Commentary
In life’s grand tapestry, woven with threads of triumph and despair, we find ourselves transitioning from one side to the other, traversing the delicate seam between. It’s an idea my friend, Jon Schwartz, eloquently framed as a journey from the left side of despair to the right. I, too, embarked on this passage, navigating through the murkiness of despair, eventually finding myself on its brighter side, the “right” side. As I stand here, I can gaze back across the chasm, tracing the path that once was filled with shadows and is now bathed in a softer light. The echo of that journey has been both a personal transformation and, hopefully, a beacon for others. The resonance of this narrative, however, goes beyond my solitary experience. It’s a testament to the human spirit’s resilience, an affirmation that has sparked a ripple of recognition and optimism among those who have borne witness to it. It’s gratifying to note that my journey, once submerged in despair, now serves as an uplifting testament to the power of perseverance, and most importantly, an example to my children.
When Dr. Alice Atalanta and I collaborated on our work, “Meditations of an Army Ranger: A Warrior Philosophy for Everyone,” we crafted a distinctive rhythm for each chapter. Each one began with an insightful quote, paving the path for the narrative ahead, and concluded with a poignant poem, which was carefully selected from my personal collection. These verses, penned during my overseas deployment or in the reflective period upon my return, served as thought-provoking finales that echoed the themes of the chapters. One particular chapter about trust concludes with the following verse:
“When I was young, I thought that all men were good. When I went to war, I thought that all men were evil. Now, I realize that all men are just men.”
I wrote that poem about five years after my last of 11 combat deployments—and after the second of four suicide attempts. I remember the feeling of hopelessness I had when I wrote it, and while I can read it today and see the beauty that gives space for a lack of judgment of others, that was not what I was thinking when I wrote it. When those words hit the paper, it was out of apathetic ambivalence—I just didn’t care anymore—I was lost. I didn’t see the good in people but wasn’t angry anymore—I just felt nothing. It wasn’t a sense of thoughtful pragmatism that built those stanzas, it was a sense of nothing. We (men: AKA mankind) just didn’t matter anymore. Philosophically nihilistic and indifferent was my state of mind and approach to the world.
Time passed, and that philosophy changed, and my transformation continued, and three years later those words mean something altogether different to me. Now I read those words and think about how we give things the value they have by our own perceptions—worth is not absolute, nor objective, but subjective based on the observer’s place and time. My evolution of thought was not a solitary journey; it was deeply influenced by those in my close circle, who concurrently became firsthand witnesses to this metamorphosis. My wife and children, my stalwart guides through this transition, were not mere spectators but active participants in the front row of this life-altering theatre. At times, the scenes unfolding resembled a ghastly spectacle, and I was plagued with the fear that this turbulent journey could ravage the bonds I held dear, with those who mattered the most.
There are moments in life when we feel truly seen—understood by those around us—and know that they stand alongside us in our journey. I experience this profound connection with my wife, Jen, daily, but with our children, it’s not always as apparent. This, in itself, is a normal part of their growth process, even a crucial one. It’s important for their focus to remain rooted in their self-development, in shaping their future selves, rather than in understanding the intricacies of us, their parents. It’s not their obligation to truly “get us”—their primary task should be to get to know themselves. However, I consider myself incredibly fortunate to catch fleeting yet potent glimpses of how my children perceive me. Endowed with keen intelligence, deep insight, and abundant empathy, they often see me with remarkable clarity. Their vision, though sometimes tainted by villainous or heroic shades, offers a strikingly accurate reflection, more often than one might anticipate.
On a recent evening, while engaged in a dinner conversation with Jen and a group of friends, I received a message that struck me to my core, one that I will never forget. My eldest son, in a creative endeavor, had crafted a reinterpretation of the aforementioned poem and chose to share it with me via text. His message read as follows:
“Before war, I used to think all men were good. After war, I used to think all men were evil. Now, I think all men are men I sit here writing this as an old, tired, vulnerable, scarred, strong, kind, empathetic, thoughtful man. Wondering what life could have been, Or at least what life would have been like. I have often wondered why men do the things they do and what motivates them to do such things. I have often wondered what my purpose is. I have often wondered what my fate holds. I have often wondered, can I do more? I have often wondered; can I find peace? Now, I don’t wonder. I know. I know who I am. I am an old, tired, vulnerable, scarred, strong, kind, empathetic, thoughtful man Who has found peace in the world. I know my purpose. I know I have more than one purpose. I have many. I know not to only love the ones I hold dear, but to love those who need love. I know to shine light in places that are dark. And I know not to think of what would have or could have been, but to think of what will be. I know to put others before myself and to be a man of inspiration. Before war, I used to think all men were good After war, I used to think all men were evil. Now, I know sometimes you can’t change the nature of some. But I can do what I can to make the world a better place. I don’t wonder who I am. I am The Ranger.”
I need to say no more—my son watched, he helped, and he knows me—and he is right—I am at peace, and happier than I ever imagined. This is the poem I would write today. And I feel seen and heard—by my wife, and by my children—and thereby, my world.
