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 10: 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 was the worst thing that happened to me in the military?”

• “The greatest loss I felt was…”

• “The most intense or overwhelming 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, just pick one. 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, a timer gives me a clear container to work in.

Time limits calm my hyper-active mind and help me maintain focus on finishing the mission.

Step Five: Let it Out.

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

When the timer starts, I don’t stop for anything less than a real 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 is the classified version—no censoring. We unload all the darkness, agony, gore, anxiety, and horror onto the page.

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

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 complete.

Repeat Steps Four, Five, and Six until you’ve written out all the details of the memory.

Some memories take one session; others take several days.

The important thing is to finish the story. 

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

Here’s an example of a short memory I wrote:

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. Notice how I focused on what actually happened—what I did, what I saw, and what I felt in the moment. I didn’t include a lot of my later thoughts or judgments, except for a brief mention in the first and second-to-last sentences.

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

Ask yourself: what would’ve been caught on a video camera?

Later in the series, we’ll reflect on what these past events meant to us. Right now, the focus is on capturing the raw memory. This isn’t about blaming or judging ourselves—or anyone else. Just write 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. Try to 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).

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.

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.

In my experience, writing has never hurt as much as not writing did. Avoiding the discomfort just kept it stuck inside me. So it’s not “uncomfortable vs comfortable.” It’s “short-term discomfort from writing vs more years of bottled-up stress.”

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.

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 complete 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 Complete

Once your story is fully written, take a moment to acknowledge your work.

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

We’re gonna build on this draft in the next chapter. By the time we’re done, those intense moments will be fading memories—not threats our survival brain needs to continue to keep us hyper-vigilant for.

Start now with Step One. Lean on your support. Write about the most stressful event you can handle. Focus on 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 getting trauma on the page 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