Chapter 6: No Story Left Behind

In the last chapter, Emptying the Pack, we started unloading the everyday stress we’ve been carrying.

Beneath those lighter, everyday rocks are heavier ones. These are the stories still waiting to be heard.

They’re the ones we haven’t fully faced yet. Experiences from our past that still feel raw, confusing, or unresolved. They come from our hardest moments in uniform—moments still echoing in us.

It’s time to go deeper. No part of your story deserves to be left behind.

We’ll move step by step. The goal isn’t to relive the pain; it’s to help these events make sense, so our nervous system can feel safe and in control again.

Every Soldier Carries Stories

Our bodies are living, breathing records of what happened to us during our time in uniform—and the meaning we gave those events.

In my experience, two things decide whether these stories stay stuck and keep causing stress:

1. Does the story make sense? Or is it still a blur—too chaotic, too painful to face?
2. Does our nervous system believe we could handle a similar situation today? Or is it still worried we’d be overwhelmed?

When past experiences don’t make sense, or leave our nervous system unsure whether we could survive them again, they can haunt us.

That’s because part of our brain—the survival-focused “lizard brain”—keeps a record of every overwhelming or dangerous experience we’ve ever faced. It uses that info to prep for next time.

After a dangerous experience, it’s like our survival brain is trying to answer two sets of questions:

• How did I end up so vulnerable or powerless?
• How do I make sure it doesn’t happen again—or that I’m better prepared next time?

Until those questions get answered, that part of our brain stays on high alert, constantly bracing for “next time.”

It doesn’t matter if the threat came from combat, sexual assault, public shame, moral injury, or childhood abuse. Our survival brain keeps track of it all.

Our survival brain holds on to the past because it’s trying to protect us. It won’t stop worrying until it understands what happened and trusts we can face something like it again.

Later, we'll cover how to rebuild confidence in facing similar future threats.

But here’s where we start: helping our nervous system understand what happened.

To do that, we’ll write the first draft of a story that got left behind.

Embodied Redemptive Storytelling

The First 7-steps:

Step One: Get Supported

The Department of Defense is our largest agency for a reason: successful missions need support. It's no different with the writing we're doing here.

This isn’t work meant to be done alone.

Revisiting these memories can stir up irritation, anger, sadness, sleeplessness, or overthinking.

The upside is that those reactions mean we’re on the right track. This kind of writing is meant to stir things up. If nothing surfaces, we might not be working with the right memories.

Have at least one trusted person who can have your back as you write. That might be a friend, spouse, counselor, clergy member, or fellow Veteran.

Writing our stories isn’t about healing in isolation. We were never meant to face these memories on our own. One of the main ways we can stay stuck is from trying to handle everything by ourselves.

Before starting, find at least one teammate—someone you can talk to, laugh with, or just sit quietly with. They don't need to be physically present all the time, just available on call.

Having someone who truly listens is essential. Painful experiences from war, sexual assault, moral injury, or childhood abuse usually happen inside broken relationships. They tend to heal best inside safe, trusted ones.

If this step feels challenging, visit Chapter 11: Two Antidotes To Pain for tips on moving forward. Then come back here.

No matter what, you’re not alone. No Story Left Behind Zoom meetups happen monthly (starting Winter 2025). We go through these steps together as a group. Click the blue “Subscribe” button in the corner to sign up.

Note: If you need immediate support and can’t reach your people, contact the Veterans Crisis Line:

• Dial 988 then press 1, or text 838255. It’s available 24/7 by phone, text, or live chat at veteranscrisisline.net

Step Two: Prepare Your Tools. 

For most of us, that starts with grabbing a pen and paper.

Writing by hand slows things down and helps transfer the pain to the page in a way typing can’t match. Sometimes, it feels like the emotional charge drains straight from my body onto the paper.

If writing gets too hard, voice-to-text can help. Speaking painful memories—especially while walking outside—can sometimes feel easier than writing. Most notes apps do a decent job capturing what I say.

For me, typing a first draft often feels too disconnected—like I’m skimming past the deeper emotions. Handwriting slows the memory down, giving it space to breathe and unfold in more detail. That slower pace helps bring up things I’d otherwise miss.

That said, if the emotional distance typing provides feels helpful, go with it.

The goal is to find whatever makes it easiest to start: writing, typing, or voice-to-text. You can always switch methods later.

Creating a comfortable writing space is important too. For me, that means having my dog, Trucker, nearby, plus some favorite snacks and instrumental music.

Being surrounded by these comforts makes it easier to enter the heart of painful memories. So get comfy.

Step Three: Choose a Specific Event 

Pick a specific, intense event from your past.

Choose one that feels challenging to revisit, but not so overwhelming that it shuts you down. That’s the "growth zone", where transformation can happen.

Start with the toughest memory you feel ready to handle.

When I'm unsure which memory to choose, I'll ask myself questions like:

• “What's the worst thing that happened to me in the military?”

• “The greatest loss I felt was…”

• “The most intense moment I can remember is…”

• “A part of me is not comfortable with how I acted when…”

• “The most awful memory I have is…”

Sit with each question for a moment. If nothing surfaces, move on to the next one.

The first memory that hits you with a strong emotional charge—that’s the one to write about.

If too many memories come up at once, pick the most impactful one you can remember clearly. We’ll bring home every story we need to. One sentence at a time.

And if a non-military memory comes up and feels important, trust your instincts and write about it. Our bodies keep the score and they often guide us towards the stories that need attention.

Step Four: Set a 25-Minute Timer. 

Set a timer for 25 minutes.

Like I mentioned in Chapter 5, timers are the glue that bring together all the competing parts inside me to focus on one thing.

Time limits give my hyperactive mind a clear boundary to settle into —and help me keep going long enough to get the story down.

Step Five: Let it Out.

Write about the event: what happened, and what you felt in the moment.

Start at the beginning. Describe things with as much detail as you can remember. Write what you saw, what you heard, what you smelled, and what you felt in your body.

Remind yourself the event is over. The past is not replaying. You're just writing it down from the safety of the present.

When the timer starts, I don’t stop for anything less than an emergency. I don’t overthink. I don’t worry about spelling or grammar.

I don’t edit anything to make it 'safer'. I don’t try to impress anyone. This isn't about being a 'good writer', it's about being real.

This is the classified version. No censoring. We unload all the darkness, the agony, the gore, the anxiety, and the horror onto the page.

This one’s for us. No one will ever read it unless we choose to share it.

Even if our writing is messy, backwards, or barely legible, it still counts. The power is in getting it out of our head and onto something else that can hold the weight.

Focus on what you felt in your body, and the emotions you had in the moment—not the thoughts you’ve had since.

Don’t hold anything back.

Let it out.

Step Six: Take Five (Breathe Deep and Slow). 

When the timer goes off, I take a five-minute break.

First, I check my breathing. I let my attention sink into my lower belly and stay there until it slows. This helps settle my nervous system after re-entering intense memories.

Taking slow, deep breaths before continuing helps me make sure I don’t go too far too fast.

I also move my body for a few minutes. Whatever feels good: a walk, a few pushups, playing ball with my pup, or just sitting in the sun.

If the discomfort feels too strong at any point, stop for the day. Check in with whoever’s got your back.

Step Seven: Repeat until it feels complete.

Keep repeating Steps Four, Five, and Six until the memory feels complete. Some take one session, others take several days.

Some will be short, and that’s okay. What matters is capturing the moment.

Here’s an example of a short memory I wrote. Notice how it’s complete, even though it’s not very long:

It still bothers me how I confiscated weapons from Iraqi civilians who hadn’t done anything wrong. I remember one guy in particular. He was just another middle-aged Iraqi local passing through our checkpoint. I used my limited Arabic to ask him if he had any weapons in his car. He shook his head no. I asked him to open the glove compartment, but he seemed confused and nervous. That’s when I noticed the barrel of a rifle poking out from under the passenger seat. I remember thinking, "Ahh shit, c’mon dude... why not just say something?" The old man didn’t seem like a threat, but I couldn’t take any chances. I pointed my rifle at him and called to my squad leader for backup. It was uncomfortable to watch him get increasingly worried because, in my gut, I didn't sense he was a 'bad guy'. He looked like a father. It didn't hit me until later that I might’ve been taking away his ability to protect his family. I just couldn't risk him using that weapon against one of my team.

That’s it. That’s a complete memory. I wrote about what actually happened—what I did, what I saw, and what I felt in the moment. I left out most of my later thoughts and judgments, except for a quick mention at the start and near the end.

For now, the goal is to focus on the moment itself: what you felt in your body, and what was happening in the environment around you.

To help with that, ask yourself:

1. What did I see, hear, smell, or feel in my body?
2. What would’ve been caught on a video camera?

We’ll dive deeper later on what these events meant to us. For now, just capture the raw memory. This isn’t about blaming or judging ourselves—or anyone else. This is about honoring what actually happened.

It doesn’t matter if your memory fills three pages, three paragraphs, or three sentences. Write what you can remember. Focus on the physical sensations in your body and the external facts. Leave out 'After Action Review' type thoughts, unless they were part of the moment itself.

Final Notes

Some memories need more than one 25-minute session to get fully written out. When starting out, I suggest no more than two sessions per day (60 minutes total).

This kind of writing helps us revisit intense memories and digest them without getting overwhelmed. The relief is real. The 60-minutes a day limit is part of that.

Why? Because writing for 30–60 minutes in this way has been shown in multiple studies to ease post-traumatic stress. The VA has articles like this one, this one, and this one, that summarize those findings.

Keep in mind that opening old wounds too fast can backfire, leading to overthinking or emotional shutdown. If things get too intense, ground yourself by noticing what you can see, hear, and touch. Come back to your breath. Then, reach out to your teammate.

I learned the hard way there’s a difference between wallowing in pain and productive grieving. Feeling old pain didn’t help until I learned how to manage it. What made the difference was letting those hurts be fully felt—at a pace I could handle.

It’s natural to feel stirred up after revisiting intense memories. This is part of it. Those waves will pass.

Like working out, we grow stronger while recovering, not while lifting. Sometimes things are sore for a few days. 

So it's a good sign when writing like this brings up discomfort. It means we’re doing something different than what we’re used to.

That’s how we get a different result than what we’re used to.

Writing like this isn’t the only way to heal from past trauma—but it’s a great place to start. It’s the first technique we’re exploring for a reason. Having a whole story about a tough experience creates the strongest foundation I know of for all other kinds of healing. And it’s simple, free, and can be done almost anywhere.

With that freedom, staying focused can be difficult. The urge to distract ourselves will come up. I can’t count how many times I’ve suddenly needed to clean the house, check the news, or organize my email—right before I was supposed to be sitting down to write. If that happens to you, don’t freak out. It’s natural. It’s just our brain trying to avoid discomfort.

When that happens I take a breath and remind myself—it’s only 25 minutes.

Even if all we can do is sit quietly for that time, holding the intention to write, we're making progress. Every session is a step closer. Even if no words come, we're building the habit of showing up. Over time, these small efforts shift how we carry the past.

To recap: 

1. Get Supported

2. Prepare Your Tools

3. Choose a Specific Event

4. Set a 25-Minute Timer

5. Let it Out

6. Take Five (Breathe Deep and Slow)

7. Repeat Until it Feels Complete

Once your story is fully written, take a moment to acknowledge your work. The hardest step is the first one, and now it's behind you.

Completing this first draft means you’ve started giving our experiences a voice, which is a key part of letting go of the weight you’ve carried alone.

Start now with Step One. Lean on your support. Write about the most stressful event you can handle. Focus on the facts of what happened, and how you felt during it.

Follow the steps until your first draft is complete. Then move on to Chapter 7: Rebuilding Trust in the Present.

Additional Mission Support:

If you’re wondering why this kind of writing works, this short video gives a strong overview. It’s a 6-minute conversation about how writing about a past trauma helps the nervous system process what got stuck.

The ideas come from the research of Dr. James Pennebaker, author of Expressive Writing: Words that Heal .

That book was a big help to me. If you decide to check it out, I suggest the updated version: Opening Up By Writing It Down