Real Talk: The Silent War Our Veterans Are Losing
Hello, and thank you for this time and the opportunity to speak with you today. I know how important this matter is. The last time I felt such an overwhelming obligation to get something exactly right was when I stood to deliver the eulogy for my beloved son, Corporal Tyler John Burroughs—B Company, 1st Battalion, 21st Infantry Regiment, 25th Infantry Division—who died by suicide on July 17, 2016.An article titled “Stigma: The Silent Killer” by Mike Binn, published in Military Times, captures this tragic reality better than most. It opens:
“For those of you who have served, especially in the infantry, you know that there is a stigma when it comes to the profession of combat. Weak is the only four-letter word that someone could call you that could possibly hurt you… So, when the time comes, and life just gets a little too overwhelming, we would rather put the gun to our head and pull the trigger than let someone see past that mask we wear.”
My son posted this article on Facebook with just two words: “Real talk…” That was on a Sunday. The following Saturday, Tyler took his own life. And our lives were changed forever.
The Ripples of Loss
To say we were devastated doesn’t even begin to cover it. Suicide doesn’t just take one life—it shatters all the lives tethered to that one. Survivors of suicide divide their lives into “Before” and “After.” In the five years following Tyler’s death, my family fragmented. His brother’s marriage ended. We became estranged from our granddaughters for almost a year. His nieces, young girls at the time, have struggled ever since with the loss of someone they adored. We all still do. And we always will.Tyler might not fit the usual image of a veteran battling PTSD. He grew up in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Maryland, had a close-knit family, and completed college after returning from service. He wasn’t a brooding figure. Quite the opposite—he was magnetic, kind, protective. He hated bullies. He loved fiercely.
A Life of Compassion
One night in Honolulu, I saw him sit for nearly an hour with an inebriated older service member who just needed someone to talk to. Tyler gave him his full attention and kindness, without a hint of impatience or disdain. That was Tyler. The man who would spend hours listening, validating, and supporting friends and strangers alike.At his Celebration of Life, people came forward with stories of how Tyler had saved them—literally and emotionally. One friend, still in a wheelchair, had traveled cross-country to tell us how Tyler had carried him off the battlefield. Another, a survivor of military sexual trauma, said Tyler’s support had given her the strength to become a counselor for other survivors. Two other vets still call me regularly, battling their own demons but remembering Tyler as a rare light in a dark time.
He seemed to be doing well after returning home. That’s the heartbreaking part—he seemed fine. But there’s a disconnect between what families see and what veterans are living through. Civilians often can’t begin to grasp the internal wars our veterans continue to fight.
The War at Home
Not all veterans have a support system like Tyler did. Many don’t have one at all. They’re left to navigate trauma, isolation, and reintegration into a society that doesn’t understand them. Too often, they’re treated as disposable, as the necessary collateral damage of war. But we know better. They are not disposable.And their families pay a steep price. Since Tyler’s death, I’ve become close to many of his Army brothers. Their struggles are raw and constant. I see it in their Facebook posts—some are literally surviving minute to minute.
Statistics tell us that roughly 22 veterans die by suicide every single day. That means that while we’ve been here today—while I’ve been speaking—five or six men and women, strong, brave, broken, and hopeless, may have taken their lives.
That means five or six more families will begin living their “After.”
Where Is the Outcry?
A lifelong friend of Tyler’s, Mark, posted something powerful right after Tyler died:“If we took that many casualties in combat, you wouldn’t be able to drive through any city in the country—the protests and outcry would be deafening. We are failing these brave men and women. And yet it doesn’t even make the news.”
He’s right. The silence is deafening. We argue over politics, over bathrooms, over slogans. Meanwhile, we’re losing more veterans to suicide every year than we’ve lost in the entire Global War on Terror.
Where is the outrage? More importantly, where is the help?
A System in Crisis
Veterans are fighting an invisible war after they come home. And in many ways, it’s the hardest one.Many factors contribute to this crisis: PTSD, moral injury, the loss of structure and purpose, and a jarring cultural disconnect between military and civilian life. The shift is staggering. One moment you’re in a system where failure can mean death. The next, you’re in a world of participation trophies and “good enough.”
This stark contrast can cause profound emotional dissonance. Veterans hold themselves—and others—to impossibly high standards. That can turn into impatience, isolation, anger, and shame. Loved ones don’t know how to handle this change. And the vet doesn’t know how to explain it.
Then there’s moral injury—wounds to the soul and conscience caused by actions or inactions that violate deeply held beliefs. WV Public Broadcasting featured Tyler’s story as part of a segment on veteran suicide and explored this concept. It’s a powerful and tragic piece of the puzzle. These aren’t just psychological scars; they’re spiritual and moral fractures that leave veterans feeling irreparably broken.
Civilian Life: Foreign Territory
Imagine going from an environment where you’re trained to suppress pain, ignore weakness, and execute perfectly—because your life depends on it—to a world that shrugs at mediocrity and avoids hard conversations. It’s a chasm. And veterans fall into it every day.
Even those with loving families and support networks often hide their pain. Many believe showing vulnerability is a betrayal of the warrior ethos. They’ve been conditioned to mask their suffering. As Mike Binn wrote: “Weakness gets people killed.” So they drink instead of talking. They isolate instead of reaching out. They spiral in silence.
And sometimes, they die in silence too.
We Need a Better Way
The real change has to come from within and around the military culture—not just from well-meaning but ineffective programs. Hotlines and support groups are a start, but they’re not enough. We must dismantle the stigma. We must replace shame with connection.That’s going to take more than talk.
It requires targeted research. Why is PTSD more prevalent in women than men—10% compared to 4%? Why do certain jobs and roles result in higher rates of trauma? Understanding these nuances can help us address the problem at its root—before service members even deploy. And certainly before they return home and fall through the cracks.
A Family Affair
Helping veterans can’t just be about the veteran. They don’t exist in a vacuum. Their families need to be part of the solution too.We need transition programs that aren’t just about jobs or paperwork, but about healing, retraining the brain, and restoring relationships. Families should be trained—required, even—to understand what their loved ones are going through and how to respond to them. This must become a routine part of reintegration.
This is proactive care, not reactive. And it’s urgent.
Tyler’s Legacy
Downstairs in our home, we have a photo of Tyler on his third birthday. He’s petting a baby bunny, eyes closed in pure joy. That’s the boy we raised. And I often wonder: how did that boy become a man who ended his life?After his death, we combed through his Facebook page looking for answers. When I found that Military Times article, I turned to my husband and said, “That’s his suicide note.”
And it was.
Let it not be the suicide note for another soldier. Not one.
Final Words
Tyler had a ritual for honoring fallen brothers. At a pub in Morgantown called Gene’s, he would pour a beer, wrap it in an infantry braid, and place it behind the bar overnight. On the day they learned of Jamal Rhett’s death, I was there when he did it. And he recited a poem that I now share with you in his memory—and in memory of all we’ve lost to battle and to suicide.The Young Dead Soldiers Do Not Speak
by Archibald MacLeish
The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died. Remember us.
They say: Our deaths are not ours; they are yours.
They will mean what you make them.
They say: We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
Give them an end to the war and a true peace.
We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.
In Closing
Tyler’s friend Mark ended his tribute with these words:“I’m writing this for Tyler. I will never stop missing him…
I’m writing this for his family and friends…
I’m writing this for all our nation’s soldiers and their families…
We will not forget. You deserve better. You have earned better.
We will take it from here.”
It is now up to us—all of us—to give meaning to their deaths. To change this system. To stop the silence. To honor the fallen, not just with words, but with action.
Let Tyler’s story be the last of its kind.
Thank you.
