me confidence in abundance.
Whilst these personal qualities have helped mould me throughout my life’s journey, enabling me to draw upon reserves of determination and resilience through the uncertainties we all face, especially when transitioning out of service, I have to admit that they have also become a hindrance to who I am now.
The values that once helped me thrive in a fast-paced environment of expected excellence, where average meant failure, have become a metaphorical prison, built on self-imposed standards that are, in truth, unrealistic. Holding myself to these idealised standards led to unhealthy working habits, poor work-life balance, growing isolation from support networks, and ultimately, burnout.
When I left the military, I carried those same habits with me into civilian life. I didn’t notice at first, because on paper everything looked fine. I was thriving academically, achieving things I never thought possible. As an undergraduate I excelled, graduating with a first-class degree. But behind the success was a constant fear of failure, of being beaten by people half my age. When a presentation earned me 72 percent, a first by any standard, it felt like failure. I left before the others had even finished presenting, unable to process what I saw as “bombing out.” The irony is that when classmates struggled, I was always the first to reassure them that no one can succeed at everything in life. I just couldn’t extend that same compassion to myself.
With my degree complete, I went on to “smash” two postgraduate qualifications. Each one became a test of endurance rather than fulfilment. Anything less than a distinction felt like defeat. Every success raised the bar higher, reinforcing the belief that I had to keep proving myself. Over time, those self-imposed standards eroded what little self-compassion I had left. Achievement became my armour.
It took years to realise that this wasn’t just personal perfectionism; it was part of a wider pattern shared by many veterans. Research shows that identity loss, isolation, and loss of purpose remain among the biggest predictors of poor post-service wellbeing. My experience is not unique; it is echoed in countless conversations I have had with veterans, emergency responders, and others navigating life after high-intensity service. The same drive that once defined us can, without the structure of service, turn inwards and become destructive.
I would like to say I have resolved these challenges and now give after-dinner talks about resilience, but that would not be true. I am still figuring it out. I still find everyday life overwhelming at times. I cannot watch soaps because the conflict and chaos feel too close. Fly-on-the-wall documentaries in hospitals or police stations, showing real people in real distress, can trigger an almost instant shutdown. Yet when faced with real emergencies, I can function calmly and effectively. Control and purpose remain my anchors.
Paradoxically, the very qualities that made me successful in uniform, discipline, precision, and self-reliance, have become barriers to asking for help. What once protected me has become the armour I cannot take off.
The turning point came when I realised that recovery is not about fixing what is broken but about rediscovering where we belong. Recovery is not just about treating trauma; it is about rebuilding belonging. During my time working in wellbeing development, I have seen how bespoke initiatives that foster shared purpose and connection can help veterans rediscover identity and meaning outside the military. We need to rethink what recovery really means, not just for veterans but for anyone whose identity has been forged in service, crisis, or care. Recovery begins when we stop asking people to move on and start helping them move forward, with purpose and belonging.
