The hours felt like minutes as my turn grew closer. I heard more testimonies from veterans, as well as from people who have suffered greatly throughout their life. All of which intimidated me more and more.

My mom went, and after sharing her story, she turned her attention to me as she talked about what it's been like to raise me. I did my best to look down and use my hat to shield my eyes from the group. I was terrified of being put on the spot. I always have been. By the time my mom was done and it was my turn, I was soaked in sweat and shivering. I almost didn't go, but my mom gave me the look, so I didn't have much of a choice. 

I stumbled over my words in every sentence. I was terrified of being judged. Every time I've been put on the spotlight like that before, it gave my bullies a lot of ammo, and most adults I've talked to about my life have never reacted in a way that made me comfortable. But there, in that Boston conference room, I began to feel something different I never felt before. For once in my life, there was a level of understanding, and when I realized that, it became easier to speak and I was able to lift my head and raise my voice a little bit. 

When I finished, the room was dead silent, and all eyes remained on me. I sank down in my seat again. I glanced at Eric who was giving me the same look as everyone else, but it wasn't a critical stare. Eric, like many others in the room, had tears in his eyes. 

That's when Neil cleared his throat and said in a strained, choked up voice, "My brother died when I was five from Cystic Fibrosis."

I swallowed. Neil, the Lieutenant and Drill Sargent, was in tears because I reminded him of his brother who died fighting the same battle I'm fighting. It sounds silly, but I never thought Drill Sargents cried until then. 

And then, a man called Luke, who was also a soldier in the Iraq war and became a well-respected military psychologist said, "We understand your pain. Don't be afraid to open up. We are here for you." 

I cocked my head a bit in confusion, but then I realized I ended my speech with, "And I still struggle with severe anxiety and night terrors. Despite being in intense therapy for years and years, no amount of EMDR, medication, or talk-therapy has helped me overcome the trauma. Only extreme sports and time seem to put a dent in it." 

I wanted to take back those words. Those had come from deep within my heart where I almost never allow anyone to go, yet I had spat them out as if they were nothing. But, that was huge, because that meant deep down I knew I was safe and connected with some people who, for once in my life, actually understood some of my pain.