Preface
Veterans Day, first observed as Armistice Day in 1919, was established to honor the end of World War I and later evolved into a day to recognize all who have served in the United States Armed Forces. It is a time to reflect on sacrifice, resilience, and the shared commitment among those who have worn the uniform. For me, it is also a reminder of how deeply my service has shaped my life. I try not to let my military background define me entirely, yet it remains an inseparable part of who I am, especially as I navigate life with a disability. Though my time in uniform was brief, I remain extremely proud of it.
Growing up and throughout my military career, I prided myself on being the person who stepped up for the tasks that others may have avoided. Believe me, I did my fair share of trying to sham, but in the Army, if a young soldier needed to volunteer for something crummy, I was usually one to raise my hand (often at my own expense). When I graduated from the Ranger Assessment and Selection Program (RASP) in September 2013, my entire life had revolved around training. From basic combat training to infantry training, then airborne school, and finally RASP, it took eight months just to begin my Ranger career. That was the easy part.
Arriving at a Ranger Battalion as a brand-new private was an intimidating experience. The hazing culture was intense, and the expectations were high. Just walking between the headquarters and the gear issue buildings felt like I had a sign raised that said “new guy, come make me do pushups.” Once we finished in-processing, the real challenge began. My classmates and I lined the hallway of Delta Company, 2nd Ranger Battalion, waiting as our new leaders examined us. After a round of interviews, I was placed in First Platoon, Second Squad. That was the beginning of my Ranger journey.
Each Ranger squad has its own structure and specialized roles. As the newest member, I was issued an M4 rifle with an attached M320 grenade launcher and assigned the position of Grenadier. I was excited about the responsibility and relieved that I had avoided being issued the heavier M249 machine gun. My sense of relief was short-lived. My squad leader soon handed me a massive medical bag known as the NAR Bag, short for North American Rescue. It carried critical medical supplies and a Talon 2 collapsible stretcher. Fully packed, it weighed about forty pounds and fit awkwardly with the rest of our gear. I quickly realized that carrying it would be no small task.
Part of being the new guy meant constant “stretcher drills.” Each squad has a designated stretcher bearer, and we were timed and pushed to master the process of unpacking, assembling, and reloading the stretcher. Losing meant more physical punishment, so I practiced relentlessly until I could deploy the stretcher faster than anyone else. Within months, I became the fastest stretcher-bearer in the platoon (a self-claimed title, of course), often staying after work to practice on my own or with the new medics. It was exhausting work, but I was starting to grasp the weight of the role. If someone went down, it was my responsibility to be ready to treat and carry them to safety. This physical burden became a moral one, and I took pride in it.
Looking back now, the irony is difficult to ignore. Nearly nine years later, I find myself on the opposite side of that stretcher. After sustaining a spinal cord injury that left me quadriplegic, I went from being the one offering help to the one receiving it. That shift has been one of the hardest emotional transitions of my life. I still have that ingrained instinct to be the helper, the one taking action, yet my reality requires that I depend on others. I am the person being lifted into places that are not accessible, while remembering what it felt like to be the one doing the lifting. Balancing that internal identity has been an unbelievably difficult challenge.
With time, I have learned that accepting help does not diminish my strength. My first major hurdle was allowing others to assist me at all. In the hospital, I went from saluting Army officers to being cared for by them, as many of the clinicians were commissioned officers themselves. Later, I had to learn how to seek help intentionally. During my recovery, I came to terms with the fact that I would be returning home as a quadriplegic. That meant working closely with my wife as she trained to become my caregiver and meeting with mental health specialists to build resilience in a new way.
Nearly a decade later, I am proud of how far I have come. I still wrestle with my identity as the Ranger who once carried the stretcher, but I now understand that asking for help is its own form of strength. The values I learned as a Ranger remain with me, but they manifest differently in this disabled body. On this Veterans Day, I reflect on both the soldier I was and the man I am becoming. My body has changed but my mission has stayed the same: to keep moving forward, to serve others when I can, and to find pride in what I can share.
Josh over the years as I’ve gotten to know and observe you, I seldom think about your ‘disabilities’. I see a man of substance, with patience and determination, who is clearly committed to service. And although it wasn’t the focus of your blog post, you brought back vivid memories of my Army training in the swamps of New Jersey in preparation for Vietnam and weaponry training to final medic training at Ft Sam Houston. Thank you for all you do for others.
Josh I believe that you are still continuing to carry others. It might not be in a physical sense but the work you do as a peer mentor and group leader carries others through some of the most difficult times in their lives. Thank you for all that you do for others.