This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
They told me boot camp would be hard.
They told me combat zones would change me.
They told me the streets would be dangerous when I pinned on the badge.
What they didn't tell me was how quiet it would get after.
No one prepares you for the silence.
No one tells you that you might survive everything and still wake up years later wondering what the hell you're doing here.
I served in the Marine Corps. I wore the uniform, deployed to combat zones during the invasion of Iraq, lived through missile warnings and launches, mortar fire, and sirens. I worked at a desk, but still, I was there when rounds landed near us on buildings we lived in and worked in, places we tried to sleep.
But I wasn't in firefights. I didn't kick in doors. I wasn't on the front page.
Still, I came home different.
Later, I joined law enforcement, drawn by the need to serve my community with the same grit, sense of duty, and willingness to walk into what others run from. I was good at it. Respected. Trusted.
And I liked that.
I liked being the one people turned to for answers. I liked the authority, not for power's sake, but because I knew how to carry it without abusing it. It felt noble. Useful. Right.
But somewhere along the way, life shifted.
I was medically retired from the Stockton, California, police department, due to back, finger, and knee injuries that didn't kill or paralyze me, but changed everything. And then the job was over. The mission was over. The purpose?
Gone.
And that's when the silence came.
You don't just lose a uniform when you leave the job. You lose the rhythm, the adrenaline, the camaraderie, the identity. The phone stops ringing.
The ones you deployed with ... they're busy now. Families. Life. And you understand, but it still stings.
You try to stay in touch, but everyone drifts. You're left with space. Too much of it.
And inside that space lives the stuff you never said out loud.
The grief.
The shame.
The anger.
The numbness you learned to hide behind humor, caffeine, or duty.
I thought I'd use that time to heal, maybe build a new chapter. But instead, the depression I'd kept at bay for years showed up and moved in.
And here's the part no one tells you about long-term depression: It doesn't always look like tears or hospital stays. Sometimes it looks like staying home all day because being out in the world feels unbearable. It seems like nothing is interesting anymore; not food, not hobbies, not people.
It looks like turning off your phone because you're sick of pretending you're OK. It looks like guilt for still breathing when other people didn't make it.
It's not about wanting to die.
It's about being so done with trying to feel alive when nothing's working.
I've tried medications. The ones I was supposed to take and some I wasn't. I've tried counseling. I've heard about the "tools," the breathing techniques, the coping strategies.
And I'm not knocking them -- they help some people.
But for me, they didn't touch the deeper ache. The kind that sits in your bones. The kind that doesn't care about goals or gratitude journals.
There are days when the only part of the day I don't dread is when the house is empty and I'm finally alone.
Not because I hate my family. But because in that silence, there are no expectations. I don't have to perform. I don't have to fake a smile. I can just be, and that's a relief in a world that always seems to want more from me.
I serve now as the post commander-elect of an American Legion post. And I respect the men and women there. But most of them are in their 60s, 70s, or older.
We're not the same generation.
We don't talk about the same wars.
They're good people -- but they're not my people. Not in the way that I need.
I want to build something real. A space where younger vets, first responders, and wounded warriors -- inside and out -- can come and not feel like outsiders.
Not a meeting. Not a membership drive. Just a fire pit. A place to be human again.
No uniforms. No speeches. Just truth.
And somewhere along the way, I started thinking maybe writing was my way back.
Not to fame. Not to followers. But to me.
The version of me that still has something to say. The version of me that doesn't need a badge or a rank to lead. The version of me that can speak to someone who's barely hanging on and say, "Yeah, me too."
I'm not a writer in the traditional sense. I don't have chapters or publishing goals.
I just have scars. Memories. And things I've carried so long, I'm tired of holding them alone.
Maybe writing is the fire pit. Maybe these words are what I light in the darkness.
If you're reading this and you feel anything like I do, here's what I'll tell you:
You're not weak. You're not broken. You're just tired.
And if you're still here, even after all of it, then there's still something left in you worth honoring.
Maybe we won't ever feel the way we did at 22, or find the same thrill we had on the job, or get the kind of brotherhood we once knew.
But that doesn't mean we're done.
We're still needed. Still able to lead. Still able to pass down what the world nearly took from us.
If I can find one more reason to stay, maybe you can too.
So here I am.
Still here.
Still writing.
Still fighting for something I can't always name.
That's enough for today.
And maybe tomorrow, I'll light the fire again.
Boyd Mayo is a Marine Corps veteran and medically retired police officer who has navigated life’s hardships with steady resilience. He lives in Oklahoma with his wife and their teenage daughter.
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Kim Vo wrote the headline.
Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter
