From War Wounds to Written Words: How Blogging Helps Me Live with PTSD

When I left the military, I thought I was done with war. I thought hanging up my uniform would mean leaving Iraq behind. But the truth is, I brought the battlefield home with me. Not in my gear or my stories, but in wounds nobody could see. Deep in my chest, my mind, my spirit. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) doesn’t care that you’re a civilian now. It doesn’t care that you’re trying to start over. It followed me from the deserts of Iraq to the classroom where I taught, to my relationships, to the quiet moments when I’m alone. And let me be clear: I’m not healed. PTSD is still with me, every single day. But writing, something I lost for a while and found again, has been my lifeline.

For years, I tried to do what I was trained to do: push through. Keep my head down. Get the job done. Be strong. That’s what the military drills into you. But I’ve learned something since then. Strength isn’t always about silence or endurance. Sometimes, strength is about stopping. Sitting down. Opening a laptop or grabbing a pen. And letting the words spill out, the ones you’ve kept locked inside for too long.

That’s how my blog, Veteran Perspectives, was born. Not from some big dream of being a writer, but from a need to survive. From a need to make sense of the chaos in my head. And when I walked away from teaching in July 2024, broken by toxic leadership and a resurgence of my PTSD, writing became my way back to myself.

The Night I Started Writing

I didn’t set out to create a blog. It wasn’t like I had a plan or a vision board. It was just me, sleepless, staring at a ceiling that felt like it was closing in. One night, back when the weight of Iraq and the war felt heavier than ever, I opened a blank document and started typing. I wrote about the dust and heat of Iraq, the way the air smelled like metal and fear. I wrote about the faces I can’t forget, the ones that show up in my dreams. I wrote about the guilt of coming home when others didn’t. I wrote about the classroom, how I wanted to be a great teacher but felt like I was failing because my mind was somewhere else.

I wrote about the way PTSD eats at you. How it makes you forget what you’re saying mid-sentence. How it turns a simple drive to the store into a panic attack. How it makes you feel like you’re letting everyone down. And something shifted that night. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone was listening. Even if it was just me.

Losing Writing, Then Finding It Again

Writing used to be my outlet. Back when I first left the military, I wrote a lot. Journals, random notes, scraps of thoughts. It was how I processed the war, the transition, the struggle to fit into a world that didn’t feel like mine anymore. But somewhere along the way, I stopped. Life got in the way. Teaching demanded so much energy, and I poured everything into it. I thought I was coping. I thought I was okay. But looking back, I was just surviving, not living.

Then came July 2024. I walked away from teaching, and it wasn’t an easy choice. I loved my students. I loved the idea of shaping young minds. But the toxic leadership at my school, the constant pressure, the lack of support, it broke something in me. It wasn’t just the job. It was how it brought my PTSD roaring back. The anxiety, the nightmares, the feeling of being on edge all the time. I couldn’t keep up the facade anymore. I was drowning.

Leaving teaching felt like failure. But it also forced me to face myself. And that’s when I turned back to writing. I opened my laptop again, not knowing what would come out. I wrote about the pain of leaving a job I cared about. I wrote about the anger at leaders who didn’t care about their people. I wrote about the shame of feeling like my PTSD was winning. And slowly, word by word, I started to find my way back.

Writing as a Mirror for Veteran Mental Health

Writing doesn’t make PTSD go away. I need to be honest about that. It’s not a cure. My time in Iraq is still with me, in the way loud noises make me flinch, in the way I scan every room for exits, in the way I wake up some nights soaked in sweat. But writing gives me something else: clarity. When my head feels like a warzone, the page is calm. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t rush me. It just waits for me to figure out what I need to say.

When I’m lost in guilt or shame, writing helps me see patterns. I can spot my triggers: a car backfiring, a crowded store, a memory of Iraq that hits without warning. Naming those things makes them less like ghosts and more like problems I can face. I can’t always control them, but I can understand them. And sometimes, that’s enough to get through the day.

Writing also shows me the good moments, the ones I might miss otherwise. A day when I laugh with a friend. A morning when I drive without my heart pounding. A night when I sleep without dreaming of war. Those moments are small, but they’re real. On the page, they’re proof I’m still here, still fighting, still growing.

One of the biggest gifts writing has given me is control over my own story. In the military, your life is orders and missions. In teaching, it was lesson plans and evaluations. But writing is mine. I decide what to say, how to say it, when to say it. I can look back at old posts or journal entries and see how far I’ve come. I can say, “That day was hell, but I made it through.” It’s not about erasing Iraq or pretending I’m healed. It’s about living with it, on my terms.

From Private Words to a Public Veteran Blog

For a long time, writing was just for me. It was my safe space, my way of untangling the mess in my head. But then I started thinking about other veterans. The ones I served with in Iraq, the ones I’ve never met. I thought about how many of them might be carrying the same weight, feeling like they’re the only ones who can’t “move on.” I realized my words weren’t just for me anymore. They were for them.

So I took a deep breath and turned my private thoughts into Veteran Perspectives, a public blog. I started sharing my story, not because I’m an expert, but because I want other veterans to know they’re not alone. I want them to know it’s okay to struggle with PTSD. It’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to walk away from a job or a life that’s hurting you. And it’s okay to ask for help, whether that’s therapy, medication, or just a blank page.

The response blew me away. Veterans reached out, sharing their own stories. Some were from Iraq, others from different wars, but the feelings were the same: guilt, isolation, the search for purpose. I heard from teachers who left education because of burnout or trauma. I heard from people with PTSD who weren’t veterans but still felt like they were fighting a battle nobody could see. Every comment, every message, reminded me why I keep writing.

A Podcast to Amplify the Story

As Veteran Perspectives grew, I realized some stories needed more than words on a page. They needed a voice. That’s why I started a podcast. I’m not a tech wizard or a born speaker, but I wanted to create a space where people could hear real conversations about veteran mental health, PTSD, and healing. Not polished, not scripted, just honest.

The podcast is an extension of the blog. I talk to other veterans, to mental health experts, to people who’ve found their own ways to cope. We laugh, we cry, we share the messy truth about living with trauma. Every episode is a reminder that healing isn’t a straight line. It’s hard, it’s uneven, and it’s worth it.

How Writing Became My PTSD Therapy

Writing has taught me a lot about living with PTSD. It’s not a fix. It doesn’t erase Iraq or the pain of leaving teaching. But it does three things that keep me going:

1. It quiets the chaos. PTSD makes my brain feel like a warzone, with memories and fears coming at me from all sides. Writing slows it down. It lets me focus on one thought, one moment, one truth.

2. It forces honesty. I can’t lie to the page. If I’m struggling, I have to admit it. If I’m angry about toxic leadership or ashamed of leaving teaching, I have to face it. That honesty is hard, but it’s also freeing.

3. It proves I’m still here. Every word I write is evidence that I’m still fighting. I’m not healed, but I’m growing. I still have something to say, and that’s enough to keep me going.

Writing has also shown me that healing isn’t about being “fixed.” It’s not about forgetting Iraq or pretending I’m the person I was before. It’s about learning to carry the weight without letting it crush me. It’s about telling my story, not as a victim of PTSD, but as someone who’s still standing.

Why I Want You to Write

If you’re a veteran, especially one carrying the scars of a place like Iraq, I want to tell you something: start writing. If you’re a teacher who walked away from the classroom, start writing. If you’re anyone living with PTSD or trauma, start writing. It doesn’t have to be a blog. It doesn’t have to be for anyone else. It can be a notebook, a phone note, a piece of scrap paper. It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be yours.

Your story matters. Even if you’re the only one who reads it, it deserves to be told. Writing can help you understand your pain, your triggers, your hope. It can help you reclaim your voice when the world tries to silence you. For veterans, it’s a way to process the things we don’t always say out loud: the guilt of surviving, the fear of being seen as weak, the struggle to find meaning after war.

Building a Community Through Writing

Veteran Perspectives isn’t just a blog or a podcast to me. It’s a mission. It’s about creating a space where veterans, teachers, and anyone with PTSD can share their stories and find hope. It’s about showing that living with trauma is possible, even when it feels like it’s winning. It’s about proving we’re stronger when we’re honest.

Writing is my therapy, but it’s also my way of giving back. Every post, every episode, is my way of saying: “You’re not alone. Your pain is real, but so is your strength.” I want veterans to know they don’t have to carry their wounds in silence. I want teachers to know it’s okay to walk away from toxicity. I want everyone with PTSD to know there’s a path forward, even if it’s one word at a time.

Let’s Talk About It

I’m not healed. I don’t know if I ever will be. Iraq is still with me, and so is the pain of leaving teaching. But writing keeps me grounded. It keeps me fighting. And it keeps me connected to people like you.

So, what’s your story? Have you ever tried writing to process something hard? If you’re a veteran, a teacher, or someone living with PTSD, I want to hear from you. Drop a comment, send a message, or just start writing for yourself. Let’s keep this conversation going. Let’s keep telling our stories.

Because every story matters. Especially yours.