Chapter 3: Our Stories Create Community

Chapter 2 explored the natural cycle of warriors stepping forward to protect, and the community circling around them afterward, tending their wounds and listening to their stories.

We build strong bonds through this kind of sharing. It’s a special genius of our species: the ability to form the most complex communities on Earth.

No other living thing grows stronger through connection the way humans do.

What makes that possible?

Language.

And story.

The ways we communicate and work toward shared goals turned our ancestors—from small roaming bands of hunter-gatherers—into the dominant species on Earth.

As our language evolved, it allowed increasingly advanced cooperation among increasingly large groups of us. No other species works together in such large numbers with the kind of flexibility we do.

On top of that, unlike other animals, we can share information about things that don’t physically exist.

We can talk not just about what’s happening now (like many animals do), but also about what happened, or what might happen next.

In other words, we can tell stories.

In his book Sapiens, Yuval Noah Harari writes:

“This ability to speak about fictions is the most unique feature of Sapiens language… You could never convince a monkey to give you a banana by promising him limitless bananas after death in monkey heaven.”

"...Homo Sapiens conquered the world thanks above all to its unique language”.

Our ancestors were the world’s best storytellers. By sharing knowledge and beliefs, they built stronger bonds and improved as hunters, gatherers, and eventually, farmers.

Over time, these shared beliefs became religions, laws, nations, and Constitutions.

In today's world, there's a constant battle over who controls the narratives—the stories that shape what we believe and how we act. Every side wants their version of the story to be the one that is heard, believed in, and cooperated with.

That outer war mirrors a war inside us.

Inside us are voices fighting over what to believe. Some parts of us are confused, angry, or scared by what happened, or what might happen next time. These voices cry out to be heard. But sometimes, they haven't yet found the words.

If we carry post-traumatic stress, military sexual trauma, or moral injury, some part of us is still holding a story that needs to be told.

Taking control of telling that story is up to us. The version we’ve been living with can be changed. And when we change our story, we change our lives. And the lives of the people who matter to us.

I used to believe I had to “do it alone.” But when I realized I was never meant to, I found that the right communities for me were the ones where my full story wasn't just welcomed—it was needed.

If you don’t know where your community is yet, look for the place where your full story is needed. It can help guide you there.

By “full story,” I mean one that includes the physical details of our military experience. The details of what happened to our bodies. It’s told in the present tense, from direct experience, with as much sensory detail as possible.

First, The Standard Story

Let me show you what I mean, using an example from my time in Iraq. What I call the “standard story.”

This is the kind of story I used to tell when someone asked, “What happened?”

Standard Story:

My platoon had just replaced 3rd Platoon on rooftop guard duty. We were on the roof of the Mosul Hotel, one of the highest points in the city. Guard duty involved scanning the city through high-powered binoculars. I was the first on duty that day.

We were still unpacking our gear on the roof when I heard an explosion, followed by gunfire. I saw that 3rd platoon was being ambushed, just as they left the gated entrance to the hotel. There wasn’t much I could do except watch through the binocs and relay updates over radio. It was almost useless, there was too much smoke, I couldn’t see anything. After 15 minutes, it was over. No casualties. I remember my watch beeping and being surprised that my shift was over. I found a corner to lie down in and for a few hours before my next turn on watch.

When friends, family, other veterans, or the VA asked about a memorable moment from my service, that’s the kind of story I shared.

But that wasn’t the full story.

Next, The Full Story

Over the years, I found tools that helped me explore my memories more deeply. I began to remember specific details: the tightness in my stomach at the sound of gunfire… how I snapped into mission mode and couldn’t turn it off… how my legs tensed to race down the six flights of stairs.

As those pieces came back to me, my story started looking more like what you’re about to read.

Here’s that same event, rewritten in first-person present tense, as if I were there again. I did my best to recall every original detail, especially what I felt in my body.

Full Story:

My platoon has just replaced 3rd Platoon on guard duty. We’re on the roof of the Mosul Hotel, one of the highest points in the city. Another 24 hours of scanning the city with high-powered binoculars. I’m the first on duty.

I’m unpacking gear on the roof… and BOOM. Something big explodes, a sound like thunder splitting a boulder. Pop-pop pop-pop-pop. Gunfire. My stomach tightens. I look toward the sound and see smoke rising at the hotel gate. 3rd Platoon. They’re being ambushed. I need to get down there now. My legs tense, ready to sprint the six flights of stairs. But I can’t. I’m on watch. My post is here. I swallow every impulse to move. I press my face into the binocs and radio in estimates of where the enemy is firing from. Pop-pop-pop. My friends are pinned down. My stomach clenches again. Smoke. Shouting. Confusion. Then it’s over. 3rd Platoon breaks free. They’re heading down the road. Everyone made it. But I feel strange. Hollow. Like I’m too worn down to feel relief.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. My alarm goes off. Shift over.

Already?

I find a corner to lie down in, trying to let the adrenaline drain out of me before my next turn on watch.

Can you feel the difference?

When we retell our stories in the present tense, focusing on the original sensory details, we bring the experience back to life. And that process brings us back to life too.

This “coming back to life” deepens when the people who matter to us hear our stories. Our full story becomes a vital part of how we reconnect with family. It helps them understand what we really went through.

It also helps our community understand the true cost of war and what we, as soldiers, need to have honored in order to fully return.

That’s why telling the full story matters. Our families and communities need to hear what was happening in our bodies while we were out there defending them. And all of us—whether we deployed or not—were part of that defense.

There’s more to that story from the rooftop, but I don’t want to say too much. I’m not sharing my version to give the impression it’s the only “right” way to tell it.

Each intense event we’ve lived through is like a fingerprint, no two stories are alike. Your story will be different from anyone else’s.

You may have experienced sexual trauma, moral injury, or been let down by your chain of command.

Have you lived through moments like that?

The only “right way” I've found to tell my story is to let out the truth. The truth of what I really experienced.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

What really happened back then?

What did my body go through that I didn’t fully notice?

What memories have I buried inside me?

Buried experiences are like heavy rocks hidden in our pack. We may not even know they’re there, but they weigh us down until we take them out and look at them.

Writing the full story is a way to examine each rock. We shine a light on it, name it, and show our nervous system the truth: the threat is gone.

The danger has passed.

There’s nothing in our current reality we need to be on edge about.

That's not who we are anymore.

We can finally stand down.

Our Truth, Not Someone Else’s

I’ve learned (after doing this process dozens of times) that comparing my story, or changing it to match someone else’s, only pulled me farther from what was real for me.

The power of a full story is how it helps us reach our truth—not someone else’s.

The goal isn’t to tell a “good story.” It’s to connect with the full impact of what really happened.

As humans, we have a unique ability to re-enter memories and uncover what our body, mind, heart, and soul went through.

So we can finally understand: “Oh… this is how that moment hit my nervous system.”

The story I shared earlier was about rooftop guard duty.

By going back to it again and again (using the methods I’ll share in upcoming chapters) I reconnected with what my nervous system went through at the time:

• My stomach clenched.
• I lost my sense of time.
• Part of me wanted to run. Another part said stay.
• I felt hollow.

Those were my real-time signals.

The feelings that come up for you will be different from mine.

Taking Back Control of the Narrative

Writing lets us face what happened on our terms.

It gives us control over how we explore intense experiences.

We get to move at our own pace. We can take our time uncovering things we couldn’t fully process back then.

There’s no question that re-living these moments can be painful. That’s why I suggest reading up through Chapter 6 before writing anything. It will go over ways to stay grounded when intense memories get stirred up.

The goal here isn’t to re-traumatize ourselves. It’s to open old wounds just enough to deliver the medicine they need to finally heal.

The mission is to tell our stories the way they needed to be told when we first came home: fully felt by us and held by others.

When we bring our full stories home—and share them with the right people—we regain command over our life’s narrative. We let go of the old beliefs we’ve carried, so a new life can take root.

One honored by community.

Because when we reclaim our full story, we reclaim the dignity of who we truly are.

When you’re ready, I’ll meet you in Chapter 4: The Power Of Your Story

"Banana Heaven" photo credit: Ron Kimball