There’s a moment we all face when the world goes quiet, when every door ahead seems shut tight. For those of us who’ve served in combat zones, on city streets, or in firehouses at 2 a.m., closed doors aren’t just metaphors. They’re memories, barriers separating who we were from who we’re trying to become.
We know the feeling of standing on one side of a door and wondering if it’s even worth trying to open. Maybe it leads to healing, purpose, or peace, or perhaps it’s another chance to get hurt. After years of chaos and service, it’s easy to stop pushing. To stop hoping. To settle into the hallway and call it home.
But here’s the truth: not every closed door is locked.
Sometimes what separates you from the next step isn’t strength or skill. It’s a belief. The belief that you deserve to push again. The belief that what’s next could actually be good. Trauma leaves its mark, and the body remembers. The mind becomes cautious, constantly scanning for danger. For those who’ve seen too much or lost too many, survival becomes second nature, and so does avoidance.
All too often, warriors start to mistake safety for peace. We tell ourselves we’re fine or that the door is locked, that trying again isn’t worth the pain. “Trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the imprint left by that experience on the mind, brain, and body.” — Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score.
Van der Kolk’s insight captures what we live every day. Trauma doesn’t just exist in memory. It lodges in our bodies. It hides in tightened muscles, shallow breaths, racing hearts, and those nights when sleep feels like a battlefield. For veterans and first responders, this is familiar: the body remembers every alarm, every loss, every surge of adrenaline long after the moment has passed. These imprints make doors heavier, whispers sharper, and risks larger than they really are.
And that’s why healing can feel like pushing on a locked door. You’re not only facing old memories. You’re challenging how your brain and body learned to protect you. You’re teaching yourself that not every sound means danger, not every quiet moment implies loss, and not every closed door means “stay out.”
But the same body that holds the pain also has the power to heal. The muscles that once braced for impact can learn to release. The breath that used to quicken in fear can find its rhythm again. Over time, the body that kept score can become the compass that points us back toward peace, reminding us that survival was never the finish line, only the beginning of becoming whole again.
It’s true. The body keeps score, but it can also rewrite the playbook. Every push forward retrains it, proving to mind and muscle alike that it’s safe to move again.
For veterans and first responders, that push can take many forms. Making the call for help, walking into a program like Warrior PATHH, sharing honestly with a spouse, or simply picking up the phone to check on a teammate. It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s messy.
But it’s always courage.
Courage doesn’t roar; sometimes it whispers, “Try again.” And that whisper is powerful enough to change your life. Pushing the door open doesn’t mean forcing it. Some doors open easily. Others take time, patience, and faith. Faith isn’t quiet acceptance. It’s choosing to keep moving when everything in you wants to quit. It’s believing that what’s meant for you won’t stay locked forever. Faith steadies your hand when fear tells you to walk away.
After my military career ended, I hit a wall. My marriage was strained, my friendships distant, and I no longer recognized the man in the mirror. Every door from family to faith looked sealed shut. I began to believe that this was just how life would be now: existing, not living. Then one day, I faced the heaviest door — the door to my own healing. Opening it meant confronting pain I’d buried for years. Something inside whispered, “Just push once.”
So, I did.
The door didn’t swing open with a rush of light. It creaked. It resisted. But it moved, just enough for a sliver of hope to slip through. That one push changed everything. It didn’t fix life overnight, but it gave me direction. Healing isn’t about sudden transformation. It’s about persistence. It’s about refusing to live behind fear.
Every push teaches you something new. Sometimes it’s a strength you didn’t know you had. Sometimes it’s patience, humility, or perspective. Growth and pain often share the same doorway.
When you push with purpose, not out of desperation but with faith and intention, the path ahead starts to unfold. Every door you open helps someone else believe they can, too. That’s the quiet power of post-traumatic growth: healing isn’t selfish; it’s contagious. One warrior’s courage becomes another’s permission.
Post-Traumatic Growth & Practical Push Steps
Every time you push open a door, whether it’s a difficult conversation, a call for help, or simply facing a memory, you are engaging in post-traumatic growth (PTG). PTG isn’t just surviving trauma. It’s about learning, changing, and discovering the strength you didn’t know existed. It’s the quiet transformation that happens when we face our fears head-on and realize we can thrive despite what we’ve been through.
For many of us, PTG looks like:
- Reconnecting with family or friends after long periods of withdrawal.
- Taking small steps toward emotional awareness, like journaling or mindful reflection.
- Recognizing growth in situations that once felt overwhelming.
- Finding meaning in service and sacrifice, translating experience into mentorship or support for others.
Here are a few practical steps to push your own door today:
- Name one fear or avoidance, write it down and acknowledge it exists.
- Take one small action toward it, make the call, schedule the appointment, or share a brutal truth.
- Reflect on what you learned from the action, celebrate progress, even if imperfect.
- Support another warrior, share your experience, or listen, letting growth ripple outward.
Every push reinforces PTG. Each step proves that doors aren’t locked. They need courage, persistence, and faith.
The hallway that once felt empty turns into a place of belonging. Warriors, our brothers and sisters, walk the same path, testing handles and learning that not every closed door is locked. You hear hinges giving way, the sound of doors opening one at a time. That hallway fills with light and life, a place where stories are shared, and pain becomes purpose, where we stop pretending we’re fine and start standing shoulder to shoulder, not as victims, but as warriors rebuilding strength.
In that hallway, light spills out from open doors. Teammates laugh again. Families reconnect. Men and women rediscover hope they thought was gone forever. It’s a community finding its way home, one door, one push, one person at a time.
If you’re standing in front of a door, marked by fear, shame, or uncertainty, remember this. It might not be locked. It might just need your hand, your breath, and a little faith. Push, because you’ve faced far worse and made it through. Push, because your story isn’t finished yet. Push, because the world needs the version of you that walks through that door. And when that door opens, even just a crack, hold it for the next warrior behind you.
Never forget, not every closed door is locked. Push and keep pushing. This isn’t about relentless positivity or pretending healing is easy. Hope still lives under the armor. If you’ve served, worn the uniform, or carried someone else’s pain home with you, know this. You are not broken. You are being rebuilt.
So here’s your challenge: before this day ends, find one door in your life that you’ve been avoiding, a conversation, a call, a decision, a step forward. Don’t overthink it. Don’t wait for the “right” time. Just reach for the handle and push. You’ve survived the hard part. Now it’s time to live the rest.
Until next time, struggle well my friends — and remember, you are never alone.
~Grim
What are your throughts?