Why I Write

An Explanation From a Mind That Refused to Die

Mar 23, 2025

[Content Warning: This essay touches on themes like trauma, disillusionment, veteran identity, and the emotional aftermath of service. Some may find sections emotionally intense or uncomfortable. I’m not writing to provoke, but to tell the truth, my truth.

This essay departs from my usual tone and structure. It came out of reader feedback, private debates, some respectful, some not. And my own need to set the record straight, about what I write, and why. If you’ve made it this far, I’m glad you’re here. Whether you agree, disagree, or just needed to read something real, thank you for showing up.]

Zermatt, Switzerland (2015). Photo by Josh Hughes

“In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.

In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.

In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.

I realized, through it all, that…

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes

against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing

right back.” - Albert Camus1

No One Gave Me Permission

No one told me to start writing, not in a literal sense. A few people suggested it, but no one gave me a clear answer. No one handed me permission.

I’ve written all my life, little notes here and there, but it was always something private. Since I was a kid, people told me I had a natural gift for storytelling and writing. Spelling has always been my enemy (thank goodness for the red squiggly line) but words? Words have always been my weapon and my refuge.

I don’t claim to know better than most, but I definitely know better than some. And I was told, by the unspoken, unwritten social contract I apparently signed, that you shouldn’t say things like that. That it makes you sound narcissistic. Pompous. I used to believe that. I used to listen to people who wanted me to stay small.

But now I know better, not because of the books I’ve read, not from self help clinics in some dusty Marriott conference room, and not because I shelled out thousands of dollars for a “Master Class” taught by someone selling their own brand of snake oil. I know better because I’ve failed. I’ve made mistakes that nearly cost me everything. And instead of hiding from those failures, I learned from them.

Experience is the greatest teacher. More than books, degrees, deployments, or any accolade society tells me I need. Not the things that take time, but time itself.

I started this Substack for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I needed a place to put my words down, somewhere others could read them. Not in a vanity kind of way, but in an authentic one. I just wanted to put my thoughts out there. I was quickly met with some heartburn from a few people. But others came out of the woodwork, men and women I respect, people I admire for their resilience in spite of chaos in their own lives. Hell, even strangers have chimed in, thanking me for my honesty or shaming me for being too honest. But in the end for someone to sit down, read my words, and reach out through calls, texts, emails, was exactly why I started writing here.

Second, I launched this Substack because of that little voice in the back of my mind. The one that kept saying, “There are others out there. They have to be thinking the same things you are.” Lost. Alone. Feeling abandoned by a society that’s a whole lot weirder than I ever imagined it would be. Being a civilian without the limits and rules of the UCMJ2 is awesome but it’s also deeply disappointing. Most people don’t fear consequences. They say things, type things, and do things maliciously, expecting nothing bad to happen to them. I have a feeling that won’t last forever. But who knows?

Lastly I came here to write, to hone a new craft. I’m letting the cat out of the bag: I’m writing a series of books. I have no publisher, no agent, no goal other than to write them. The books aren’t memoirs or biographies. They’re not the typical “Look at me, look what I did” kind of military books. They’re my view of this world, a look inside the head of one dude who just happened to have the privilege of working beside some of the best humans this world had to offer.

It’s a glimpse. Unfiltered, raw, and broken.

The Fallacy of External Validation

I know my younger self would argue with me now. He was cocky, arrogant, invincible. The barrel chested freedom fighter who could do no wrong, who thought he could save the world. I remember the feeling more than the details. The mindset. The edge. But I don’t remember him fully. Just glimpses. Flashes of someone I once was. Shades of emotions stored in the corrupted partitions of a busted hard drive, running on software I never agreed to install.

Then one day, I woke up and realized I was in a dark place. Not metaphorically, literally. My mind had turned on me. It wasn’t just running off course; it was sabotaging the mission. It was telling me to give up. To abandon hope. To manufacture chaos when none existed. It felt like I had become my own worst enemy, trained too well to dissect a room, now turning that same scrutiny inward, dismantling myself from the inside out.

And in the middle of all that noise, the most ridiculous but also the most profound voice cut through. It was mine. My real voice. The one that had been buried under duty, obedience, and years of telling myself I had it all under control.

“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”3

Yeah. Shawshank Redemption might have saved my life.

Those ten syllables came crashing into my mind like a door kicked open from the inside. And that’s when it clicked. I had forgotten what living even meant. I had been surviving out of habit. Enduring out of sheer momentum. But I wasn’t living. Not really. So thanks Stephen King and Shawn Patterson.

I was at a crossroads and needed to make a decision. One that would look small on paper but felt massive in my bones. I decided to take back what had always been mine, but what I had long forgotten was.

I took back my life.

This comeback wasn’t for public redemption. It wasn’t a rebranding. It was a quiet, private apology, to myself. It was a reckoning. A promise to figure out what the hell this whole experience had meant. Because if I couldn’t find meaning in it, then what was the point of surviving it?

In that pursuit, I didn’t find religion. I didn’t stumble into a program or a step by step recovery. What I found was philosophy. I fell headfirst into the deep wells of knowledge, not because I was searching for answers, but because I needed to learn how to ask the right questions. My mind wasn’t just quiet; it was cracked, weathered, starving. And for the first time in years, maybe decades, I felt thirsty. Thirsty for knowledge. For perspective. For something real, something that wasn’t wrapped in a rank, a uniform, or a broken chain of command.

It didn’t come all at once. It was slow. Uneven. Some days I fell backward, other days I stood taller than I ever had before. But over time, I came to realize that I had made the right decision. Even if no one else could see it. Even if no one else would ever understand it.

I don’t write for fame. I don’t write for fortune. I don’t write for clout, or platforms, or metrics.

I write because it feels right. I write because it’s mine. Because I already know that my words have helped others and I don’t say that in arrogance. I say it as someone who knows what it feels like to be helped by the words of a stranger.

That’s not ego. That’s not marketing. That’s validation for me.

Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don’t

Once I started this healing journey, this philosophical path, this refusal to keep quiet, something strange happened. People started to fear my growth. Not because I was becoming dangerous, but because I was becoming unreachable. Uncontrollable. I was stepping out of their frame, out of their script, and that scared the hell out of them.

I heard the fake cheers. The forced smiles. That unmistakable sound of “good for you” dripping with sarcasm, resentment, and something uglier: jealousy. Not because I had something they wanted, but because I had started building walls from the wreckage of bridges they helped burn. And in doing so, I had stepped beyond their sphere of control.

I stopped playing the game. Doesn’t matter how long I played it before, I walked away. And that kind of exit shakes people. It exposes the truth. Because when someone sees you opt out of their system and still stand tall, it forces them to question why they’re still trapped in it.

I’m not someone they can manipulate anymore. I can’t be measured by their metrics. I don’t speak in performance reviews or follower counts. And that’s when they labeled me: difficult, arrogant, unstable.

Funny how that works.

So I’ll take my place in the land of the damned. I know it well. I was born into it, part of the bad batch. The misfits. The ones made to follow orders, toe the line, and keep their heads down. But I broke formation. And the irony? I found others like me. Some of them have been friends since the beginning, others wandered in from far off paths. Time and distance carved deep lines between us, but we still found our way under the same broken roof, seeking shelter from the constant shelling of lies and deceit.

I wasn’t discarded because I failed. I was discarded because I asked why.

Casted aside by the mainstream because I questioned the premise. I’m not sure we have souls, but I know I traded something sacred. And I asked the question this society built entire systems to avoid:

“Why does staying alive demand the death of who I am? Why did I have to bleed out what was left of my spirit just to earn the right to breathe?”

And that’s when it hit. I don’t need permission to breathe. I don’t need approval to think. And I sure as hell don’t need their audience to speak.

Because in the end, I won’t hear the critics at my funeral. I won’t cry when the opportunists, the fair weather friends, the institutions that used me, or the leaders who smiled while discarding me, slam the door behind them pretending they ever understood. My peace doesn’t live in patriotic soundbites or social media campaigns. It lives beyond their reach, in the parts of me they couldn’t brand, couldn’t break, and never truly saw. In places the system cannot monetize, cannot control, and cannot steal.

Some are born to fight. And for a long time, I fought for the wrong things. I fought for approval. For systems. For causes that were never mine to begin with.

But not anymore. Because this time, the fight isn’t a gaslit rage built to feed someone else’s ego. This time, the fight is to reclaim what was stolen, my peace.

Brutus and the Question of Worth

There was a time I measured my worth by how others saw me. I’d question it constantly, like it was some fragile thing that only existed when someone else acknowledged it.

But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of something real. I’ve stood on four continents. Traveled through dozens of countries. Broken bread with nomadic tribes in Africa. Collected fruit with humble villagers on a forgotten island in the Pacific. Climbed Alpine peaks just to drink terrible coffee in a crumbling mountain hut. Walked the same roads the Romans, Greeks, Persians, and Mongols once did.

That’s not bragging. That’s history. That’s lived experience. That’s something my ancestors would’ve called the dream.

Those moments don’t tell me my worth, they remind me of the kind of worth I can offer. I’m not speaking from theory, or filtered headlines, or buzzwords repackaged for a quick social media dopamine fix. I’ve lived in places most people will only ever see through a screen. I’ve sat with silence that didn’t come from boredom, but from bearing witness.

I don’t claim to know better. But maybe I carry a different kind of truth. One that isn’t shaped by conference rooms and curated posts. One that’s been dragged through the mud, tested under weight, and still speaks clearly.

An acquaintance, let’s call him Brutus, recently tried to bait me into an argument. He threw out comparisons like weapons, holding up other veterans who write, who run podcasts, who have built brands.

“What makes you think you’re better than them? You should do what they do if you want to be successful.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I’m better than them. I think they’re talented in their own right. But I don’t think I need permission to write. Because I’ve helped people. Not everyone, but some. And that alone puts me ahead of most, especially the ones who just regurgitate what others say without ever thinking for themselves, just to make a buck.”

He pushed again, louder this time, like he needed me to flinch.

“Why the fuck do you think you're so special or even belong in the same conversation?”

My reply, “Because I survived. Because I’m still here. Still thinking. Still refusing to disappear into the background noise. But most importantly, because I’m still alive.”

The Reality of This Society

This world has a way of wearing a man down before he even knows what’s happening. It doesn’t just tire the body. It drains the soul. It numbs the senses with noise, distractions, hollow rewards, and fake promises. It feeds a lie, then punishes those who won’t pretend to enjoy the taste.

The grind had been taught like scripture. Sacrifice years for a diploma. Trade time for a paycheck. Chase titles, promotions, mortgages, and benefit packages. That was the path. That was the so called dream.

But no one taught me how to simply be present. No one even hinted at the idea. Not how to hold the moment, not how to breathe in stillness without waiting for the next task, the next checkbox, the next expectation.

So I did something that felt radical. I turned inward. I surrounded myself with philosophy. Not for cleverness. Not for appearances. But because it was the only fortress I could find that couldn’t be stormed. No politician could twist it. No algorithm could flatten it. No corporate overlord could monetize it.

Philosophy became my citadel. And once my mind let go of the need to be validated by anyone or anything outside of itself, it became untouchable.

I became the kind of man they can’t manipulate and that scares the fuck out of people.

What Philosophy Means to Me

Philosophy is often defined in academic terms as “the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence.”

That’s clean. Precise. Respectable. But for me, it barely scratches the surface.

Philosophy, as I’ve come to understand it, is the discipline of not going numb.
It’s how I clawed my way back from the edge when nothing else worked, not therapy, not medication, not medals or handshakes. Philosophy taught me to sit with chaos instead of trying to silence it. To stare into contradiction without needing resolution. To ask better questions, especially when the answers didn’t come.

I don’t come from the halls of academia. I come from silence, from shadow, from places where my morality is tested in ways most people will never understand. And yet, I’ve found kinship in philosophical traditions that never knew my name:

Absurdism, with its brutal honesty about a meaningless world and the defiant choice to keep going anyway.

Stoicism, not the Instagram version, but the real, hard edged kind. The kind that teaches you how to carry what you can’t control.

Existentialism, with its insistence that meaning isn’t found, it’s forged. And that freedom is equal parts liberation and burden.

I don’t see philosophy as a subject. I see it as a tool. A tool for surviving in a world that will chew you up and spit you out while smiling. A quiet rebellion. A private code. And most importantly, a way to keep breathing when everything in you is screaming to stop.

The Mouse in My Pocket

A reader commented on one of my past essays, asking if, when I say “we,” I’ve got a mouse in my pocket. I knew what he meant. And I also knew he wasn’t throwing shade, just some classic banter between two guys who shared the common ground of military service and the kind of chaos that shapes a man. But his point stuck with me in a way he probably didn’t intend. My mind went straight down a rabbit hole, and I’ve been chasing that thread ever since.

What I found down there wasn’t exactly surprising, but it was sobering.

First, I need to be clear: I’m not writing on behalf of all veterans. In fact, I’ve learned that I don’t actually prefer the company of most veterans. Not because I think I’m better than them, but because too many of them think they’re better than everyone else. The “Bro-Vets”4, the ones who demand thanks for their service, who assume that just because we both wore a uniform, we must instantly be brothers. That mindset makes my skin crawl.

Looking back, I shouldn’t have assumed other veterans were fighting the same internal battles I’ve faced since leaving service. That was my mistake. Some might be, but many aren’t. So from here on out, I’ll be clear: I don’t speak for anyone else. Not for veterans, not for Marines, not for Special Operations, and not for any unit, community, or acronym. I speak for one person, me.

Here’s something I’ve come to believe, and it’s probably going to piss people off: American culture has been tricked into believing that because someone volunteered to serve, or was drafted, they automatically deserve instant respect. But wearing a uniform doesn’t make someone honorable. It never has. The truth is, a lot of veterans are just as cruel, deceptive, entitled, bitter, or downright broken as the rest of society. Some even worse. Some use their deployments, their trauma, or their military time as an excuse to act like assholes, screaming at people in parking lots, holding up signs that no one actually reads, demanding the public care more than it realistically can.

And here’s the thing: most civilians don’t hate veterans. They’re just busy trying to survive their own chaos. Their pain might not have come from a warzone, but it’s no less real. Maybe they’re battling something deeper. Maybe their four years working double shifts and holding their family together was harder than someone else’s four years of cleaning toilets. Maybe it’s the slow realization that their marriage of ten plus years is headed for divorce, shattering their view on what love is. Life is relative. Struggle doesn’t have to come with a ribbon or medal.

Not a Preacher

Take what I write, not as gospel. Not as a declaration to follow. There is no tribe here. There are no banners. No war cries. No clubhouse passwords. Honestly, there are no tribes left, at least none that I have found. Just pockets of like minded people trying to make it through the noise, working to survive on this spinning rock the best way they know how. Maybe give yourself and others a break. And maybe, in return, don’t assume I’m just another loud veteran trying to occupy space and plant flags. I’m not.

I'm just a husband, a father, and a guy who reads, writes, and is pulled (almost involuntarily) toward the endless abyss of the unknown. Not just to find answers, but to discover the questions I didn’t know existed. That’s it. I put these words out because they help me breathe. If someone finds something in them, great. If not, that’s fine too.

But there’s something else I need to say, something I’ve wrestled with for a long time.

I used to say I was willing to die for my country. Not for glory. Not for medals. But because I believed in something bigger than myself. Or maybe, more honestly, I needed to believe in something, because the alternative was facing the silence inside my own skull.

And for a while, that belief held me together. It got me through the grey zones. The deniable missions. The decisions that weren’t quite moral, but weren’t quite wrong enough to stop. The silence that wasn’t denial, but survival.

I told myself it was for the mission. For the team. For the nation.

But years later, that rot I buried deep started whispering back. It said, “You were willing to die for a lie.”

Because this nation, the one I gave my body, mind, and years to was never really looking for warriors. It wanted tools. It wanted shadows. It wanted men like me to bleed quietly in the dark, then smile politely on Memorial Day so the rest of the country wouldn’t feel uncomfortable during the barbecue.

The system didn’t even bother to break me all the way. Just far enough. Just enough that I’d stop asking questions and stop staring in the mirror, wondering if I was ever anything more than a pawn.

But here’s the thing, I woke up.

And in that dim, cracked mirror, I saw the truth. I was a pawn. A convenient box to check. A disposable asset. And I’m not alone in that feeling. I know I’m not. I just don’t want to assume anyone else is ready to say it out loud.

Now, I get thanked for my service by people who wouldn’t last five minutes in the moral fog I operated in. They don’t thank me to understand. They thank me to make themselves feel better.

That said, there are a few whose thanks I do believe (though I still fell it is unwarranted). People who mean it. Who’ve looked me in the eyes without needing a flag behind me to do it. I see them. I feel that. But they are the exception, not the rule. To you, I say thank you, for being the minority, the ones who get it. The true patriots. Not of a nation, but of an ideal. The kind who knows that peace and freedom come with a cost and that most are not willing to pay it.

And me? I sit on the shelf now. Not dangerous. Not useful. Just decoration. Something to point at during parades. A story to recycle in campaign speeches. A nod to patriotism without any real cost.

My Only Political Comment

I made a promise, to myself and to anyone reading my essays, that I wouldn’t wade into political debate. And I meant it.

But at some point, I have to address the elephant and the donkey in the room.

I have no political allegiance. No red tie. No blue check. I don’t belong to a party, and I don’t want to. If anything, I feel more kinship with the outcasts than I ever have with the political machine. At least the outcasts don’t pretend. At least they don’t dress up exploitation and call it honor.

So let me be clear.

Don’t use my words to push your political agenda. Don’t clip a sentence from my essays to win an argument online. Don’t twist my experience into a weapon for your side, whichever side that may be.

I’m not writing this to feed your outrage. I’m not interested in which set you’re repping. I care about character. I care about people who are honest, thoughtful, and unafraid to wrestle with their own contradictions.

If you come here with hate in your heart, if you’re only looking for ammunition to aim at someone else, you’re in the wrong place.

These are my words. My experiences. Not fuel for your fire. Not a flag for your war.

Final Stand

I know some don’t want me here. But I’m here. And better men have tried to take me down.

Some will say, “Josh, this doesn’t sound like you.” And to that I’ll say, you’re right.

Because that version of me died a long time ago. He died in a place he didn’t need to be, fighting a battle he didn’t truly understand, in a land that never meant a damn thing to anyone else. He died quietly, unnoticed, and no one even marked the moment. And maybe that’s how it was supposed to be.

I know I’m not for everybody. That’s never been a secret. I’ve been hearing that line since I was a kid, even from my own family.

But I represent something. I can’t fully define it, and I don’t need to. I see it in the way people respond to what I write. In the way the words hit them when they least expect it. In the silence that comes after someone tells me, “This helped.”

When I started writing, I found purpose again. I remembered that my life still held value, not because of the uniform, not because of a chaos, not because of any job title. But because I was still here. Still breathing. Still thinking. Still refusing to fade quietly into someone else’s story.

Some wanted me to fit into a neat little bow. To be the polite veteran who played by the rules, smiled at the right time, and sold a clean story. To be a legacy act, just play the old hits and never ask where the music came from.

But I had to return to what first called me forward. No one handed me a map. I had to dig for it. I had to walk that road alone, not for applause, not for legacy. Just for the ghost of me still wandering out there, waiting to be brought home.

Now I stand here, not asking for permission, not asking for applause. Just saying it plainly:

I know some don’t want me here. But I’m here. And I’ve made a difference, not just for myself, but for others.

I’m not here to die for a nation, a cause, an ideal, or anyone’s warped sense of justice. I’m here to live for the truth. Even if I have to scream it from the bottom of a hole they tried to bury me in.

This rebellion isn’t political. It isn’t social. It isn’t symbolic. This rebellion is mine.

If you want to come along for the ride, I welcome it. If not, I still wish you peace. I mean that. Truly.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” - Albert Camus5