When I left the Army, I had a plan. I would use my GI Bill to finish college, take what I had learned into the civilian workforce, and finally spend time with my family without another deployment hanging over my head. I had entered the Army at eighteen and served in Iraq as a chaplain assistant. I believed the discipline I had built would carry me through anything civilian life could throw at me.
It didn’t work out that way.
What I didn’t understand was how much of my life had been structured for me. In the Army, someone told me when to wake up, where to be, what to wear, and what needed to get done. There was a chain of command and a system of accountability that kept everything moving. When that disappeared, I lost my footing. I was staying awake until two or three in the morning and fighting to get up. I didn’t know yet that I was dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. I hadn’t been diagnosed. I only knew that I was exhausted, my weight kept climbing, and I could feel myself drifting away from the person I remembered being.
I wanted to go backward
The worse things got, the more I missed the Army. At the time, I wouldn’t have called what I missed “structure.” I missed the person I had been there. I missed being in shape, playing sports, laughing, and waking up with something to look forward to. I missed feeling capable.
I even thought about going back in. But I had gained too much weight, and I had physical and mental struggles that would have made it difficult. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about that young soldier. I wanted to go backward because I couldn’t imagine a future version of myself that might be just as good, much less better.
That was the mindset I carried into a VA clinic near Fort Rucker, Alabama. I talked with a counselor about my weight, my mental health, and how disappointed I was in myself. More than anything, I wanted someone to help me get my old life back.
He listened. Then he told me something I’ve never forgotten.
“You’ll never be who you were. But you can be better.”
At first, I only heard half of it
All I heard was the first sentence. I would never be who I was. That was hard to accept, because becoming that person again was exactly what I had been chasing. I wanted to undo what had happened to me and erase the mistakes I had made. I had convinced myself that recovery meant getting back everything I believed I had lost.
But the second sentence stayed with me. He hadn’t said my life was over, or that I would never be happy again. He was challenging the idea that the only version of me worth becoming was the one I remembered from the past.
For the first time in years, I let myself consider that my future could be different from my past without being worse.
I want to be honest about what came next. I didn’t leave that appointment with a plan, and one conversation didn’t fix everything. I still had significant challenges ahead of me, and it would take years to learn how to address many of them. What changed was that I had a new possibility to think about. Until then, I had measured almost everything in my life against the man I used to be.
Why going back keeps so many of us stuck
Over time, I began to see how much of my struggle with civilian life was connected to the structure I lost when I left the military. The Army taught me discipline, accountability and how to work toward a mission. But the Army also provided the systems that made those things part of my day. I had learned how to succeed inside that environment without ever learning how to re-create it once it was gone.
I think a lot of veterans carry some version of this. We remember who we were when the mission was clear, and we measure ourselves against him every day. I know I did, and for me it was a trap. I couldn’t build a meaningful life by chasing a version of myself that no longer existed.
Slowly, I started noticing what actually helped me make progress. Having a sense of purpose mattered. Routines mattered. Being accountable to myself and to other people mattered. So did understanding my limits and learning from the people around me. Many of the principles that helped me succeed in the military were still valuable. I just had to apply them differently. I couldn’t depend on an organization to give my life structure anymore. I had to take responsibility for building it myself.
Those lessons eventually became what I call STRUCTURE: nine principles that helped me rebuild my life, and that I now use to lead and support others.
What “better” has looked like for me
Better hasn’t meant painless. Depression is still something I manage, and there are still hard days. But over the years that followed, I finished the bachelor’s degree I had started seven years earlier. I took a first walk when I weighed more than 350 pounds, and kept walking until I could run a mile. I found work I could show up for consistently. I built a career in education, and I married Kristen, who helps me be honest about the parts of me that are still healing. Some of my rebuilding started as small as making my bed in the morning.
I am not the man I was before Iraq. I am not the man I was during my darkest moments. And I am not finished becoming the man I want to be.
If you’re trying to get back to who you were
You don’t need a five-year plan today. Start with three questions:
- Where are you in your life today, honestly?
- What is one area you know needs attention?
- What is one meaningful action you can take this week to begin moving forward?
You can’t go back. But you can build something better from here.
If you’re struggling right now: You don’t have to carry it alone. If you’re a veteran in crisis, or worried about one, call 988 and press 1 to reach the Veterans Crisis Line, text 838255, or chat at VeteransCrisisLine.net. It’s free and confidential, 24/7.
Eric Gillis is an Army veteran who served in Iraq as a chaplain assistant, a Florida school administrator, and the author of The Rebuilt Warrior: Leadership Forged Through Service, Struggle, and Strength (coming soon).