Forward Assist Veterans Charity: Restoring Dignity, Hope, and Humanity for Homeless Veterans

Homelessness among military veterans remains one of the most painful injustices in modern Britain. The individuals who once served their country, often at great personal cost, now find themselves sleeping rough on streets, under bridges, in doorways, or in temporary shelters. Many struggle with trauma, isolation, physical injury, or the complex difficulties of transitioning from military life to civilian society. In the midst of these challenges, Forward Assist Veterans Charity stands as a beacon of compassion and practical support. The organisation’s dedication to restoring dignity is embodied in one of its most simple yet powerful initiatives: the emergency holdall prepared specifically for homeless veterans who arrive at their office in need of urgent help.

The holdall itself is not elaborate, but its impact is profound. It contains essential items such as razors, soap, towels, aftershave, deodorant, clean clothing, socks, and underwear, everyday necessities that most people take for granted but that become luxuries when living on the streets. This bag is carefully stocked and always ready, ensuring that any veteran who walks through the door can receive immediate assistance. The idea is not merely to provide physical items but to offer veterans the opportunity to feel clean, refreshed, and human again and for someone who has been rough sleeping, who has endured days or weeks without access to basic hygiene, this simple gesture can be life-changing.

When a veteran arrives seeking help, Forward Assist does not make them wait, fill out complex paperwork, or justify their circumstances. They are welcomed with warmth and respect. They are given the emergency holdall and offered the chance to take a proper shower, often the first one they have had in a long time. After washing, shaving, and changing into clean clothes, many veterans feel an emotional release that is difficult to describe. Something as small as a fresh pair of socks or the scent of aftershave can reignite a sense of identity and self-worth. Homelessness strips away dignity, and Forward Assist’s approach begins by giving that dignity back.

After their shower, veterans are invited to sit down for a hot meal and a coffee. This moment of safety and calm is vital. It provides not only nourishment but also the chance to breathe, to relax, and to feel welcome without judgment. Many veterans who experience homelessness describe feelings of invisibility, shame, or hopelessness. They often avoid seeking help because they believe they will be dismissed or misunderstood. At Forward Assist, however, they are treated as valued individuals whose struggles are met with empathy rather than criticism. The shared meal becomes a moment of connection, a reminder that they are not alone in their journey.

While the veteran is eating and regaining a sense of stability, the staff at Forward Assist work quietly and urgently behind the scenes to locate emergency housing for them. The goal is simple: no veteran should have to return to the streets after asking for help. Whether through crisis accommodation, partnerships with housing organisations, or local support networks, every effort is made to provide a safe place for the night and a foundation for longer-term arrangements. This practical, immediate assistance can prevent the veteran from falling deeper into crisis and opens the door to further support.

The holdall, the shower, the warm meal, and the emergency housing effort are all connected by a single guiding principle: dignity. Forward Assist uses the word often, and for good reason. Dignity is not an abstract concept; it is a fundamental human need. When someone becomes homeless, especially someone who has served in the armed forces, the loss of dignity can be devastating. They may feel they have failed themselves, their families, or their communities. They may carry invisible wounds from their service or from the circumstances that led to their homelessness. Restoring dignity means helping them feel seen, valued, and worthy of care. It is the foundation upon which recovery is built.

The crisis of veteran homelessness cannot be separated from the broader challenges veterans face when transitioning out of military service. Many veterans leave the military with physical injuries or psychological trauma. Some struggle with PTSD, depression, anxiety, or feelings of disconnection from civilian life. Others battle addiction or financial instability. Housing problems may arise long after leaving service, as support networks fade or personal circumstances change and for some veterans, the breakdown of relationships, the loss of employment, or untreated mental health issues becomes the tipping point that leads to rough sleeping.

Forward Assist recognises that homelessness is rarely the result of a single issue. It is often the result of multiple, interlocking difficulties. That is why their approach goes far beyond the emergency holdall. The holdall is the doorway through which veterans can begin rebuilding their lives. Once they are safe, clean, fed, and housed for the night, Forward Assist offers them access to a wider system of care designed to address the deeper issues behind their homelessness. This includes mental health support, advocacy for accessing benefits and services, guidance in navigating housing systems, help with employment or skills training, and opportunities to reconnect with a supportive community.

Veterans frequently express that one of the most difficult aspects of civilian life is the loss of camaraderie. In the military, community is everything. The bonds formed in service, through hardship, discipline, shared challenges, and collective purpose, are profound. When veterans leave that environment, the sudden absence of structure and connection can be overwhelming. Forward Assist offers a new community, one based on understanding, respect, and shared lived experience. Veterans can connect with others who understand the pressures and hardships of military life, and who also understand the emotional toll of trying to rebuild a life after facing homelessness.

The emotional impact of the emergency holdall cannot be overstated. For many veterans, receiving the bag triggers a mixture of relief and vulnerability. After months or years of feeling overlooked or forgotten, the realisation that someone cares enough to prepare for their arrival can be incredibly powerful. Some veterans break down in tears, expressing that they had not felt such kindness in a long time and others speak of the relief of being able to wash away the dirt and exhaustion of homelessness. One veteran described the experience as feeling human again. Another said it was the first time he had looked in the mirror and recognised himself in months. These moments illustrate how deeply the lack of dignity affects people, and how meaningful its restoration can be.

The holdall is not charity in the superficial sense of simply giving items away. It is a symbol of readiness, respect, and compassion. It says, “We knew you might come. We were prepared for you. We are here for you.” This message alone can make the difference between a veteran giving up and a veteran beginning anew.

In addressing the crisis of veteran homelessness, Forward Assist also challenges society’s assumptions about veterans. Many people imagine military service as producing only strength, resilience, and discipline and while these qualities are indeed present, they do not negate the possibility of vulnerability or distress. Veterans are human beings, shaped by intense experiences that civilians may struggle to understand. Their difficulties do not erase their service; their service does not erase their needs. Forward Assist’s work acknowledges that complexity and embraces a compassionate, non-judgmental response.

The organisation’s focus on dignity has broader implications for how society treats those who are homeless. Too often, homelessness is met with stigma or avoidance. People assume personal failure rather than circumstance or trauma. Forward Assist counters these attitudes by treating every veteran with respect and by demonstrating that a simple, caring intervention can transform someone’s path. The emergency holdall may seem like a small thing, but its effect is amplified by the message behind it: every person deserves to feel clean, warm, safe, and valued.

Community support is essential to this mission. The items in the holdall, the meal provided, the coffee poured, and the services offered all rely on the generosity of volunteers, donors, and supporters who believe in honouring the service of veterans. Each contribution, whether large or small, becomes part of the collective effort to ensure no veteran is left to suffer in isolation. The holdall is a practical expression of community solidarity and shared responsibility. It represents the belief that those who have served should never be abandoned or forgotten.

The hashtag that Forward Assist often uses—#Dignity—captures the heart of the charity’s philosophy. It is not a marketing slogan but a moral commitment. Dignity is central to every stage of the charity’s work, from the moment a veteran walks through the door to the long-term support they receive. It ensures that veterans are not treated as cases to be processed but as individuals worthy of compassion and understanding. This commitment to dignity guides every action, every conversation, every item packed into the holdall. It transforms the interaction from one of charity to one of shared humanity.

The challenge of veteran homelessness will not be solved overnight, but Forward Assist demonstrates that meaningful progress is possible through preparedness, empathy, and practical action. The emergency holdall is a beginning, a small but powerful tool that enables veterans to take the first steps toward recovery. It restores not only cleanliness but confidence. It allows veterans to hold their heads high, walk into meetings or appointments without fear of judgment, and begin rebuilding the structure of their daily lives. Most importantly, it reminds them that they are worthy of care.

For the veterans who receive this care, the experience often becomes a turning point. After showering, eating, and receiving support, many find the strength to pursue further help, engage with services, seek employment, or make decisions that once felt impossible. The holdall gives them more than physical items; it gives them hope. It proves that kindness still exists, that their service is recognised, and that their lives matter.

In a society that often overlooks the struggles of its most vulnerable, Forward Assist stands firm in its mission. It acknowledges the sacrifices veterans have made and responds with unwavering compassion. The emergency holdall is a simple idea carried out with profound care, and through it, countless veterans have found a path back to dignity, stability, and self-belief.

In the end, the work of Forward Assist embodies a powerful truth: dignity is a human right. When veterans reach out for help, they deserve more than sympathy, they deserve action, respect, and the chance to rebuild. The holdall waiting in the office is more than a bag of essentials. It is a lifeline. It is hope zipped into fabric. It is the promise that no veteran will be left to struggle alone. And for those who receive it, it represents the beginning of a brighter, safer, and more dignified future.

Tony Wright

Beyond the Uniform: Overcoming Stereotypes and Reclaiming Civilian Identity

The status of being a military veteran carries a weight that can be both empowering and restrictive and for many who served in the armed forces, the identity of “veteran” becomes a shorthand for strength, commitment, and sacrifice. Yet, in contemporary British society, it can also be overused, misunderstood, or even exploited in ways that unintentionally trap individuals within a narrow narrative of damage and dysfunction. Yet, when the veteran identity is emphasised too strongly, especially in moments when a person is attempting to reintegrate into civilian life, it can lead to being pigeonholed permanently. People may assume and label veterans as broken, traumatised, or psychologically fragile, even when that assesment couldnt be further from the truth. Over the past sixteen years my work in the service charity sector has been all about helping individuals successfully transition back into UK civilian life while reclaiming a fuller, more balanced identity.

For many veterans, the years following service represent an enormous shift in lifestyle, expectations, and personal autonomy. The military is a structured environment, defined by routine, hierarchy, and a clear, shared purpose. Service members often take pride in the discipline, endurance, and adaptability they have cultivated. However, when they leave the forces, there is an immediate challenge: civilian society does not operate by the same rules. In this context, some veterans lean heavily on their military identity because it provides a sense of continuity and personal worth. It becomes a way to explain who they are, what they have done, and why they might approach the world differently and for many, it also becomes a source of public appreciation, as civilians often express gratitude or admiration for military service.

However, there is a risk in allowing this identity to dominate too much of one’s presentation, simply because when the veteran status becomes the central, defining characteristic of a person’s life, it can overshadow all other aspects of their personality and achievements. Employers, colleagues, community members, and even family might begin to view the individual through a single lens: that of the former soldier. In the UK, where public understanding of military culture is limited and often shaped by media portrayals, this can be problematic. People may assume that anyone who served must be psychologically scarred or that they carry emotional burdens that set them apart from “ordinary” citizens. The idea that all veterans must be suffering from PTSD is a particularly persistent stereotype and while post-traumatic stress is a real and serious condition that affects some, it does not define the entire veteran community. This is one of the reasons Forward assist created the Citizenship Reloaded programme.

The problem with overdoing veteran status is that it can reinforce these stereotypes, even if unintentionally. When individuals constantly highlight their service, especially in contexts where it isn’t directly relevant, they may inadvertently encourage others to view them only as a veteran rather than as a multi-faceted person. This can lead to assumptions that the individual has unresolved trauma, anger issues, or difficulty adapting to everyday life. The stereotype becomes self-perpetuating: as society continues to misinterpret veterans as inherently damaged, veterans may lean more heavily on that label because it is the one society recognises. Over time, this can result in a cycle where the veteran identity becomes both a shield and a cage.

It is important to understand that being pigeonholed is not solely the fault of the individual veteran. Society plays a significant role in shaping the narrative. In the UK, there is a mix of respect and misconception surrounding military service. On one hand, many civilians admire veterans and view them as heroes. On the other hand, there is a prevailing belief that those who served must have been exposed to extreme trauma and, therefore, must carry mental or emotional scars, a group that engenders pity, not understanding. Television dramas, charity campaigns, and media reporting often reinforce the idea that veterans are struggling or lost once they return home and while well-intentioned, these portrayals can obscure the reality that most veterans transition successfully and continue to live stable, healthy lives. When someone is consistently exposed to these assumptions, it can impact their self-perception. Veterans may begin to feel as though they must embody a certain narrative to be understood or supported. They may feel obliged to highlight the difficult aspects of their service even when those challenges do not define them. In some cases, repeatedly framing oneself as a damaged veteran can even influence mental health negatively, reinforcing feelings of separation from civilian society or contributing to a sense of being fundamentally different.

Another issue with overemphasising the veteran identity is that it can limit career opportunities. Employers who do not fully understand military culture may be wary of hiring veterans if they believe the individual will struggle with the pressures of civilian work. They may worry that the veteran will react poorly to stress or that they may be unpredictable due to their experiences. This can be particularly detrimental in fields where employers are risk-averse or where there is minimal awareness of how transferable military skills truly are. Veterans bring leadership, resilience, teamwork, and problem-solving abilities to the workplace, yet these strengths can be overshadowed by misinformed concerns about mental health.

This does not mean that veterans should hide their past or feel ashamed of their service, rather, it suggests that balance is necessary. Overdoing the veteran label can lead to becoming typecast, but minimising one’s service entirely may result in undervaluing important parts of one’s identity. The goal is to present the veteran experience as part of a larger whole rather than as the entire story. The question then becomes how a veteran can overcome the risk of being pigeonholed and transition smoothly back into civilian life. One of the most powerful steps is to focus on building a multi-dimensional identity. This involves developing new passions, skills, relationships, and roles in society that exist independently of military service. Civic involvement, education, sports, creative pursuits, volunteering, or entering professions that spark new interests can all contribute to broadening one's personal narrative. When a veteran can confidently say, “I am many things, and being a veteran is just one of them,” it becomes easier for others to see them that way as well. Another essential factor in overcoming these stereotypes is learning to communicate one's experiences in a way that highlights strengths rather than vulnerabilities. Veterans often possess qualities such as discipline, commitment, time management, and problem-solving, but these strengths can be obscured when conversations focus solely on trauma or hardship. A balanced approach involves acknowledging the challenges of service without allowing them to overshadow the achievements and this balanced self-presentation helps others understand the veteran as a capable, resilient individual rather than as a fragile or troubled figure.

It is also important for veterans to take ownership of their mental health narrative. Mental health challenges may or may not be part of the veteran's life, just as they may or may not be part of any civilian's life. Normalising this perspective helps reduce stigma. Veterans who do experience mental health issues should not feel compelled to hide them, but they also should not feel pressured to fit the stereotype that their struggles must be tied to their military past. By framing mental health as a normal aspect of human life rather than as an inevitable consequence of service, veterans can reclaim autonomy over their story. The transition back into civilian life involves more than just adjusting to new routines; it involves redefining identity in a way that feels authentic. Many veterans describe the civilian world as chaotic, inconsistent, or lacking in shared purpose compared to military life. This can cause feelings of isolation or alienation and one way to counter this is to seek out communities where veterans can connect as equals rather than as symbols. Veteran support groups, clubs, and organisations can provide a sense of camaraderie without reinforcing negative stereotypes. These spaces allow veterans to share experiences openly while also encouraging growth beyond the military identity.

Employment plays a major role in successful transition. Veterans should feel empowered to present their military skills in a manner that resonates with civilian employers. Translating military experience into civilian language is a learned skill and one that can greatly influence how others perceive the veteran. Employers are more likely to value military experience when it is framed in clear, relatable terms. This includes explaining accomplishments, leadership roles, technical skills, and responsibilities without assuming that civilian audiences understand military terminology or structure. Confidence in describing one's capabilities can go a long way toward reducing misconceptions. Another key element of reintegration is adopting a forward-looking mindset. Veterans who define themselves primarily by their past may struggle to embrace the possibilities of their civilian future. Moving forward does not mean forgetting or diminishing service; it means acknowledging that life after the military can be rich, meaningful, and full of unexpected opportunities. A veteran’s past is a foundation, not a boundary.

The role of family and friends in the transition process cannot be understated. Loved ones may also hold stereotypes about veterans, but open communication can help reshape these perceptions. Veterans who share their goals, interests, and aspirations with their support networks are more likely to be viewed as whole, evolving individuals. This support helps counter the narrative that the veteran is fragile or damaged. Families who understand the veteran’s values and ambitions can encourage growth and independence rather than inadvertently reinforcing limiting beliefs. One of the most empowering steps a veteran can take is embracing the idea that identity is fluid. Military service may have been a defining chapter, but it does not dictate the rest of one's life. Veterans can allow themselves to explore new identities without feeling disloyal to the past. The freedom to change, adapt, and evolve is a fundamental part of the civilian world and one that can bring enormous satisfaction.

At the same time, society must play its part. Civilians need to challenge their own assumptions about what it means to be a veteran. Respect should not be tied to pity, nor should admiration be tied to the presumption of trauma. Recognising veterans as capable, complex individuals with diverse talents helps create an environment where veterans can flourish and when the public acknowledges that most veterans are not defined by psychological injury, it becomes easier for veterans to shed the stereotypes that hold them back.

Ultimately, overcoming the downside of overemphasising veteran status requires a balanced approach that honours the past while embracing the future. Veterans can acknowledge their service with pride without allowing it to consume their identity and by cultivating broader interests, communicating strengths effectively, maintaining open relationships, and participating in civilian life with confidence, veterans can break free from limiting labels. The transition back into UK civilian life may be challenging, but with a healthy sense of identity and a supportive environment, it is not only possible but deeply rewarding. The key lies in recognising that one’s worth is not confined to a uniform or a title.

Tony Wright

When Hope Becomes Pressure: The Ethical Dangers of Showcasing Recovering Veterans

Organisations that support veterans often aim to highlight the importance of their mission, gather public support, and demonstrate that their services genuinely make a difference. In the process, many are tempted to showcase success stories as living examples of their impact. However, when those individuals are veterans who are still in recovery from Substance Use Disorders (SUDs), the practice becomes fraught with ethical, psychological, and practical dangers. Recovery is rarely a straight path and often involves relapses, setbacks, unpredictable emotional landscapes, and vulnerabilities that can be amplified under the spotlight. The expectation that a recovering veteran can consistently embody the image of transformation and resilience demanded by promotional campaigns places an unfair and potentially hazardous burden on someone who is still rebuilding their sense of stability. It risks not only their recovery but also their life. The practice can generate shame when they relapse, fear of disappointing the public, a sense of exclusion if they struggle, and in severe cases, it can increase the risk of self-harm, drug overdose, or suicide. For these reasons, organisations must recognise the profound ethical responsibility they hold and avoid using veterans in recovery as promotional tools.

Recovery from SUDs is inherently fragile. It involves learning to navigate cravings, triggers, emotional swings, and the complicated aftermath of trauma that often underlies substance use disorders. Veterans carry a unique weight, as many have endured combat experiences, operational stress injuries, moral injuries, military sexualk trauma or the deep identity conflicts associated with transitioning from military to civilian life. SUDs can become intertwined with these unresolved traumas, making recovery an ongoing process of vulnerability rather than a neatly packaged success narrative. When an organisation selects one of these veterans to showcase in promotional materials, there is an implicit assertion that this person represents a completed transformation. The camera lens, the public stage, or the polished narrative tends to freeze them in the moment of their most confident statement, even if that moment represents only a fragile snapshot of a much more complex internal reality and as a result, the veteran may begin to feel that they must uphold this public version of themselves at all costs, even when their personal recovery is shifting underneath them.

This expectation becomes a form of pressure. Instead of focusing on healing, the recovering veteran may become preoccupied with living up to the organisation’s narrative. They may believe that relapsing is no longer simply a personal setback; it becomes, in their mind, a kind of betrayal of the organisation that showcased them, the public that applauded them, and the symbolic hope they supposedly embodied. The shame that accompanies relapse is already profound for most people in recovery and shame intensifies dramatically under public scrutiny. Rather than relapsing quietly and seeking help, the veteran may hide their struggles, isolate themselves, or turn further toward substances to cope with the growing sense of failure. The simple act of being presented as a success story can therefore create an additional emotional burden that destabilises their recovery.

The danger of shame cannot be overstated. Shame is one of the strongest emotional triggers for relapse. It tells the recovering person that they are weak, unworthy, or incapable of change. It convinces them that they have disappointed not only themselves but everyone whose expectations they feel responsible for. The veteran who has been turned into a symbol becomes particularly vulnerable to this dynamic. The identity of the “recovery champion” or the “transformed veteran” becomes something they feel obligated to protect. When their real-life recovery inevitably fluctuates, the discrepancy between their internal experience and the external image creates a painful sense of fraudulence. They may begin to believe that they were never worthy of being showcased, that their participation in the promotional effort was a mistake, or that the organisation only valued them as long as they appeared fixed and successful.

The psychological damage is compounded by the social ramifications. A recovering veteran who has been publicly linked to an organisation may feel that they cannot return to that same organisation for help if they relapse. They may believe, rightly or wrongly, that they will be silently judged, that their fall from the pedestal will be gossip within the staff, or that their presence will tarnish the organisation’s reputation. The sense of exclusion, whether real or imagined, can become devastating. Instead of an environment of safety and support, the organisation becomes associated with performance and visibility. The veteran may avoid seeking the very help they need because the shame of returning feels too overwhelming. The consequences of avoiding help can escalate rapidly, especially for someone in early recovery.

Moreover, organisations that use recovering veterans in their promotional campaigns often misunderstand the fundamental nature of SUDs. SUDs are a chronic condition. Even long-term recovery does not imply immunity from relapse. The recovery journey is not linear or predictable, and placing someone in a promotional role suggests that they have reached a destination rather than continuing on an ongoing process. This misunderstanding can lead organisations to unintentionally exploit the vulnerability of those they are trying to help. The recovering veteran may agree to participate out of gratitude, loyalty, or a desire to contribute, not realising how much emotional weight the role carries. Organisations have an ethical duty to protect vulnerable individuals from taking on responsibilities that could jeopardise their recovery, even if the individuals themselves do not immediately recognise the risks.

Another layer of danger arises from how the public perceives recovery when organisations use recovering veterans as spokespersons. Audiences prefer neat narratives, stories that begin with struggle and end with triumph. When a veteran in recovery is presented as a symbol of success, the public may assume that addiction is easily overcome with enough willpower or support. They may see relapse as a moral failure rather than a predictable part of the recovery journey. As a result, if the veteran relapses, the public’s response, whether spoken or silently assumed, can deepen the veteran’s shame. Public disappointment becomes an additional weight on top of the already daunting task of trying to maintain sobriety.

The risk of suicide in this context cannot be ignored. Veterans already experience disproportionately high rates of suicide due to trauma, depression, chronic pain, isolation, and difficulty reintegrating into civilian life. A SUD greatly increases this risk. Shame, isolation, and perceived failure are among the most potent psychological drivers toward suicidal ideation. When a veteran who has been publicly elevated as an example of recovery experiences a relapse, they may feel that they have no place to turn. Their sense of worth may crumble under the belief that they have let everyone down. The intense spotlight, once seen as a celebration of progress, becomes a suffocating reminder of expectations they feel they can no longer meet.

Similarly, the risk of drug overdose increases significantly in situations where relapse is driven underground. Many overdoses occur not because someone simply returns to using, but because they isolate themselves, hide their use, or attempt to use the amount they once tolerated before sobriety lowered their physical tolerance. A veteran who feels ashamed to admit relapse may use alone, in secrecy, without reaching out for help. They may take risks they would not otherwise take if they felt safe disclosing their struggles. The decision to hide substance use, often a direct consequence of feeling like they must maintain a public image, creates conditions in which fatal overdoses become far more likely.

Organisations often believe they are highlighting hope, but they may inadvertently push vulnerable people into silence. Even if the organisation means well, its decision to use recovering veterans in promotional activities can blur the boundary between empowerment and exploitation. Empowerment involves giving individuals genuine agency, autonomy, and supportive roles that do not jeopardise their health. Exploitation occurs when a person is placed in a position that benefits the organisation more than the individual, especially when the individual is not in a stable enough place to fully understand or evaluate the risk. Veterans in recovery often express deep gratitude to the services that help them, and that gratitude can make them more willing to participate in promotional activities. However, gratitude should never be mistaken for informed consent or stable emotional readiness.

Furthermore, promotional campaigns usually require rehearsed stories, compressed versions of complex lives that fit neatly into marketing narratives. These narratives often demand emotional vulnerability from the veteran, discussing trauma, addiction, loss, or their darkest moments. While sharing stories can be therapeutic in a supportive, clinical environment, sharing deeply personal trauma in a public context can reopen emotional wounds. It may leave the veteran feeling exposed, raw, or judged and after the cameras are gone and the event ends, the emotional fallout can be significant. Re-exposure to traumatic memories without therapeutic support can increase cravings, anxiety, nightmares, dissociation, or depressive symptoms, all of which can destabilise recovery.

Additionally, organisations may unintentionally create internal hierarchies where veterans who are willing to be publicly visible are celebrated or rewarded with more attention. This can distort the community dynamic. Veterans who are struggling may feel overshadowed or inadequate compared to the “success stories” who are showcased. Meanwhile, the veterans who are showcased may feel pressure to maintain that status, even when they secretly struggle. The dynamic becomes mutually harmful, fostering unrealistic standards and silent suffering.

The nature of promotion inherently involves messaging that is optimistic, confident, and uplifting but recovery is rarely consistent with those emotional states. Expecting someone in recovery to perform hopefulness on demand can lead them to suppress their true feelings. Emotional suppression is a common factor in relapse because it prevents individuals from processing their struggles openly. When someone cannot acknowledge their fear, sadness, or cravings without feeling they are betraying a public image, they lose access to one of the most important tools of recovery: honesty.

Organisations must also consider the long-term implications of publicly identifying someone as a recovering addict. Once a story is public, the veteran has no control over who knows about their addiction history. Potential employers, partners, acquaintances, or even strangers can access that information. The veteran may later regret having exposed personal struggles so widely, but the story cannot be retracted. Public exposure can affect employment prospects, social relationships, and the veteran’s private sense of identity. Many individuals in recovery eventually want to move beyond their past struggles and build a life that is not defined by addiction so being permanently attached to a promotional campaign that emphasises their addiction history can make it harder to move forward.

Another concern lies in the unequal power dynamic between organisations and recovering veterans. Organisations have funding, structure, stability, and authority. Recovering veterans may have psychological, financial, or social vulnerabilities that make it difficult for them to decline participation and even when phrased as voluntary, the request to appear in promotions may feel obligatory. Veterans may worry that refusing could affect their access to services, their relationship with staff, or their perceived gratitude for the support they received. This implicit pressure undermines the principle of free and informed consent. Ethical organisations must prioritise the veteran’s well-being above the desire for compelling narratives or promotional material.

There is also the risk that organisations become dependent on individuals to embody their public image. When that individual inevitably experiences difficulties in their recovery, the organisation may withdraw support, distance itself, or avoid acknowledging the challenges. The veteran may feel replaced, forgotten, or used. This sense of abandonment can worsen feelings of worthlessness or isolation, further contributing to the risk of relapse or self-harm. Organisations must recognise that if they place someone in the spotlight, they assume a responsibility to ensure that the experience does not harm the individual, and most organisations are not equipped to handle that level of ethical responsibility.

Some organisations justify using recovering veterans in promotions by claiming it inspires others. However, inspiration should not come at the expense of someone’s stability or safety. There are ways to highlight the importance of support services without turning vulnerable individuals into public symbols. Organisations can use anonymised stories, fictionalised composites, or spokespersons who are genuinely stable and experienced enough in their recovery to handle the pressure but using someone in early or fragile recovery is particularly hazardous. The early stages of recovery are the most unpredictable, and even veterans who appear confident may be experiencing internal battles invisible to the outside world.

The potential for long-term psychological harm is immense. Veterans who feel they have failed publicly may internalise the belief that they are incapable of recovery. They may believe they are beyond help or undeserving of second chances. The cycle of shame, withdrawal, and relapse can intensify into despair. In severe cases, this despair can lead to suicidal thoughts and when a veteran believes that their relapse invalidates everything they once stood for publicly, the emotional consequences can be catastrophic.

Ultimately, the ethical stance is clear: organisations should not use veterans in recovery as promotional material because doing so places vulnerable people at unnecessary risk. It prioritises organisational image over individual well-being. It turns a complex, fragile human journey into a marketing tool. It exposes individuals to shame, relapse, emotional pressure, public scrutiny, and the dangers of overdose or suicide. It distorts the reality of recovery, creates unrealistic expectations, and can inflict long-lasting psychological wounds.

Veterans deserve dignity, privacy, and protection. They deserve support that is unconditional, patient, and grounded in respect rather than exploitation. Organisations that truly aim to serve veterans must place the safety of recovering individuals above any desire for publicity. The goal should not be to display recovery, but to support it. Not to broadcast personal stories, but to create an environment in which those stories can unfold privately and safely. Recovery is not a promotional opportunity; it is a personal journey of healing that requires time, confidentiality, compassion, and understanding.

By refraining from using veterans in recovery for promotional purposes, organisations can create safer, more ethical environments that prioritise the well-being of the individuals they serve. Veterans who are rebuilding their lives deserve protection from undue pressure and exposure. Their recovery should not become a public performance or a symbol of an organisation’s success. Instead, it should be a private, supported process, free from the additional burden of living up to a public narrative that may not reflect the complexities of their ongoing journey. Such an approach honours the dignity of the veteran, respects the challenges of recovery, and upholds the highest standard of ethical care that any organisation should strive to maintain.

Tony Wright

Adjustment Takes Time

Life in the United Kingdom’s Armed Forces is unlike anything found in civilian society. It is an all-encompassing world built on discipline, structure, hierarchy, and purpose. Service personnel often live, train, eat, and deploy together, forming bonds and habits that shape not only how they act but how they think, communicate, and interpret the world around them and because of this immersion, many military men and women become so deeply rooted in the routines and concerns of service life that civilian interests, norms, and priorities can feel distant, trivial, or even incomprehensible. This divide becomes most visible when individuals leave the forces and must navigate a world that does not operate with the same clarity or cohesion they once relied upon.

From the moment someone joins the military, their environment becomes all-consuming. Daily life is structured from dawn until dusk. Tasks are clearly defined, responsibilities are explicit, and consequences for action or inaction are immediate. The military fosters a sense of urgency, camaraderie, and shared mission; everything is framed around collective success, operational readiness, and the overarching goal of national defence. In such a world, personal concerns often take second place. Many service members find themselves so focused on their roles, deployments, and operational planning that they naturally lose touch with what civilians might consider everyday worries.

This gap widens during long periods away from home, whether on training exercises or operational deployment. Service personnel operate in high-pressure environments where survival, loyalty, and precision become the dominant forces shaping thought. Compared to the immediacy and intensity of military life, civilian issues such as household budgeting, navigating bureaucracy, or managing social relationships can seem insignificant or overly complicated. Over time, this creates a disconnect: the military member becomes highly capable in their operational sphere but less experienced in the softer, more nuanced areas of civilian life.

This immersion in service life becomes a double-edged sword when an individual transitions out of the forces. The qualities that made them successful soldiers, focus, decisiveness, resilience, and dedication, can conflict with the less structured, more ambiguous nature of civilian society. Suddenly, decisions that once followed clear protocol become matters of personal preference. Tasks that once reaped immediate results now unfold slowly. A chain of command is replaced by the unpredictability of workplace culture and many find the lack of clear hierarchy confusing or even unsettling.

Furthermore, civilians often lack understanding of military experiences. Conversations can feel strained or superficial. Veterans may struggle to explain their background or feel frustrated when people cannot relate to the weight of responsibility they once carried. In some cases, this can lead to isolation, withdrawal, or a belief that civilian life is fundamentally incompatible with the person they have become and for those who served in combat or high-risk environments, re-adjustment is especially difficult; adrenaline, danger, and close brother/sisterhood are replaced by a life where few around them share similar memories or understand their perspectives.

The challenge is not simply about employment or housing, though those are important. It is about identity. A soldier who leaves the military is not just changing jobs; they are shifting from a life defined by purpose and cohesion to one where they must rebuild their sense of self. This can feel daunting, especially for those who served many years or entered the forces at a young age. Without the right support, the transition can trigger anxiety, loneliness, or a sense of directionlessness.

That is why organisations like Forward Assist Veterans Charity play such a vital role. Forward Assist understands that the move from military to civilian life is not a matter of “adjusting” overnight. It is a process that requires patience, guidance, and meaningful human connection. They recognise that the barriers facing veterans are often invisible—rooted in identity, mindset, and emotional wellbeing rather than physical ability or motivation. Their work focuses on bridging the gap between the structured world of service and the open, sometimes overwhelming, environment of civilian society.

Forward Assist helps veterans rebuild confidence and rediscover a sense of purpose. They create spaces where former service personnel can speak openly, without fear of judgement, among others who genuinely understand their experiences. This peer support is invaluable and for many, it is the first step toward reconnecting not only with others but with themselves. It allows veterans to process their service, articulate their struggles, and realise that they are not alone in feeling out of place after leaving the forces.

But the charity does not stop at emotional support. Forward Assist works to equip veterans with practical skills and knowledge they may not have needed while in uniform. This includes understanding civilian workplaces, managing health and wellbeing, accessing benefits, and navigating everyday challenges. Where the military once provided structure, the charity helps veterans build their own sense of routine and mastery over civilian responsibilities. The goal is to empower individuals to make steady progress toward independence and fulfilment.

Forward Assist also fosters a sense of belonging. Many veterans miss the camaraderie of the forces more than anything else. They miss being part of a tightly bonded team where everyone understands the mission and shares the same values. Forward Assist recreates this sense of community through group projects, activities, and support networks. Veterans who once felt detached from civilian society can rediscover connection and purpose through service-oriented initiatives and community engagement.

One of the charity’s great strengths is its ability to treat transition as a holistic journey. They recognise that veterans may need support not only with employment or training but with identity, mental health, confidence, and social integration. The challenges of transitioning from military to civilian life cannot be solved by a single intervention; they must be addressed through sustained, compassionate support. Forward Assist provides exactly that continuity.

The reality is that military service shapes people deeply. It instills discipline, courage, and loyalty, but it can also create barriers when returning to civilian life. When service personnel become fully absorbed in the world of the forces, they naturally lose touch with civilian concerns and that disconnection does not simply vanish when the uniform comes off. Support is essential. Forward Assist stands as a reminder that veterans deserve patience, understanding, and guidance as they rebuild their lives, and that with the right support, the strengths honed during military service can become powerful foundations for a successful and meaningful civilian future.

Tony Wright

Forward Assist’s Veterans Debate Training and the Healing of Moral Injury

Moral injury has become one of the most pressing concerns in contemporary discussions of veteran well-being. While post-traumatic stress disorder has been widely recognised for decades, moral injury touches a different part of the human condition. It does not emerge only from fear, shock, or combat trauma, but from a deep rupture in the moral and ethical framework of the self. Veterans often return home carrying the burden of having witnessed, participated in, or felt complicit in acts that profoundly violated their sense of right and wrong and for some, this means recalling moments when they could not prevent the deaths of civilians, or when rules of engagement forced them into actions that now feel unforgivable. Yet, for others, it is the shame of surviving when comrades did not, or the guilt of being unable to live up to an ideal of honour and loyalty. Unlike conventional psychological wounds, moral injury corrodes the relationship between the individual and their own conscience. It is not merely a problem of intrusive memories or hypervigilance, but of feeling broken at the level of identity.

In recent years, Forward Assist, a British veteran support charity, has pioneered innovative ways of addressing this wound and among its more distinctive interventions is the Veterans Debate Training programme. At first glance, debate may seem an unlikely therapy for the scars of war. One might imagine that veterans would benefit more from counselling sessions, outdoor retreats, or vocational training. Yet debate, with its structure of argument, listening, rebuttal, and persuasion, has proven to be a powerful medium through which veterans can process moral injury, reclaim their voices, and restore a sense of moral agency. By engaging in structured argument, male and female veterans have found a way to re-enter dialogue with themselves and with society, challenging the silence and stigma that moral injury often imposes. The damaging impact of moral injury on veterans’ lives can scarcely be overstated.

Many describe an abiding sense of shame that alienates them from their families and communities, some withdraw into isolation, unable to articulate what they feel or to share experiences that seem unspeakable. Others descend into cycles of anger, substance misuse, or despair, believing they can never reconcile with what they did or failed to do. Unlike trauma that may be eased by time and desensitisation, moral injury festers in silence because it attacks the very narrative a person tells about who they are the soldier who may have once seen him/her-self as honourable, brave, and protective. A female medic may have defined herself by compassion and responsibility and when circumstances force them into roles that contradict those identities, the sense of betrayal by self can be catastrophic. Healing requires not only psychological support but a profound reworking of moral meaning. Debate training is not therapy in the conventional sense, yet it offers precisely the conditions in which such moral reconstruction can occur. The art of debate requires participants to examine issues from multiple perspectives, to articulate positions with clarity, and to listen carefully to counter-arguments and for veterans, this process mirrors the inner conflict of moral injury: the clash between what they did and what they believe they should have done, between loyalty to comrades and regret over actions, between military necessity and personal morality.

Debate externalises that internal dialogue and by arguing in a structured setting, veterans can begin to bring into the open the contradictions that torment them, allowing them to be named, explored, and reframed. For male veterans, the military culture of stoicism and silence can make it especially difficult to admit to feelings of guilt or shame. Many have been conditioned to see vulnerability as weakness, and to equate emotional honesty with failure. Debate training cleverly circumvents this barrier because when a man is asked to argue a point, he is not confessing but performing. He can explore difficult themes under the cover of rhetoric, using the format of debate as a protective shield. Paradoxically, this makes it easier to articulate truths he may never otherwise admit. For example, a veteran may be assigned to argue that military interventions cause long-term harm to civilian populations. In building his case, he may draw upon memories of civilian suffering he witnessed, memories he has never spoken of and buried. Yet the debate structure allows him to voice this pain in a socially sanctioned way and afterwards, he may recognise that what he articulated was not only an argument but an expression of long-suppressed grief. Similarly, for female veterans, the benefits of debate training often emerge in slightly different ways. Women in the armed forces have historically faced unique challenges: marginalisation, sexism, or the pressure to prove themselves in environments shaped by masculine norms and when they return from service, they may find that their experiences of moral injury are compounded by a lack of recognition or validation. Debate training gives them a platform to claim authority. In standing before others and asserting an argument, they occupy a space of intellectual and moral agency that civilian life may otherwise deny them. Some female veterans have spoken of how debate has enabled them to challenge not only military hierarchies but also societal assumptions about women’s voices. In speaking persuasively, they begin to heal the wound of invisibility that moral injury can deepen.

The structure of debate also cultivates key psychological skills that counteract the corrosive effects of moral injury. One of these is perspective-taking. Moral injury often traps veterans in a rigid, self-condemning narrative: “I am unforgivable because I did X.” Debate, however, requires stepping into alternative viewpoints. A veteran asked to argue for the necessity of military intervention may have to acknowledge contexts of national security or humanitarian protection. Conversely, asked to argue against, he or she may highlight human costs and ethical compromises. In either case, the exercise disrupts the fixity of the inner story. They learn to see that their actions can be interpreted in multiple ways, that moral judgment is complex, and that absolute condemnation may not be the only verdict. Debate also fosters communication skills. Moral injury isolates by making veterans feel they cannot be understood. Through debate, they practice conveying difficult ideas to an audience unfamiliar with their experiences and learn how to structure narratives, how to frame arguments, and how to connect with listeners. In time, this improves their ability to talk with family members, partners, and the wider community. Where once they may have been tongue-tied by shame, they develop confidence in articulating perspectives.

Communication does not erase the wound of moral injury, but it breaks the silence that keeps it raw. Another key benefit is the cultivation of critical reflection. Debate rewards not only assertiveness but the willingness to engage with counter-arguments. Veterans are challenged to listen actively, to question their own assumptions, and to refine their positions. This process mirrors the moral reckoning they face within. Instead of suppressing doubts, they learn to confront and examine them in a psychologically safe environment. A male veteran who once insisted that he was solely to blame for a comrade’s death may, through the give-and-take of debate, come to see the wider context of command decisions, operational chaos, or sheer contingency. A female veteran who felt complicit in a morally dubious mission may, through argument and counter-argument, begin to recognise the constraints she faced and while debate does not absolve responsibility, it does contextualise it, offering a more nuanced and compassionate moral account.

The communal dimension of debate is equally crucial. Moral injury thrives in isolation. Veterans often feel that no civilian can comprehend their experiences, and that their comrades are either unavailable or equally unwilling to speak. Debate training brings veterans together in a collective activity. They become part of a community where honesty is possible, where difficult topics can be aired without fear of judgment. Male veterans, who may have been reluctant to share emotions in informal conversation, discover that debate provides a legitimate arena for expression. Female veterans, who may have struggled to find recognition in mixed-gender environments, discover solidarity and respect. In listening to each other’s arguments, they begin to realise that they are not alone in their struggles, that moral injury is a shared human condition rather than a personal failing.

Over time, the benefits extend beyond the training room. Veterans who have engaged in debate often describe a renewed sense of purpose. They find that the skills of argument and persuasion enable them to contribute to public life, to participate in community discussions, and to advocate for issues they care about. Some have gone on to speak in schools, universities, or public forums, educating others about the realities of military service and the ethical dilemmas it entails and in doing so, they transform their wounds into sources of wisdom. Instead of being defined by guilt and shame, they become teachers, mentors, and advocates. This re-framing of identity is a powerful antidote to moral injury. The impact of debate training on male veterans is sometimes expressed in terms of restored dignity. Many men feel emasculated by the sense of having failed morally, believing they no longer live up to ideals of honour or courage. Debate gives them a new arena in which to prove themselves, not through physical toughness but through intellectual engagement. Standing in front of peers, articulating a compelling argument, and receiving recognition for skill and clarity can rekindle self-respect. It reminds them that they remain capable of leadership and influence, qualities once central to their military identity. Yet,for female veterans, the impact is often articulated as empowerment. Many have had to struggle against marginalisation, both in service and after. Debate training provides a space where their voices carry weight, where they are not defined by gender but by the strength of their reasoning. In winning arguments or commanding attention, they reclaim authority over their narratives.

This empowerment directly counters the disempowerment of moral injury, which convinces individuals that they have lost control over their moral lives. Forward Assist’s programme also addresses the damaging impact of moral injury through its emphasis on structure. Moral injury often leaves veterans feeling that their world is chaotic and incomprehensible. Debate, by contrast, is highly structured: opening statements, rebuttals, closing arguments. This structure provides a sense of order in which difficult emotions can be contained. Veterans can bring painful material into the debate, but they know it will be held within a framework that guides interaction. This containment prevents them from being overwhelmed and creates a safe space for moral exploration. Furthermore, the discipline of debate echoes aspects of military training. Veterans are familiar with drills, preparation, and performance under pressure. Debate taps into these familiar modes, allowing them to engage comfortably in a setting that honours their skills. Yet unlike military drills, debate is not about obedience but about critical thought. This subtle shift helps veterans transition from a culture of command to a culture of reflection, a transition essential for healing moral injury.

One of the most damaging consequences of moral injury is the erosion of trust: trust in oneself, in others, and in institutions. Veterans may feel betrayed by commanders who gave dubious orders, by political leaders who justified questionable wars, or by societies that fail to understand their sacrifices. Debate training addresses this erosion by rebuilding trust in dialogue so when veterans see that they can argue passionately yet still be respected, when they see they can disagree without hostility, they rediscover the possibility of constructive human exchange. This is not a small achievement; it is the foundation upon which reconciliation with society can be built. The transformative potential of debate is evident in the stories of veterans who have gone through Forward Assist’s programme. Some speak of initially fearing that they had nothing to contribute, only to find that their experiences gave them unique authority and others describe how debate reawakened intellectual curiosity long dormant since their school days, providing a sense of growth rather than stagnation. Many emphasise the camaraderie of the group, the sense of shared struggle and mutual respec and for both male and female veterans, the programme has opened pathways toward new careers, community engagement, and personal healing. Critically, debate training does not deny the reality of moral injury. It does not offer easy forgiveness or simplistic reassurances. Instead, it acknowledges the gravity of what veterans carry, and provides tools for living with it. Moral injury cannot always be “cured” in the sense of erasing memory or restoring innocence but it can be integrated into a broader narrative of growth, responsibility, and contribution. Debate training facilitates that integration by helping veterans articulate, contextualise, and transform their moral struggles.The damaging impact of moral injury on veterans is profound: isolation, shame, fractured identities, and despair.

Forward Assist’s Veterans Debate Training addresses this not by offering platitudes but by equipping veterans with the skills of dialogue, critical reflection, and persuasive communication. For many veterans, it provides a sanctioned arena in which vulnerability can be expressed through performance, restoring dignity and agency. For others it offers a platform for empowerment and recognition, countering invisibility and marginalisation and for both groups, it builds community, structure, and trust. In the end, the true significance of debate training lies in its capacity to transform silence into speech, shame into agency, and wounds into wisdom. Veterans who once felt morally broken discover that they can stand, speak, and be heard. They may never undo the past, but they can shape its meaning, for themselves and for others. In doing so, they not only heal their own injuries but also enrich the moral fabric of the societies to which they return. Forward Assist’s vision demonstrates that healing does not always come from traditional therapy. Sometimes it emerges from the courage to argue, to listen, and to reclaim the voice that war once took away. For more information see https://www.forward-assist.com/the-great-veterans-debate-project

Tony Wright

UK Military Veterans and the Prevalence-Inflation Hypothesis.

Military veterans in the United Kingdom constitute a distinct and important segment of the population. They are individuals who have experienced the unique culture, demands, and stresses of military life and who, upon leaving service, face a series of transitions into civilian society. Over recent decades, increasing attention has been given to the mental health and wellbeing of this group. There has been growing public concern, numerous government initiatives, and an expanding network of charitable and clinical services designed specifically to meet veterans’ psychological needs. Alongside these developments, reported rates of mental health problems among both serving personnel and veterans appear to have risen. This has generated discussion about whether these apparent increases represent genuine rises in mental disorder or whether other factors, such as improved recognition, diagnostic change, and heightened awareness, play a role in shaping the statistics.

One conceptual framework that attempts to explain such phenomena is the “prevalence-inflation hypothesis,” developed by Lucy Foulkes and Jack Andrews in their paper Are Mental Health Awareness Efforts Contributing to the Rise in Reported Mental Health Problems? The authors propose that while awareness campaigns can improve recognition of mental illness and encourage help-seeking, they may also lead to the over-interpretation of normal emotional distress as mental disorder, thereby inflating apparent prevalence rates. This essay explores how that hypothesis can be applied to the context of UK military veterans. It considers the history and nature of veterans’ health concerns, outlines the main features of the prevalence-inflation hypothesis, and critically analyses its potential relevance and limitations when interpreting the mental health landscape of Britain’s veteran community. The aim is to provide a nuanced account of how conceptual, social and cultural dynamics might shape what we perceive as an increase in veterans’ mental ill-health.

The United Kingdom has a long tradition of military service, and veterans form a substantial population numbering in the millions. They are a highly diverse group, spanning generations, branches of service, and social backgrounds. Some have experienced direct combat, others have served in support or peacekeeping roles, and many have transitioned into civilian life successfully. Yet it is equally clear that a significant proportion of veterans experience challenges after leaving the armed forces. The transition to civilian life can involve the loss of comradeship, purpose, and structure; it can expose individuals to unemployment, financial strain, or social isolation and for those who have experienced traumatic events during service, such as combat exposure, moral injury, or witnessing death, these stressors can be compounded by the psychological aftermath of trauma.

In public discussion and in research, certain mental health conditions have become emblematic of the veteran experience, particularly post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, anxiety, and alcohol misuse. Over the past two decades, the recognition of such problems has increased dramatically, and there has been a concerted effort to provide specialised clinical services and outreach programmes. The National Health Service now operates veteran-specific mental health pathways, and numerous charities provide psychological support, therapy, and social rehabilitation. Public awareness campaigns and media coverage have amplified these efforts, often portraying veterans as vulnerable and highlighting stories of struggle, suicide, or long-term trauma.

While this growing awareness has undoubtedly been beneficial in reducing stigma and encouraging veterans to seek help, it has also raised complex questions about measurement and interpretation. Reported prevalence rates of mental health problems among veterans have risen over time, but so too have the opportunities for detection, the cultural acceptability of self-reporting, and the conceptual boundaries of what counts as a mental health problem. It is therefore not immediately clear whether the apparent rise in prevalence reflects a true increase in disorder or a shift in social and diagnostic practices. This uncertainty is precisely the domain in which the prevalence-inflation hypothesis becomes relevant.

Lucy Foulkes and Jack Andrews developed the prevalence-inflation hypothesis to explain why reported rates of mental health problems in the general population have increased, especially among young people, in the context of unprecedented public awareness. Their central argument is that awareness campaigns and education about mental health have two opposing effects. On one hand, they yield a positive outcome by improving mental health literacy, reducing stigma, and enabling people who previously suffered in silence to recognise their difficulties and seek help. On the other hand, such efforts may unintentionally encourage individuals to interpret ordinary or transient emotional states, sadness, stress, worry, frustration, as symptoms of mental illness. and when normal fluctuations in mood or behaviour are medicalised, the apparent prevalence of mental health problems rises, even if the underlying level of distress in society remains constant.

Foulkes and Andrews suggest that this process involves not only shifts in perception but also deeper identity and behavioural changes. Once a person identifies with a diagnostic label, such as depression, anxiety, or PTSD, that label can influence how they interpret future experiences, how they behave, and how others respond to them. This may have therapeutic benefits; for others, it can entrench a sense of vulnerability or illness that perpetuates distress. Over time, such self-labelling, combined with expanded diagnostic boundaries and greater willingness to report, can produce what appears to be an increase in prevalence. This is not to deny that real increases in mental ill-health may occur due to social or economic stressors, but to highlight that measurement and interpretation are shaped by cultural context as much as by pathology.

The hypothesis thus offers a dual-mechanism model: improved recognition of previously hidden disorders and simultaneous over-interpretation of non-disordered distress. In societies with expanding mental health literacy, both forces operate in tandem. The net effect may be an apparent epidemic of mental illness that partly reflects genuine need but also a shift in how we define and experience mental health itself.

When applied to the context of UK military veterans, the prevalence-inflation hypothesis acquires distinctive features. Veterans occupy a social space in which mental health awareness, trauma narratives, and collective identity intersect in particularly powerful ways. In recent years, public and institutional recognition of veterans’ mental health has grown exponentially. Campaigns have sought to destigmatise help-seeking, and the media frequently highlight the psychological costs of service and within the veteran community itself, discussions of trauma, PTSD, and transition difficulties have become increasingly prominent. This changing discourse has clear benefits: it acknowledges suffering that was once ignored and legitimises psychological help as part of the veteran experience. Yet it may also contribute to processes that resemble those described by Foulkes and Andrews.

The first mechanism of the hypothesis, improved recognition, is readily apparent. Historically, many veterans with psychological injuries went unrecognised or untreated. Terms such as “shell shock” or “battle fatigue” once carried stigma and misunderstanding, and formal treatment was rare. Today, awareness and services have expanded to ensure that those with genuine trauma-related disorders are identified and supported. This is a positive and necessary development. It explains part of the increase in diagnosed mental health conditions among veterans: people who once would have suffered invisibly are now counted.

The second mechanism, over-interpretation of distress, is more complex but equally plausible in the veteran context. Leaving the armed forces often entails a profound identity shift. Veterans may experience loneliness, a loss of purpose, or difficulty adapting to civilian norms. These are natural responses to life transition, yet in a culture saturated with mental health messaging, such feelings may be quickly interpreted through a clinical lens. A veteran who struggles to adjust might self-diagnose depression or PTSD, not necessarily because of underlying pathology but because these categories provide an accessible framework for understanding distress. The diagnostic language offers both explanation and legitimacy, but it may also encourage individuals to view themselves as permanently damaged or ill, even when their difficulties are situational and potentially transient.

Furthermore, veteran-specific services and charities, while invaluable, can unintentionally reinforce this dynamic. Many outreach programmes are built around narratives of trauma and recovery. Their publicity materials often emphasise the high risk of PTSD or suicide among veterans in order to secure funding and attract those in need. This is understandable, but it can create an impression that psychological injury is an almost inevitable consequence of military service. Sadly, some veterans internalise these messages and interpret ordinary struggles of adjustment as symptoms of mental disorder, thereby increasing self-reported prevalence rates.

The veteran community also has strong social cohesion and shared cultural narratives. Storytelling about service experiences, trauma, and recovery can foster belonging but may simultaneously normalise the idea that veterans are “damaged” or “broken.” In group settings, adopting such identities can become a way of maintaining membership or solidarity and from the perspective of the prevalence-inflation hypothesis, this illustrates how awareness and social dynamics can shape the boundaries between distress and disorder.

Another factor relevant to the hypothesis is the evolving diagnostic landscape. The criteria for PTSD and related conditions have broadened over successive editions of diagnostic manuals, and new categories such as “complex PTSD” or “moral injury” have emerged. These refinements have improved sensitivity to different forms of trauma but also lowered the threshold for diagnosis. Consequently, more veterans may fit the criteria, even if the intensity or functional impact of symptoms remains similar to past cohorts. Increased research, screening, and clinical outreach further enhance detection, contributing to apparent prevalence growth without necessarily reflecting a rise in true incidence.

To understand the relationship between veterans and the prevalence-inflation hypothesis, it is important to distinguish between real prevalence (the actual proportion of individuals suffering from clinically significant disorder) and reported prevalence (the proportion who identify or are identified as having a mental health problem). The two are related but not identical. Real prevalence may rise due to genuine increases in exposure to trauma, socioeconomic stress, or social dislocation. Reported prevalence can rise even if real prevalence remains constant, through improved awareness, lower diagnostic thresholds, or self-labelling.

In the case of UK veterans, there are credible reasons to believe that both processes are operating. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan exposed many service members to intense combat environments and moral challenges that undoubtedly increased the risk of trauma-related disorders. Simultaneously, society’s awareness of PTSD and other conditions expanded dramatically, making veterans more likely to recognise and report symptoms. This dual process mirrors the dual mechanism of the prevalence-inflation hypothesis: genuine discovery of hidden cases combined with inflationary reporting driven by cultural change.

It is also worth considering that prevalence inflation may not always be harmful, simply because, awareness leads people to seek help earlier, even for mild distress, it can prevent more serious deterioration. The problem arises only if over-interpretation leads to unnecessary medicalisation or self-identification with illness in ways that impede recovery and for some veterans, adopting a clinical label provides validation and access to support; for others, it may entrench dependency or hinder adaptation. The balance between these outcomes is delicate and requires careful management by clinicians, policymakers and charities.

One of the most distinctive features of the veteran context, and one that intersects closely with the prevalence-inflation hypothesis, is the role of identity. Military service instils a powerful collective identity based on discipline, loyalty and shared experience. Upon leaving service, that identity often becomes a source of pride but also a potential vulnerability. Its well documented that without the structure of the armed forces, some veterans experience a loss of purpose and belonging. In recent years, public narratives have increasingly defined the veteran identity through the lens of mental health and trauma and while this can foster empathy and solidarity, it may also narrow the social script available to veterans, suggesting that suffering and psychological injury are defining features of post-service life.

In this cultural context, adopting a mental health label may offer continuity with the collective identity: “I was a soldier; now I am a veteran with PTSD.” It provides a new but related sense of belonging. The prevalence-inflation hypothesis helps explain how such identity processes can translate into elevated reported prevalence. Labels not only describe experience but also shape it. When a label becomes central to self-understanding, symptoms may persist or intensify because they are woven into identity. Conversely, when identity is anchored in resilience, service values, or post-military purpose, distress may diminish even without clinical intervention.

Thus, the hypothesis does not imply that veterans fabricate symptoms but that social meanings attached to diagnosis influence how symptoms are experienced, reported, and maintained. In this way, awareness campaigns and cultural narratives can simultaneously alleviate stigma and alter the phenomenology of distress itself. For researchers and practitioners, recognising this interplay between culture, identity and reporting is essential to interpreting prevalence data responsibly.

If elements of the prevalence-inflation hypothesis apply to UK veterans, several implications follow for policy and practice. First, prevalence statistics must be interpreted with caution. Rising rates of diagnosed or self-reported mental health problems should not automatically be equated with deteriorating psychological wellbeing across the veteran population because some increases may represent successful identification of previously hidden need; others may reflect shifting boundaries of what counts as disorder. Policymakers should therefore base resource allocation not only on prevalence numbers but also on measures of functional impairment, quality of life, and service demand.

Second, clinical services should maintain clear diagnostic thresholds while offering graded responses to distress. A stepped-care approach that distinguishes between normal adjustment difficulties and clinically significant disorders can ensure that resources are directed where they are most needed, while still providing support for those experiencing mild but genuine distress. Peer support programmes, social reintegration initiatives, and vocational schemes may be more appropriate for some veterans than intensive psychological therapy or medication.

Third, awareness campaigns themselves need to be carefully designed. The goal should be to promote understanding and reduce stigma without inadvertently implying that all distress is pathological. Campaigns that emphasise resilience, recovery and post-traumatic growth can balance the narrative of vulnerability. Similarly, encouraging veterans to view help-seeking as a strength rather than a marker of illness may also mitigate the identity effects described earlier.

Finally, researchers studying veterans should incorporate measures that capture changing awareness and reporting behaviour. Longitudinal studies that track both symptoms and attitudes toward mental health can help disentangle real increases in disorder from prevalence inflation. Qualitative research exploring how veterans interpret and label their experiences would add depth to our understanding of these processes. Applying the prevalence-inflation hypothesis to veterans offers valuable insights but also faces important limitations. The first is methodological: it is extremely difficult to disentangle the contribution of awareness and diagnostic change from that of genuine increases in morbidity. Mental health data rely heavily on self-report questionnaires and diagnostic interviews that are sensitive to cultural norms and language. Even clinical diagnosis is influenced by changing professional standards and expectations. As such, any attempt to quantify the exact degree of prevalence inflation is fraught with uncertainty.

The second limitation is ethical. Emphasising prevalence inflation risks being interpreted as questioning the legitimacy of veterans’ suffering. This is not the intention of the hypothesis, which recognises the real and often severe psychological injuries that can result from service. Rather, it calls for a more nuanced understanding of how cultural and systemic factors influence reported data. Nevertheless, care must be taken in communication to avoid reinforcing stigma or suggesting that veterans’ mental health concerns are exaggerated.

A further consideration is that awareness and labelling may function differently across subgroups of veterans. Older veterans, for example, may remain reluctant to report mental health problems due to lingering stigma, while younger cohorts raised in an era of mental health openness may be more forthcoming. Thus, awareness may simultaneously reduce under-reporting in one group and increase self-labelling in another. The net effect on aggregate prevalence is therefore complex and not uniformly inflationary.

Finally, the hypothesis does not fully account for socioeconomic and structural determinants of mental health. Veterans often face housing difficulties, unemployment, or chronic physical injuries. These material stressors contribute to genuine psychological distress that cannot be explained by awareness or labelling. Any comprehensive understanding of veteran mental health must therefore integrate the prevalence-inflation hypothesis with broader social models of wellbeing.

The most productive way to apply the prevalence-inflation hypothesis to UK veterans is not as a challenge to the existence of mental health problems but as a framework for balance. It reminds researchers, clinicians and policymakers that apparent increases in prevalence are multifactorial. They reflect real suffering, improved detection, shifting cultural norms, and the evolving meanings of distress. Recognising this complexity allows for a more sophisticated approach to veteran mental health.

From this perspective, the rise in reported mental health problems among veterans is neither entirely real nor entirely artefactual. It is the result of interaction between lived experience and cultural interpretation. Awareness campaigns have empowered many veterans to seek help who would once have remained silent. Yet, at the same time, the very success of those campaigns may expand the boundaries of what counts as a mental health problem. The challenge is to harness the positive aspects of awareness reduced stigma, earlier intervention, increased empathy while minimising the risks of over-pathologisation.

This balance requires ongoing dialogue between veterans, clinicians, researchers, and policymakers. Veterans themselves must be active participants in defining what wellbeing and recovery mean for their community. Rather than focusing solely on symptom reduction, support systems should promote social reintegration, purpose, and identity reconstruction. In doing so, they address the underlying determinants of distress without necessarily relying on diagnostic labelling. Such an approach would align with the spirit of the prevalence-inflation hypothesis by acknowledging the power of cultural narratives while remaining committed to genuine care.

The mental health of UK military veterans is a complex and evolving issue. Over recent decades, rising awareness, improved services, and shifting cultural attitudes have transformed how veteran wellbeing is understood and addressed. The prevalence-inflation hypothesis, as articulated by Lucy Foulkes and Jack Andrews, provides a valuable conceptual tool for interpreting these developments. It suggests that increased awareness can simultaneously reveal hidden suffering and inflate apparent prevalence by encouraging the medicalisation of normal distress.

When applied to UK veterans, this hypothesis highlights both the successes and challenges of contemporary mental health culture. Veterans benefit from greater recognition and support, yet they also navigate a social landscape in which distress and diagnosis are closely intertwined. Some of the observed rise in reported mental health problems likely reflects real need stemming from trauma and transition stress. Some may also reflect changing perceptions, identity processes, and cultural expectations so distinguishing between the two is difficult but essential if policy and practice are to remain effective and proportionate.

Ultimately, the goal is not to minimise or inflate the scale of veterans’ mental health problems but to understand them more accurately. Awareness, when guided by evidence and nuance, remains a vital force for good. The prevalence-inflation hypothesis reminds us, however, that even beneficial cultural shifts have complex consequences and it will be by integrating this understanding into research, clinical work and public discourse, that the UK will be able to support its veterans in ways that honour their service, respect their individuality, and promote genuine psychological wellbeing rather than inadvertently pathologising the human process of adjustment and recovery.

Tony Wright

Why Vulnerable UK Homeless Veterans May Resort to Survival Sex: A Reflective Narrative

Its Remembrance week and veterans are very much visible and high profile. Yet for too many, life after service does not resemble the gratitude-filled future they were promised because among them are men and women who, after leaving the military, find themselves on the streets, disconnected, unseen, and desperate to survive. For some, survival sex becomes one of the few means left to meet basic needs like food, shelter, safety, or even momentary human connection. Understanding why this happens requires us to look beyond the surface and into the deep psychological, social, and moral wounds that shape their lives.

Many homeless veterans did not first encounter trauma in the armed forces for a significant number, it began in childhood. Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) such as neglect, physical abuse, sexual assault, parental substance misuse, or exposure to domestic violence leave lasting marks on emotional development and self-worth. These experiences often generate feelings of powerlessness and chronic shame, which can shape the decisions a person makes later in life. For some, joining the military offers a way to escape this background, a structured environment promising belonging, discipline, and purpose. Yet the very traits that make them effective soldiers, obedience, endurance, emotional suppression, may also make them vulnerable to new forms of harm, particularly in environments where power and hierarchy dominate.

When a person grows up in instability or violence, they may unconsciously seek environments that mirror the patterns they know, even when those patterns are unhealthy. In the military, strict hierarchies, intense social pressure, and expectations of silence can replicate the dynamics of an abusive household and for those who joined the forces to find safety, the discovery that the same dynamics can reappear within the institution can be devastating. The result is a sense of betrayal that runs deeper than simple disappointment, it is a confirmation that even structures meant to protect can wound.

Within the military, harassment and bullying are often minimised or dismissed as part of “toughening up.” Yet for those already carrying unhealed childhood trauma, these experiences can reopen deep emotional wounds. Male veterans may suffer ridicule or violence for not conforming to masculine ideals. Women, often in the minority, may face daily objectification or sexual harassment that erodes their sense of safety and belonging and when bullying or sexual violence occurs, the closed culture of the forces can make it almost impossible to speak out because reporting misconduct may lead to retaliation, isolation, or disbelief. Many then internalise the experience, burying pain beneath layers of silence and forced resilience.

Military Sexual Trauma (MST) affects both men and women, though male victims are often invisible in public discussions. MST includes sexual assault, harassment, coercion, and unwanted sexual contact experienced during service. For some, the assault is compounded by institutional betrayal, the knowledge that colleagues or superiors who were meant to protect them either participated in or ignored their victimisation. This betrayal corrodes trust, both in others and in oneself. Shame becomes intertwined with duty, and the resulting moral confusion can be catastrophic for mental health.

The concept of moral injury is crucial in understanding how trauma in the military can lead to homelessness and ultimately to survival sex. (Survival sex refers to the exchange of sexual acts for basic necessities such as food, money, shelter, protection, or drugs, typically under conditions of extreme poverty, homelessness, or vulnerability. It is not driven by desire or free choice but by the urgent need to meet fundamental survival needs in the absence of safer alternatives. For many individuals, such as homeless veterans, survival sex represents a last resort in a context where all other means of obtaining security or sustenance have failed. It is therefore understood as a coping mechanism born from structural and personal desperation, rather than as consensual sex work undertaken by choice.)

Moral injury occurs when a person experiences or witnesses acts that violate their core moral beliefs, such as killing, failing to prevent suffering, or being betrayed by trusted leaders. Unlike PTSD, which is rooted in fear responses, moral injury is centred on guilt, shame, and spiritual despair. Veterans may feel they no longer deserve comfort, safety, or dignity. This inner corrosion can make it difficult to accept help or maintain relationships and many veterans describe feeling “unclean” or “broken,” as though their identity as a good soldier or a good person has been destroyed.

When moral injury combines with trauma from childhood and military service, the individual’s sense of self can collapse. They may withdraw from friends and family, unable to explain the depth of their pain with some turning to alcohol or drugs as a way to numb emotions that feel unbearable. The slide into homelessness often happens gradually: a lost job due to mental health issues, a relationship breakdown, rent arrears, a final argument, and then the streets. Each step reinforces the belief that they are beyond saving.

For homeless veterans, life on the streets is not merely uncomfortable, it is dangerous and dehumanising the nights are cold, unpredictable, and filled with threats of violence. Veterans often carry the physical and psychological scars of service, chronic pain, sleep deprivation, hypervigilance, that make the chaos of street life even harder to manage. Shelters can feel unsafe or triggering, especially for those who have survived sexual assault or bullying in close quarters. The constant exposure, the lack of privacy, and the unpredictability of who might be nearby can echo military experiences of threat and confinement.

In such conditions, survival sex can emerge not from choice but from necessity. It might begin as an exchange for food, money, or a place to sleep. For women, it may also offer protection from assault by aligning with someone perceived as powerful. For men, especially those struggling with shame about their masculinity, it may be hidden behind drugs or alcohol, carried out in secrecy and self-loathing. In both cases, survival sex becomes an act of endurance rather than desire, a way to momentarily control what feels uncontrollable.

Survival sex among homeless veterans cannot be understood simply as a sexual transaction. It is an expression of complex trauma and the body’s desperate attempt to stay alive within unbearable conditions. Many who engage in it describe feeling detached, as if watching from outside themselves. This dissociation is a familiar symptom of PTSD, allowing them to separate their mind from their body to avoid feeling the full impact of what is happening. Yet over time, this coping mechanism deepens the sense of alienation from self as each act of survival sex can reinforce internalised beliefs of worthlessness or shame, especially for those already grappling with moral injury.

Substance use often becomes intertwined with this cycle. Drugs or alcohol can dull the sensations and memories associated with trauma, making it easier to endure exploitation. However, substance dependency also heightens vulnerability, attracting predatory individuals who exploit addiction for sexual or financial gain. The exchange becomes cyclical: sex for drugs, drugs for numbness, numbness for survival.

While both male and female veterans may engage in survival sex, their experiences often differ due to gendered social expectations and stigmas and for women, sexual exploitation can be accompanied by overt violence or coercion. Many report that they felt they had no other option as refusing meant exposure to rape, assault, or hunger. Some describe the paradox of feeling safer with one abuser than alone in a crowd of strangers. Their trauma is compounded by public judgement: women who engage in sex work, even for survival, are often labelled as immoral or irresponsible, further marginalising them from potential sources of help.

Male veterans face a different but equally damaging stigma because for them, survival sex can be tied to deep shame about masculinity and sexuality. Some may engage in sex with men despite identifying as heterosexual, leading to profound confusion and self-disgust. Society rarely acknowledges that men can be sexually exploited, their suffering is often invisible. They are less likely to seek help, fearing ridicule or disbelief. The silence surrounding male vulnerability reinforces isolation, perpetuating the conditions that keep them trapped on the streets.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is one of the most common psychological injuries among veterans, but on the streets it becomes particularly lethal. Flashbacks, hypervigilance, and insomnia make daily survival more difficult. The sound of sirens, footsteps, or shouting can trigger memories of combat or assault. Without access to stable shelter or treatment, symptoms intensify. Many turn to self-harm or suicidal ideation as a way to escape unbearable psychological pain.

The link between PTSD, moral injury, and suicidal thoughts is intimate. Veterans may feel that they have already died in some sense, that the person they once were no longer exists. For those engaging in survival sex, this sense of death can become literalised in the body: “I don’t care what happens to me anymore,” some say, “I’m already gone.” Suicide can begin to appear not as an act of despair but as a final assertion of control. Every night spent trading sex for shelter may feel like a slow erasure of identity, and ending one’s life may seem like the only way to reclaim it.

The UK has many organisations aimed at supporting veterans, yet systemic barriers often prevent the most vulnerable from accessing them. Those suffering from trauma-related mistrust may avoid institutions altogether, fearing judgement or bureaucratic humiliation. Mental health services are overstretched, and the intersection of veteran identity, homelessness, and sexual exploitation is rarely talked about or addressed holistically.

For some veterans, the shame of engaging in survival sex creates an additional obstacle to seeking help. They may fear being criminalised, disbelieved, or seen as complicit in their exploitation. Women veterans who are mothers may worry about losing contact with their children if they disclose their situation. Male veterans may fear that admitting to sexual vulnerability will undermine their identity as men or soldiers. The result is a silence that isolates them further, allowing cycles of exploitation to continue unseen.

Despite the profound suffering involved, it is important to recognise that engaging in survival sex is also an act of survival. It represents a will to live, even under unbearable conditions and for some veterans, this grim endurance becomes the foundation for eventual recovery. Yet, when met with compassion rather than judgement, survivors can begin to reinterpret their actions not as evidence of shame but as proof of strength. Support that prioritises trauma-informed care, non-judgmental listening, and the rebuilding of trust can create openings for healing.

Recovery often begins with simple safety, regular meals, secure accommodation, and a space where the veteran can rest without fear. Therapy addressing PTSD, moral injury, and shame can help individuals make sense of their experiences and any find strength in peer support, connecting with other veterans who understand the unique mixture of pride, loss, and guilt that defines post-service life. Reclaiming agency, being able to make choices about one’s own body, identity, and future is central to healing from the violation of survival sex.

The existence of homeless veterans engaging in survival sex is a mirror held up to society’s collective failure. These are individuals who once stood ready to risk their lives for others, yet find themselves unseen and disposable when they need protection. The structures meant to safeguard them, military, governmental, and social, have often compounded their trauma through neglect or betrayal. Their resort to survival sex is not a moral failure on their part but a reflection of systemic abandonment.

Understanding this issue demands that we move beyond stereotypes of the “fallen soldier” or “broken hero.” It requires us to see the continuum of trauma that stretches from childhood through military service into homelessness. Adverse Childhood Experiences shape vulnerability long before enlistment, and institutional betrayal during service deepens it. The transition to civilian life then exposes these wounds to a world that often refuses to understand them. In this sense, survival sex is not an isolated act but a symptom of cumulative trauma, a chain of events rooted in both personal pain and social neglect.

The reasons vulnerable UK homeless veterans may resort to survival sex are complex and deeply rooted in layers of trauma that span from childhood to military service and beyond. Adverse Childhood Experiences lay the groundwork for vulnerability; in-service bullying, harassment, and sexual assault deepen it; moral injury and PTSD magnify it; and homelessness exposes it to the harshest realities of survival and for many, survival sex becomes not a choice but an act of endurance, a means of staying alive in a world that has repeatedly failed to keep them safe. To truly address this issue, compassion must replace judgement, and prevention must replace reaction. We must see these veterans not as broken, but as survivors of intersecting traumas who have been pushed to the margins and only when society acknowledges its responsibility, not just to honour their service but to safeguard their humanity can the cycle of trauma, homelessness, and exploitation begin to be broken.

Tony Wright

Love: The Missing Word in the Military Veteran’s Story

For all the words we use when speaking about our veterans , bravery, sacrifice, duty, service, honour… there is one that is rarely uttered. It sits just behind the curtain, waiting for permission to step into the light. That word is love. It sounds soft in a world hardened by conflict, too gentle for the parade ground or the battlefield. Yet love is the quiet thread that holds everything together, the love between comrades, the love of a regiment, the love of family, and the love that struggles to find its place once the fighting ends because without it, the veteran story is incomplete, a tale told in half-light.

When we imagine soldiers, sailors, or airmen, we picture the uniform, the discipline, the pride. We think of courage under fire, of endurance and resolve. But rarely do we talk about love, though that is, in truth, the force that keeps so many alive when the world around them is collapsing. The soldier who dives for his friend when the shells fall isn’t thinking of politics or policy. He isn’t thinking of the speeches made in Parliament or the medals pinned on chests. In that split second, he acts for love, for the man or woman beside him, for the bond that has been forged through sweat, exhaustion, laughter, and fear.

It begins in training. Young men and women arrive, raw and uncertain, stripped of the habits and comforts of civilian life. They are broken down, reshaped, and taught to act as one. Somewhere in that process, among the mud and the shouting, something miraculous happens. They begin to care for one another more deeply than they expected they could. They share food, share jokes, share pain. They learn to rely on one another in ways few civilians ever have to and though it might never be called love, perhaps it would even be laughed off if it were, that’s exactly what it is. It’s the kind of love that says, “I’ve got you. Whatever happens, I won’t leave you behind.”

Camaraderie is the word we usually use. It feels safer, more masculine, more fitting for a military story. But camaraderie is just love wearing camouflage. It’s the same emotion, just dressed differently for the occasion. In the barracks, in the desert, in the jungle, or on a cold northern training field, it binds people together in a way that outlasts distance and time and if you ask any veteran who they were fighting for, and you’ll hear the same answer: not the politicians, not the abstract idea of a nation, but the person next to them. That’s love, raw, uncomplicated, and pure.

Yet love in the military doesn’t only exist between comrades. It stretches outward, towards the regiment, the cap badge, the colours, the traditions handed down through generations. Every regiment has its stories, its heroes, its fallen. There’s a deep affection for the shared identity, a love that can feel like belonging to a family that existed long before you were born and will continue long after you’re gone. It’s love mixed with pride, and sometimes with grief. You don’t just wear the uniform; you love what it represents, and that love gives meaning to the sacrifices made in its name.

When military personell return to civilian life, love becomes a more complicated thing. The transition from the intensity of military life to the quiet unpredictability of civilian life can feel like walking from a storm into a vacuum. The noise stops, but the silence is deafening. In that silence, many veterans begin to feel an ache they can’t quite name. It’s the absence of that shared heartbeat, the loss of those who always had your back. The love that once surrounded you and it’s suddenly gone, and the world feels emptier without it.

Remembrance, in its public form, tries to fill that gap. Every November, we stand still for two minutes. The bugle sounds. The names are read, and we bow our heads. We speak of sacrifice and service, but underneath it all lies love, love remembered, love mourned. The poppy isn’t only a symbol of death; it’s a symbol of love enduring beyond it. Yet the word itself is rarely spoken. Perhaps we fear that saying it out loud will somehow diminish the stoicism we expect from those who served. But the truth is that remembrance is an act of love , the nation’s way of saying, We have not forgotten you. We still love you, even though you are gone.

The love of comrades can carry a soldier through war, but the love of family is what must carry them through peace. Partners, children, parents, and siblings form the quiet front line of support that few outside the veteran community ever truly see and behind every deployment, there’s a partner lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for a knock on the door that they pray will never come. There are children who learn to count the days until Dad or Mum comes home, who mark them off on calendars decorated with hope. There are parents who age in the space between phone calls, who hide their worry behind proud smiles at homecoming parades. This, too, is love, fierce, patient, sometimes exhausted, but steadfast.

When a veteran returns, the love of family becomes both a refuge and a test. The person who comes home isn’t always the same one who left. They may carry invisible wounds, the kind that no medal can cover. They may flinch at sudden noises, grow restless in crowded rooms, or fall silent when asked simple questions and for those who love them, it can be bewildering. How do you reach someone who has seen what can’t be unseen? How do you hold them when they seem far away even as they sit beside you? Love has to learn new shapes, quieter, more patient, more forgiving. It becomes about small acts: a hand on a shoulder, a cup of tea placed silently on the table, a willingness to wait.

Many veterans speak of feeling lost when they leave the service. The structure, the brother/sisterhood, the clear sense of purpose, all of it fades. Civilian life can feel disjointed, even trivial, compared to the intensity of life in uniform. Some try to find that sense of belonging again through veteran networks, charities, or local support groups. These are the places where love begins to reassemble itself, piece by piece, amongst others who understand, who have walked the same paths, love returns in the form of shared stories, mutual respect, and a recognition that you are not alone. It may not look like the love of a family or a romantic partner, but it’s love nonetheless, the quiet love of those who simply get it.

And yet, society rarely speaks of love when it comes to veterans. We talk about “support,” “awareness,” “integration.” We talk about mental health and homelessness and employment all vital conversations, to be sure, but the language we use is often cold, bureaucratic, distant. What’s missing is the warmth of the word that connects us as human beings. Love. To love our veterans doesn’t mean pitying them, or idolising them, or treating them as broken heroes. It means seeing them fully, the laughter as well as the pain, the strength as well as the vulnerability. It means making space for them to be human again, not just soldiers.

Love is not the same as sympathy. It is active. It demands attention, empathy, and time. It’s found in the neighbour who checks in, the friend who listens without judgement, the community that refuses to let a veteran fade into isolation. It’s in the simple act of sitting beside someone and letting silence be enough and for veterans, love is the bridge back to belonging. It’s the force that reminds them they still have a place in the world they once protected.

The word “love” might sound out of place in the military lexicon, but in truth it is the heart of everything…every memorial, every medal, every march on Remembrance Sunday, all of it is built on love. Love for country, yes, but more immediately, love for one another. Love for those who didn’t come home. Love for those who did, and are still fighting battles no one can see. When we remove that word from the narrative, we strip away its humanity. We make the veteran story one of duty and endurance but not of heart and without heart, what remains?

In conversations with veterans, there is often a moment when they speak of someone who meant everything to them, a mate who made them laugh in the darkest hours, or one who never came back. Their eyes soften, their voice changes. That’s love speaking. It’s a love forged in fire, one that defies easy description. To acknowledge it is not to weaken the image of the soldier but to deepen it, to recognise the courage it takes to love so fiercely in a world where death is never far away.

Perhaps the reason we avoid the word is because love makes us vulnerable. It asks for honesty, for softness, for a willingness to feel. In a culture that prizes resilience and control, especially among those in uniform, love can feel dangerous, a crack in the armour. Yet, it is that very crack that lets healing begin. To love, after all, is to hope. And hope is what keeps a person moving forward when everything else has fallen apart.

There’s also the love that veterans learn to have for themselves, often the hardest kind to reclaim. Years of discipline, of putting the mission and the team before the individual, can make self-love feel selfish or alien. But it’s essential. It’s the foundation for rebuilding a life beyond service. Learning to forgive oneself for what was done, or what couldn’t be done, is an act of love as powerful as any battlefield bravery. It’s what allows a veteran to live, not just survive.

Love is the quiet companion of remembrance. When we gather at cenotaphs, when we lay wreaths and bow our heads, it’s not just about honouring sacrifice, it’s about expressing love in its purest form. It’s a love that says, You mattered. You still matter. It’s the same love that threads through letters written home, through photographs kept in breast pockets, through songs sung softly in the dark. To reduce remembrance to mere ceremony is to forget the emotion that gives it meaning. The poppy, red as blood and fragile as paper, is love made visible and what of the families who live with the absence of their loved ones? Their love doesn’t end when the war does. It stretches across time, unbroken. A mother still talks to her son years after he’s gone. A child grows up hearing stories about the parent they barely knew. A partner keeps a room untouched, a photograph on the mantelpiece. That’s love refusing to fade, love stronger than loss. It deserves to be part of the story too.

Love also lives in the ways veterans support one another long after the uniform is folded away. be that through reunions, online forums, or quiet phone calls at difficult hours, these bonds persist. It’s love expressed through banter and dark humour, through shared understanding that needs no explanation. It’s the love that says, “You’re still one of us.” That phrase, one of us — is perhaps the truest expression of belonging, and belonging is love’s closest kin.

If we began to speak of love openly in the veteran narrative, it might change how the wider public sees those who served. Instead of distant symbols of stoic endurance, veterans could be seen as people whose capacity for love is extraordinary, people who have risked everything out of love for others, and who continue to live with love’s echoes long after the battle is over. It might help dissolve the invisible wall that sometimes stands between veterans and civilians, because at the core, love is the one language we all understand.

Imagine if Remembrance Day speeches spoke not just of bravery, but of love. If the stories told in schools and on television acknowledged that what drove soldiers forward wasn’t only discipline, but the most human emotion of all. Imagine if support services framed their mission not just as “help” but as acts of love, communities caring for those who once cared for them. It would soften the narrative without diminishing the strength within it. It would make it whole.

Love doesn’t erase pain; it gives it meaning. It’s the reason a veteran visits the graves of fallen friends, the reason they reach out to those struggling, the reason they keep going. It’s what transforms survival into living and when society mirrors that love back, through understanding, through genuine connection, healing becomes possible not just for individuals, but for the community as a whole.

To say that love is the missing word in the veteran story is not to criticise how we speak of service, but to complete the picture. It’s to recognise that behind every act of courage lies a heart beating for someone else as behind every medal lies a story of love given and love lost and behind every name carved in stone is someone who was loved deeply, and who loved in return. Love is the truth beneath the uniform, the constant that outlasts war.

Perhaps, then, the challenge is to bring that word into the open, to let love be spoken without embarrassment, without the need to disguise it behind military jargon, because love, not just duty, is what makes service noble. Love, not just loss, is what remembrance should honour and love, not just support, is what will truly sustain those who return.

In the end, it’s love that binds the veteran to the world, love of comrades, of family, of life itself. It’s love that keeps memories alive, that turns grief into gratitude, that turns separation into connection. It’s love that waits at home, that endures in silence, that finds a way to carry on and until we name it, until we give it its rightful place, the story of our veterans will always be missing its heart because love, finally spoken, is the word that brings them home.

Tony Wright

Debating History, Healing the Present: Forward Assist’s Debating Society and Moral Injury

Moral injury has become one of the most difficult and least understood consequences of military service. Unlike physical wounds, it cannot be seen on the surface of the body, and unlike post-traumatic stress disorder, it does not always present through flashbacks or hypervigilance. Instead, moral injury gnaws at the very core of identity, creating an inner rupture between who a person believed they were and what they did, saw, or failed to do in the course of military duty. For many veterans, both men and women, the struggle is less about surviving external danger than about coming to terms with the choices, compromises, and tragedies that military service forced upon them. When a person feels that their actions have betrayed their own deepest values, or that they have been betrayed by the institutions that commanded them, the wound is profoundly moral, spiritual, and existential. Healing it requires something different from conventional therapy. It requires dialogue, meaning-making, and the ability to re-enter moral conversation with oneself, with others, and with history.

Forward Assist, a veteran support organisation in the United Kingdom, has responded to this need with a uniquely innovative programme: the Veterans Debating Society. Here, veterans gather not to confess, not to be analysed, and not to relive trauma, but to engage in structured debate on historical and military-themed topics, many of which touch on precisely the kinds of moral dilemmas that generate injury in the first place. By debating events from history, wars long past, controversial campaigns, or questions of military ethics, participants find a safe yet challenging way to explore the issues that haunt them in their own memories. The debating society transforms what might otherwise remain silent and corrosive guilt into shared inquiry, performance, and dialogue. In the process, it creates a space where healing becomes possible.

To understand why debating historical topics can be so therapeutic, it is important first to grasp the dynamics of moral injury. When a soldier feels responsible for civilian casualties, when a medic feels powerless to save a life, or when a servicewoman feels complicit in an unjust operation, the resulting injury is not simply sadness or fear but a collapse of trust in the self. Shame convinces the veteran that he or she is unworthy, dishonourable, even beyond redemption. Silence sets in because speaking feels impossible; the words themselves seem dangerous. Traditional counselling can help, but for many veterans, the step into therapy feels like admitting weakness, and the unstructured act of confession can be overwhelming. Debate, by contrast, is familiar. It offers rules, structure, and purpose. Veterans are used to training, drills, and operating within defined frameworks. The debating society taps into this comfort with structure while redirecting it toward moral exploration.

Historical topics play a vital role in this process. When a veteran is asked to debate the morality of the First World War, or to argue for and against the use of atomic weapons in 1945, or to discuss the justifications for colonial military campaigns, the conversation is not directly about his or her own experience. That distance is crucial. The veteran can project feelings and reflections onto history without the vulnerability of personal exposure. He may describe the futility of trench warfare, or the unbearable civilian toll of strategic bombing, or the ethical compromises of counter-insurgency. In doing so, he or she is often also speaking obliquely about his own memories, but under the safer cover of historical analogy. Debate gives permission to speak the unspeakable, because the topic is not “what did you do?” but “what can we learn from history?”

At the same time, debating history allows veterans to reconnect with the tradition of soldiering across generations. They are reminded that moral dilemmas are not unique to them but have haunted military personnel throughout history. When a female veteran debates whether Florence Nightingale’s reforms adequately addressed the suffering of Crimean War soldiers, she is also reflecting on her own struggle as a modern military medic faced with inadequate resources. When a male veteran argues about the morality of the Vietnam War draft, he may be thinking about the young men he saw deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan with little say in the matter. The historical frame situates individual experience within a broader continuum, reducing the sense of isolation. Veterans come to see that their own struggles are part of a long human story of warfare, ethics, and survival.

The structured nature of debate also directly counters the chaotic fragmentation that moral injury produces. Debate has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Arguments must be marshalled, evidence presented, rebuttals delivered, conclusions drawn. For the veteran whose memories feel jumbled and overwhelming, this discipline provides containment. The debating chamber becomes a safe arena where difficult themes can be handled without spiralling out of control. A male veteran might find himself arguing one week that military intervention can never be morally justified, and the next week defending humanitarian intervention in Bosnia. The intellectual exercise forces him to see multiple perspectives, breaking the rigid self-condemning narrative that moral injury enforces.

Crucially, debate is not solitary. It is a communal performance. Veterans listen to one another, challenge one another, and support one another. This collective process counters the isolation of moral injury. The act of being heard, of having one’s argument respected even when contested, helps rebuild trust in human dialogue. Male veterans, often socialised into silence and emotional stoicism, find that debate allows them to speak openly without feeling they are confessing weakness. Female veterans, who may have experienced marginalisation or invisibility in the armed forces, discover that debate grants them authority: their voices matter, their arguments carry weight, their perspectives are valued. The debating society becomes a microcosm of a healthy community, one in which diverse experiences are acknowledged and respected.

The very topics chosen by Forward Assist are central to the healing process. Debating whether the bombing of Dresden was a war crime, or whether the Falklands War was justified, or whether drone warfare represents progress or regression in military ethics, confronts participants with questions of responsibility, guilt, and justification. Veterans are not asked to disclose their personal memories, but they are invited to wrestle with dilemmas that mirror their own. In making arguments, they inevitably draw on their lived experience, filtering it through the lens of history. The effect is to begin integrating memory with reflection. What was once a raw wound becomes part of a larger conversation about war, humanity, and morality.

The healing potential of debate also lies in its performative aspect. To stand up, to marshal thoughts, to speak persuasively before peers, is an act of reclaiming agency. Moral injury robs individuals of their sense of control and dignity. Debate restores both. A male veteran who once felt powerless in the face of impossible decisions discovers that he can construct a coherent argument, defend it under pressure, and even win the respect of an audience. A female veteran who once felt silenced by military hierarchies discovers that her reasoning can shape the course of a debate. These small victories accumulate into a renewed sense of competence, purpose, and worth.

Debating historical topics also enables veterans to separate self-condemnation from objective analysis. When one debates the morality of dropping atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, one is required to weigh military necessity against civilian suffering, long-term deterrence against immediate destruction. There is no simple answer. The exercise teaches veterans that morality in war is rarely black and white. This lesson reflects back onto their own lives. A man who believed himself wholly unforgivable for surviving when others died may begin to see that survival is not a moral failure but part of the tragic ambiguity of war. A woman who felt complicit in a mission with civilian casualties may begin to understand the structural forces that constrained her choices. Debate cultivates moral complexity, and moral complexity opens the door to self-forgiveness.

The Forward Assist Debating Society also fosters intellectual growth. Many veterans left school early or have not engaged in structured academic thought for years. Debate stimulates curiosity, research, and learning. Veterans study historical sources, read about past conflicts, and prepare arguments. This intellectual engagement shifts focus from brooding over memories to expanding horizons. They begin to see themselves not only as ex-soldiers but as thinkers, historians, and citizens capable of contributing to public discourse. This re-framing of identity is essential in countering the negative self-image imposed by moral injury.

Another powerful aspect of debating history is that it often leads veterans to identify points of moral courage in the past. In preparing arguments, they may encounter stories of individuals who resisted unjust orders, who spoke out against atrocities, or who sought humane solutions in the midst of war. These stories become sources of inspiration. They remind veterans that even within the darkest times, acts of conscience are possible. By debating whether such figures were right, veterans indirectly explore their own desire to reconcile honour with survival. They may come to see that their own service, flawed though it may feel, also contained moments of courage and integrity.

The debating society also has ripple effects beyond its immediate members. Veterans who develop skill and confidence in debate often take their voices into the wider community. Some speak in schools about military ethics, others contribute to public discussions of defence policy, and some become mentors for younger veterans. In these roles, they transform moral injury into moral contribution. What once felt like a disqualifying wound becomes the source of unique insight and authority. Society benefits from hearing voices tempered by both experience and reflection, and veterans benefit from knowing that their painful journeys can serve others.

Male and female veterans experience this journey in ways shaped by their backgrounds and identities. For men, debate often provides an acceptable language for emotional disclosure. Speaking in the format of argument, they are able to reveal their inner conflicts without feeling they are breaking codes of masculinity. For women, debate often represents a reclamation of visibility. In mixed-gender groups where their experiences may have been sidelined, the debating floor gives them equal standing. The respect earned through argument validates their service and their suffering. Together, these experiences foster a culture of equality and mutual recognition within the debating society.

Debate is also an inherently hopeful activity. It presupposes that dialogue is possible, that conflicting views can be expressed without violence, and that persuasion can occur without coercion. For veterans who have known the breakdown of dialogue in war zones, this is a profoundly healing message. The debating chamber becomes a symbol of what human beings can achieve when they choose words over weapons. By participating, veterans are reminded that they are not trapped in cycles of violence, that there are alternatives to silence, and that their voices can shape a more humane future.

The damaging impact of moral injury will never be eradicated entirely. Some memories remain painful, some regrets unhealed. But the Forward Assist Debating Society shows that the burden can be lightened, integrated, and transformed. By debating historical morally injurious topics, veterans find ways to speak the unspeakable, to reclaim dignity, and to rediscover community. They learn that their struggles are part of a larger human story, that moral complexity is universal, and that dialogue offers a path forward. Debate becomes both a mirror and a bridge: a mirror reflecting their own hidden conflicts, and a bridge connecting them to history, to peers, and to society.

The essence of the programme is not in winning or losing arguments but in the act of speaking, listening, and engaging with the moral weight of military history. In doing so, veterans begin to heal the rupture between who they were, what they did, and who they can become. The debating society does not erase the past, but it allows the past to be faced without despair. In the voices of veterans debating the ethics of history, we hear the sound of healing: tentative at first, stronger with practice, and ultimately confident enough to claim a place in the ongoing dialogue about war, morality, and humanity.

Tony Wright

Exploring the Involvement of UK Veterans and Service Personnel in Sex Work Beyond Economics”

The involvement of male and female service personnel and veterans in the United Kingdom in online or in-person sex work is an emerging and underexplored phenomenon that sits at the intersection of identity, sexuality, and the aftermath of military life. While financial hardship and economic opportunity are obvious elements, they only partially explain why individuals trained in discipline, endurance, and service to the state might find themselves engaging in work that sits outside social norms and, for many, remains morally charged or stigmatized. To understand this pattern, one must look beyond money and into the complex emotional, psychological, and cultural transformations that occur during and after military service. These include the reconfiguration of identity, the need for control and affirmation, the struggle with intimacy and alienation, and the gendered dynamics of power and desire. Sex work, whether in physical spaces or through digital platforms, can serve as a lens through which these deeper processes become visible.

Military culture operates through extremes of structure and control. From the first day of basic training, recruits are shaped to conform to collective norms, to suppress individuality, and to prioritise mission and unit cohesion above personal need. The body becomes both a tool and a symbol, a machine trained for endurance, strength, and readiness. In such an environment, self-worth is intimately linked to performance, physical capacity, and discipline. When individuals leave that world, whether through discharge, injury, or voluntary departure, they often face a profound loss of structure. Civilian life, with its ambiguity and absence of hierarchy, can feel directionless and alien. Within that vacuum, sex work may represent a paradoxical continuity with the military experience. It involves bodily discipline, emotional management, and risk navigation, but it also allows for individual control over time, clients, and boundaries, elements that many former service personnel find newly empowering. For some, this combination of control and exposure replicates familiar dynamics of danger and mastery that once defined their professional identity.

The psychological transition from soldier to civilian is rarely smooth. Many veterans speak of a loss of purpose, camaraderie, and adrenaline after leaving service. The rhythms of deployment, the clarity of mission, and the intensity of shared hardship give way to the diffuse and often isolating nature of civilian existence. The contrast can be jarring, producing a sense of invisibility or irrelevance. Sex work, in this context, offers an immediate way to be seen again, to be desired, to occupy a central role in the gaze of others. For some, especially those who struggle with mental health issues such as post-traumatic stress, depression, or identity confusion, this visibility can feel like a form of reanimation, a way to reconnect with the body and the world through direct, embodied interaction. The transactional nature of the exchange may even feel safer than the unpredictable dynamics of ordinary relationships, offering control where emotional vulnerability might otherwise threaten stability.

Both male and female veterans share certain aspects of this experience, though gender inflects the meanings and motivations differently. For women, military service often involves navigating the contradictions between femininity and the hyper-masculine environment of the armed forces. They are trained to match male peers in strength and endurance, to suppress emotional expression, and to survive in a culture that still frequently sexualizes and marginalizes them. The transition to civilian life can reactivate questions of gender identity and self-worth: what does it mean to be a woman who has learned to embody toughness and stoicism in a society that values softness and compliance? For some, sex work can become a site of negotiation, a space where they can reclaim ownership over their sexuality on their own terms. In contrast to the unwanted gaze or harassment that some experience within military institutions, the gaze of a client is at least chosen, mediated by consent, and, importantly, paid for. This difference can transform an experience of objectification into one of control. It can allow a woman to redefine power not as physical dominance but as economic and psychological command over the interaction.

For male veterans, the dynamic often plays out differently but is no less complex. Traditional ideas of masculinity, especially those amplified in military culture, emphasize strength, invulnerability, and sexual potency. Leaving the service can challenge these ideals, particularly if the veteran struggles with unemployment, injury, or loss of status. Sex work, especially in escorting or online performance, can serve as a means of reaffirming masculine identity in a context where it can be explicitly displayed and validated. The body, honed by military discipline, becomes an asset again, a visible marker of worth that commands attention and admiration. For some men, particularly those who experience same-sex attraction or sexual fluidity, the anonymity and flexibility of digital platforms may provide a space to explore identities that were suppressed or stigmatized within the rigid confines of the armed forces. Thus, participation in sex work can also be a form of self-exploration and liberation rather than degradation or necessity.

Psychologically, there is also the matter of control. Military life is characterised by an almost total surrender of autonomy: orders dictate where to go, when to sleep, what to wear, and even how to think. For individuals accustomed to this level of external control, sex work can represent an almost intoxicating reversal. The worker determines boundaries, sets rates, and negotiates consent. The client is momentarily subordinated to the service provider’s authority, however subtly. This inversion of power can be deeply satisfying for people who have lived under strict hierarchies. It restores a sense of agency that the military both instilled and constrained. Moreover, the emotional compartmentalization learned in service, the ability to perform under stress, to mask fear or desire—translates readily into the emotional labor of sex work, where boundaries between authenticity and performance must be carefully maintained.

It is also important to consider the relationship between trauma and intimacy. Many veterans carry the invisible wounds of combat or service-related stress. Trauma often disrupts the capacity for trust and emotional openness, creating difficulties in forming or maintaining personal relationships. The transactional nature of sex work allows intimacy to occur within predictable and bounded terms. The interaction has a beginning and an end, a contract and a price. For individuals who fear emotional chaos or rejection, this structure provides safety. It offers the illusion of closeness without the threat of genuine vulnerability. In this way, sex work can serve as both coping mechanism and self-therapy, a space where the body is used not only to earn but to manage psychic tension.

Online sex work, in particular, has expanded opportunities for veterans and active personnel to engage in these activities discreetly. The rise of subscription-based platforms and digital escorting services allows individuals to commodify their image and sexuality from the privacy of their homes. This digital distance offers a sense of control and anonymity that traditional street or agency work does not. For some, it also replicates familiar patterns of surveillance and operational secrecy: managing multiple identities, concealing activity, maintaining situational awareness. The same skills that enable soldiers to compartmentalise and strategise in deployment environments can be repurposed to navigate the risks of online sex work. Yet the psychological tension between visibility and concealment remains. The performer must be seen to earn, but must not be recognised to stay safe. This duplicity echoes the covert aspects of military intelligence or special operations, another arena where secrecy, identity, and exposure coexist uneasily.

The issue also intersects with broader cultural narratives about heroism, sacrifice, and the body. Society tends to romanticise the veteran as noble, disciplined, and selfless, yet rarely considers the afterlife of those ideals when the uniform is removed. When veterans engage in sex work, it challenges the public’s comfort with those symbols. The same body once celebrated as a vessel of national protection becomes, in the eyes of some, a source of moral discomfort. Yet from another perspective, this transformation exposes the hypocrisy of a culture that glorifies physical risk in war but condemns sexual autonomy in peace. For veterans themselves, engaging in sex work may thus carry an element of rebellion, a refusal to conform to the sanitised image of the respectable former soldier. It can be an assertion of personal truth over public expectation, a declaration that the body belongs first to the self, not to the state.

For serving personnel, the motivations can be somewhat different, though still rooted in psychology and identity rather than finance alone. The regimented life of the military offers few outlets for personal expression or sexual experimentation. Strict regulations and fear of disciplinary action can suppress not only behavior but also curiosity and desire. The clandestine nature of sex work, especially online, can provide a controlled space for such exploration. The anonymity of digital platforms allows personnel to construct alternate identities, sometimes gender-fluid or transgressive, without immediate risk to their career. In these cases, sex work becomes a medium for performing selves that the institution prohibits. The danger of exposure, while real, may even heighten the thrill, mirroring the adrenaline dynamics of deployment or covert operations. It is a risk managed through discipline, a familiar dance between control and danger that the military ethos engrains deeply.

The psychological parallels between combat and sex work, though counterintuitive, are striking. Both involve performance under pressure, the management of fear and desire, and the navigation of complex boundaries between authenticity and role-playing. Both can produce dissociation, an adaptive detachment from the self that allows functioning in high-intensity environments. For veterans accustomed to suppressing emotion and operating under stress, these skills can make sex work feel oddly natural. The emotional labour required to present warmth, confidence, and control to clients mirrors the leadership and composure demanded in military contexts. In this sense, sex work can serve as a continuation of learned behavioral scripts, transposed into a new domain.

Beyond the psychological, social dislocation plays a crucial role. The military functions as a closed society with its own codes, slang, and moral universe. Leaving that world can feel like exile. Civilian society often fails to understand the veteran’s mindset, leaving individuals feeling alienated or misunderstood. Online sex work communities, in contrast, can offer belonging and mutual support. Forums and networks of performers can provide validation, camaraderie, and shared identity, echoing the unit cohesion of the military, though framed around sexuality and entrepreneurship rather than combat and duty. In a paradoxical way, the digital brothel becomes a new kind of regiment, a tribe bound by secrecy, resilience, and shared vulnerability.

There is also a spiritual dimension to consider. For some, sex work represents not degradation but transformation. After experiences of death, violence, or loss, the act of sexual performance can be a reaffirmation of life and physical presence. The body, once trained for destruction, becomes an instrument of pleasure and connection. This reorientation can be healing, allowing individuals to rewrite their relationship with the physical self. It can turn a body associated with pain and discipline into one associated with joy and agency. Of course, this process is not universal; for others, the same work can deepen shame or dissociation. But it reveals that the motivations cannot be reduced to material gain. They touch on existential questions about meaning, survival, and embodiment.

The involvement of veterans in sex work also exposes tensions around secrecy and security. Individuals with military or defence backgrounds may possess knowledge or access that, if exposed, could present risks. Engaging in sexual labour, especially online, creates digital footprints that can intersect with these security concerns. Yet, ironically, those trained in operational secrecy are often adept at concealing their activities. This dynamic highlights a broader paradox: the very skills the military instills to maintain national security can be repurposed to maintain personal secrecy in stigmatised or illicit domains. It also raises the question of how institutional neglect may drive individuals to seek empowerment in ways that simultaneously endanger them. The boundary between personal freedom and institutional responsibility becomes blurred.

Underlying all of this is a broader critique of how society treats its veterans. The transition to civilian life is frequently marked by bureaucratic indifference, fragmented support systems, and a lack of recognition for the psychological complexity of reintegration. Many veterans describe feeling disposable once their service ends. In this context, sex work may appear as one of the few domains where personal agency, bodily autonomy, and immediate feedback are available. It offers a form of validation that the state no longer provides. The client’s attention, however superficial, becomes a proxy for the recognition that institutions have withdrawn. The act of being desired can fill a void left by the loss of purpose and honour. This is not about money but about meaning.

At the cultural level, the intersection of soldiering and sex work also unsettles dominant narratives of gender and purity. The soldier and the sex worker occupy opposite poles in the social imagination: one symbolises discipline and sacrifice, the other indulgence and moral ambiguity. When these identities merge in the same person, they expose the artificiality of those distinctions. They reveal how the body can serve both the nation and the individual, how power and vulnerability can coexist. This collision of images forces society to confront its contradictions: it demands respect for those who risk their lives in war yet condemns them for commodifying their own bodies in peace. The discomfort this provokes says as much about societal hypocrisy as it does about the individuals involved.

Ultimately, the involvement of male and female service personnel and veterans in sex work cannot be understood through moral or economic frameworks alone. It reflects a confluence of identity reconstruction, psychological coping, and social dislocation. It is an expression of autonomy emerging from a life defined by obedience, of intimacy sought through transaction after years of emotional suppression, of visibility reclaimed after institutional erasure. For some, it is empowerment; for others, it is escape, Yet, in both cases, it represents an attempt to navigate the space between the regimented certainty of military life and the diffuse uncertainty of civilian existence.

In this light, sex work becomes not an aberration but a mirror of deeper cultural and institutional processes. It reveals how the state molds bodies and psyches for war, then releases them into a world unprepared to receive them. It shows how gender, power, and trauma intertwine in the afterlife of service. It demonstrates that the transition from soldier to civilian is not merely economic but existential, and that the choices individuals make, including those that society judges most harshly, can be coherent, even rational, within the emotional economies of loss, desire, and survival. When viewed from this perspective, the phenomenon is less about deviance and more about adaptation: the human attempt to transform discipline into agency, and to find meaning in the freedom that follows service.

Tony Wright

The Indefensible Inertia: How the Ministry of Defence’s Failure to Reform Safeguarding and Support for Survivors of Military Sexual Trauma Damages Its Own Future

The slow pace of change in safeguarding, victim support, and the adoption of services that could assist survivors of military sexual trauma within the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defence is not merely a bureaucratic delay but a profound moral and institutional failure. It is indefensible on ethical, operational, and reputational grounds. Moreover, it undermines the very fabric of the Armed Forces by eroding trust, damaging morale, and deterring both recruitment and retention. In a profession that relies fundamentally on cohesion, integrity, and moral authority, such inertia becomes not only unjustifiable but self-destructive. The Ministry of Defence’s failure to adequately confront and reform its handling of sexual trauma within the ranks represents a contradiction between its stated values and its lived reality, one that continues to inflict harm on survivors, alienate serving personnel, and corrode public confidence in one of the country’s most visible and symbolic institutions.

The issue of military sexual trauma, encompassing sexual assault, harassment, and related abuses of power, has been known for decades. Successive internal and external reviews, parliamentary inquiries, and testimonies from serving and former personnel have made clear the depth of the problem. Yet despite this knowledge, progress in safeguarding reforms, the provision of trauma-informed support, and the creation of independent systems of justice and care has been glacial. The slowness cannot be rationalised as caution or procedural necessity; it is symptomatic of institutional defensiveness and cultural resistance to acknowledging the full extent of the harm inflicted within the military environment. The Armed Forces have historically prioritised operational readiness, hierarchy, and discipline, but in doing so they have too often conflated these with the protection of institutional reputation at the expense of individual welfare. This conflation lies at the heart of the problem and explains why meaningful change has been so elusive and from a moral perspective, the failure to act decisively on safeguarding and victim support is indefensible because it violates the duty of care owed by the state to those who serve it. Members of the Armed Forces are asked to risk their lives, to sacrifice personal freedoms, and to uphold the highest ethical standards under immense pressure and in return, they are entitled to an environment where they are safe from harm by their peers and superiors, and where any harm suffered is met with compassion, justice, and institutional accountability. So when a service member experiences sexual trauma, and the system that commands their loyalty fails to respond effectively, it compounds the initial injury with betrayal. Survivors of military sexual trauma often describe not only the violation itself but the subsequent disbelief, isolation, and retaliation they face when seeking redress. Such experiences are not incidental; they stem from systemic weaknesses in safeguarding, cultural norms that stigmatise victims, and a command structure that retains excessive control over the management of complaints. These are not abstract policy flaws, they are mechanisms through which moral injury is perpetuated.

The indefensibility of the current state of affairs becomes even clearer when measured against contemporary standards of safeguarding and victim care in civilian institutions. Over the past two decades, policing, education, and healthcare sectors have undergone significant reform in their approaches to sexual misconduct and safeguarding, driven by public inquiry, legislative change, and evolving professional ethics. By contrast, the military has lagged behind, often invoking its unique operational culture as a justification for exceptionalism. Yet there is no ethical justification for a dual standard of care that renders military personnel less protected than civilians. The invocation of operational exigency or tradition as reasons for delay serves only to mask institutional reluctance to confront uncomfortable truths. If anything, the unique demands of military service, its isolation, hierarchy, and dependence on trust, should heighten the imperative for proactive safeguarding, not diminish it.

Beyond the moral dimension, the slow adoption of reform is strategically and institutionally self-injurious. Trust is the currency of military effectiveness. Cohesion, loyalty, and morale derive from the belief that the institution values its members and will protect them and when that trust is broken, when service members see that sexual abuse is minimised, or that victims are silenced, the entire system suffers. Survivors lose faith in leadership; bystanders lose confidence in reporting mechanisms and the public loses belief in the integrity of the Armed Forces and Politicians. In such an environment, even the most professional units cannot function at their best because unaddressed trauma and fear corrode unity. Leadership that fails to prioritise safeguarding undermines its own command authority. It signals to subordinates that misconduct is tolerable when committed by those with power or operational value. That message, once internalised, seeps into all aspects of organisational behaviour, eroding discipline, respect, and morale.

Recruitment and retention suffer in direct proportion to this erosion of trust and modern recruits, particularly younger generations, expect institutions to align with contemporary social values of accountability, equality, and transparency. The Armed Forces compete for talent in a society that is increasingly intolerant of sexual misconduct and institutional cover-ups. When the Ministry of Defence is seen to move slowly on such issues, it sends a signal that it is out of step with the society it serves and seeks to represent. Prospective recruits, especially women and minority groups, perceive the Forces as unsafe or unresponsive to abuse. This perception deters capable individuals from joining and for those already serving, witnessing systemic inaction can be demoralising to the point of resignation. High attrition rates among women in particular are often linked to experiences of harassment, bullying, or a lack of confidence in complaint systems. The MoD’s own data, as well as independent reviews, have highlighted that sexual harassment remains a key factor in female personnel leaving prematurely. This is not simply a matter of individual dissatisfaction; it represents a measurable loss of trained and skilled personnel, undermining operational readiness and institutional continuity.

The reputational damage is equally severe. The Armed Forces occupy a unique place in the national consciousness as symbols of discipline, sacrifice, and public service. Their legitimacy relies not only on their capacity for defence but on the moral authority they project. When reports of sexual assault, institutional retaliation, or inadequate victim support become public, they strike at the core of this authority. Public trust, once eroded, is difficult to rebuild. The MoD’s repeated assurances of zero tolerance ring hollow when survivors’ experiences tell a different story. Media scrutiny, parliamentary criticism, and advocacy from veterans’ organisations have made it increasingly impossible for the Ministry to maintain plausible deniability. Yet the continued slowness of reform suggests a misreading of the public mood and a failure to appreciate how reputational legitimacy now depends on transparency and accountability rather than secrecy and self-protection.

The self-injurious nature of the MoD’s inaction can also be understood in organisational terms. Large institutions that resist necessary reform often do so out of fear of reputational risk, but this fear is self-defeating. By delaying change, the MoD allows problems to fester and grow more visible, leading to more damaging scandals over time and each revelation of mishandled cases or systemic failure forces the institution into reactive crisis management rather than deliberate reform. This cycle of denial and exposure is not sustainable. It consumes leadership bandwidth, damages relationships with Parliament and the public, and demoralises the workforce. The MoD’s reluctance to establish truly independent investigative mechanisms, or to embed trauma-informed support services across all branches, perpetuates this cycle. Instead of insulating the institution from criticism, it amplifies it.

Part of the difficulty lies in the military’s cultural identity. The Armed Forces are steeped in tradition, hierarchy, and a sense of exceptionalism born from their operational mission. These attributes can be strengths in combat but liabilities in governance. The military ethos of resilience and stoicism, while valuable in warfare, can manifest as denial or victim-blaming when dealing with trauma within its own ranks. A culture that prizes endurance over vulnerability struggles to accommodate the psychological and emotional realities of sexual trauma. Survivors who come forward often encounter scepticism or are labelled as disruptive to unit cohesion. The chain of command, tasked with maintaining order, becomes a barrier to justice when it retains discretion over whether allegations proceed. This conflation of discipline and justice leads to conflicts of interest and reinforces perceptions of institutional bias so without cultural transformation at every level of command, procedural reforms alone will remain insufficient.

The slow pace of change is thus not merely a matter of policy delay but of cultural inertia. Training programmes, awareness campaigns, and policy statements have proliferated in recent years, yet their impact is blunted by a failure to embed accountability and to empower victims with truly independent avenues of redress. The Defence Serious Crime Unit, for instance, represents an attempt at reform, but its perceived lack of full independence from the chain of command undermines confidence. Similarly, initiatives aimed at improving diversity and inclusion cannot succeed if personnel fear that reporting sexual abuse will end their careers or mark them as troublemakers. The adoption of trauma-informed practices, already standard in civilian policing and healthcare, remains patchy within the Armed Forces and until the military embraces such approaches system-wide, survivors will continue to experience secondary victimisation through insensitive investigations, inadequate support, and ostracism from peers.

It is important to recognise that this slow pace of reform also reflects a deeper failure of leadership accountability. True reform requires senior leaders to prioritise safeguarding not as a compliance issue but as a moral and operational imperative. This entails confronting uncomfortable truths about the culture over which they preside. It means accepting that sexual trauma is not an aberration caused by a few bad actors but a systemic issue enabled by power imbalances, gender dynamics, and institutional silence. Leadership that fails to internalise this lesson will continue to produce reforms that are procedural rather than transformative. The MoD has often responded to criticism with the creation of committees, reviews, and action plans, yet without a visible shift in outcomes for victims, such responses signal activity without progress. They satisfy short-term political pressures but do not rebuild trust among service personnel or the public.

The consequences of inaction extend beyond the immediate harm to victims and the reputational cost to the institution. They affect operational effectiveness. Military operations depend on trust, trust in command, trust between comrades, trust in the integrity of the institution and when personnel believe that their wellbeing is secondary to the preservation of image or hierarchy, that trust collapses. Units riven by unaddressed misconduct cannot perform cohesively. The psychological toll of unresolved trauma, coupled with institutional betrayal, leads to absenteeism, reduced performance, and long-term mental health problems. The MoD’s reluctance to integrate comprehensive mental health and sexual trauma services into routine care pathways reflects a short-sighted understanding of readiness. Investing in survivor support is not a diversion from operational priorities; it is integral to sustaining them. A force that ignores the trauma within its own ranks cannot expect to project moral authority or resilience abroad.

Moreover, the MoD’s slow adoption of best practices in safeguarding and victim support places it at odds with international allies who have moved more decisively on similar issues. The United States, Canada, and Australia have all grappled with military sexual trauma and, after years of scandal, have implemented far-reaching reforms, including independent investigation bodies and survivor-centred services. While none of these systems are perfect, their willingness to confront institutional failings publicly has marked a clear cultural shift. The UK’s relative slowness, by contrast, makes it appear defensive and out of step within an international context that increasingly demands transparency and accountability in military institutions. This not only damages bilateral credibility but also limits the UK’s moral authority when advocating for human rights and gender equality abroad.

The defence establishment often argues that change must be gradual to preserve discipline and cohesion, but this argument is hollow when the status quo itself undermines both. Cohesion built on silence and fear is not genuine; it is brittle and unsustainable. True cohesion arises from mutual respect and shared confidence that the institution will protect all its members equally. Safeguarding reform does not weaken discipline, it strengthens it by aligning authority with justice. The longer the MoD delays in embracing this principle, the more it undermines the very cohesion it seeks to preserve. Similarly, arguments about the complexity of implementing reforms across dispersed and operationally active units, while logistically valid, cannot excuse decades of inaction. Bureaucratic complexity cannot be allowed to outweigh the moral imperative of protection. The Armed Forces have demonstrated extraordinary capacity for rapid transformation when faced with external threats; they must show the same urgency when confronting internal harm.

One of the most corrosive aspects of the slow pace of change is the message it sends to survivors: that their suffering is secondary to the institution’s comfort. This message perpetuates silence and drives survivors out of the service. It also sends a message to perpetrators that the institution’s inertia will shield them. This dynamic perpetuates cycles of abuse and impunity, further damaging morale and public trust. The human cost is profound, lives derailed, careers destroyed, mental health shattered and each story of a survivor who leaves the service disillusioned represents not only personal tragedy but institutional loss. The Armed Forces invest heavily in training and developing personnel; allowing that investment to be squandered through neglect of safeguarding is a self-inflicted wound.

The reputational impact of these failures cannot be overstated because in an age of social media, parliamentary scrutiny, and investigative journalism, the MoD cannot rely on opacity to protect its image. Every instance of mishandled sexual assault cases now reaches public awareness quickly, fuelling narratives of institutional hypocrisy. The public’s admiration for the Armed Forces is deep but not unconditional so when the Forces are perceived as failing their own, that admiration curdles into disappointment and distrust. This has implications for recruitment campaigns, public funding support, and the broader social contract between the military and civilian society. The MoD’s continued hesitancy to fully acknowledge and rectify systemic failings therefore erodes the legitimacy upon which its operational freedom depends.

There is, however, an alternative path, one grounded in courage, humility, and genuine commitment to reform. The MoD could choose to treat safeguarding and survivor support not as ancillary welfare issues but as strategic imperatives integral to force effectiveness. This would require embedding independent oversight in all processes related to sexual misconduct, ensuring that survivors have access to confidential, trauma-informed care outside the chain of command, and holding leaders accountable for the climates they cultivate. It would mean resourcing victim support services adequately, training personnel at every level in trauma awareness, and publicly measuring progress through transparent reporting. Such actions would not weaken the military; they would strengthen it by aligning practice with principle. They would demonstrate to service personnel and the public alike that the institution is capable of self-reflection and moral leadership.

The moral calculus is simple: those who serve deserve protection from preventable harm, and when harm occurs, they deserve justice and care. The strategic calculus is equally clear: institutions that fail to protect their people lose their people, and with them, their credibility. The reputational calculus follows: transparency, accountability, and survivor-centred reform are not threats to the Armed Forces’ image but the only means of preserving it in the modern era. The Ministry of Defence’s slowness to act on these principles is therefore indefensible and self-injurious. It betrays the trust of those who serve, alienates those who might serve, and diminishes the respect of those who support the Forces from outside.

In conclusion, the slow pace of change in safeguarding, victim support, and the adoption of services for survivors of military sexual trauma within the UK Ministry of Defence represents a failure of leadership, morality, and strategic foresight. It is indefensible because it violates the duty of care owed to service personnel and perpetuates harm. It is self-injurious because it corrodes trust, weakens cohesion, damages recruitment and retention, and undermines the moral authority on which the Armed Forces depend. An institution that commands loyalty must earn it through justice; one that demands courage must exhibit it in confronting its own failings. The longer the Ministry of Defence delays meaningful reform, the deeper the wound to its reputation and the greater the loss to those who have already sacrificed so much in its service. True strength lies not in denial or delay but in the willingness to confront painful truths and to rebuild an institution worthy of the trust placed in it by the men and women who wear its uniform.

Tony Wright Forward Assist

Adopting a Shades of Bias Approach: Addressing Disadvantage and Discrimination in UK Military Sexual Trauma Veterans

Military Sexual Trauma (MST) remains one of the most complex and under-acknowledged forms of trauma within the UK Armed Forces community. While public and institutional awareness around sexual violence in military settings has increased in recent years, a significant gap persists in the recognition, treatment, and support of veterans who have experienced MST, particularly when it comes to male survivors, LGBTQ+ personnel, and individuals from diverse ethnic, cultural, or socioeconomic backgrounds. At the heart of this challenge lies a web of visible and invisible biases that operate at multiple levels: individual, institutional, cultural, and systemic. To effectively dismantle these barriers, a nuanced framework is needed, one that recognises how bias manifests in both overt and subtle ways, and how it intersects with trauma, identity, and structural power. The Shades of Bias approach offers such a framework, and its adoption across the UK defence and veteran care systems could play a transformative role in helping MST survivors overcome the disadvantage and discrimination they too often face.

The Shades of Bias model encourages practitioners, policymakers, and institutions to move beyond binary understandings of bias, such as overt prejudice versus neutrality and to recognise that bias exists on a spectrum. Bias can be intentional or unintentional, conscious or unconscious, individual or institutional, and it can take many forms: from stereotyping and microaggressions to systemic neglect and procedural discrimination and for MST survivors, particularly those whose experiences do not conform to dominant narratives about victimhood, such biases can become compounded and entrenched. For example, a male veteran who was sexually assaulted by another man during service may face disbelief from peers, minimisation from leadership, and invisibility within support services that are implicitly designed around female survivors. These layers of bias, personal, cultural, institutional; interact to shape that veteran’s experience of trauma, disclosure, recovery, and identity. The Shades of Bias model offers a structured lens through which these dynamics can be identified, understood, and ultimately addressed.

In the context of UK military and veteran services, the adoption of the Shades of Bias model can first and foremost help challenge entrenched cultural norms around masculinity, silence, and resilience because within the Armed Forces, there is a longstanding emphasis on toughness, self-sacrifice, and emotional control, qualities that, while important for operational effectiveness, can also suppress vulnerability and discourage help-seeking. MST survivors often internalise these norms, leading to feelings of shame, self-blame, and isolation. A male survivor may not even recognise his experience as assault, or may feel that admitting to victimisation undermines his identity as a soldier or a man. The Shades of Bias approach enables professionals to interrogate their own assumptions about gender and trauma, and to create safer spaces for veterans to explore their experiences without fear of judgement or emasculation. Rather than viewing male survivors through the lens of “rare exceptions,” the model encourages practitioners to anticipate a diversity of survivor experiences and to treat silence not as absence, but as a signal of hidden harm.

Furthermore, the model prompts institutions to examine how policies, procedures, and systems may unintentionally reinforce disadvantage. Structural bias is often the most difficult to identify because it is embedded in seemingly neutral processes. For example, many military and NHS mental health assessments do not routinely ask about MST, and those that do may use gendered language or limit their definitions of sexual trauma. As a result, survivors who do not fit the expected profile, such as heterosexual men or older veterans, are less likely to be identified and supported. Additionally, discharge processes often fail to capture the long-term impact of MST, meaning that veterans may leave service without a proper diagnosis or referral for care. The Shades of Bias framework helps institutions to critically evaluate such practices and to redesign them with equity in mind. It recognises that “equal treatment” does not always result in equitable outcomes, and that proactive efforts are required to include those who have been marginalised or overlooked.

Another powerful aspect of the Shades of Bias approach is its emphasis on intersectionality. Veterans are not a homogenous group, and their experiences of MST and the responses they receive, are shaped by multiple, intersecting identities. A Black gay veteran who experienced sexual harassment in the ranks may encounter racial stereotyping, homophobia, and victim-blaming in ways that differ from those experienced by a white heterosexual female officer. Similarly, a trans veteran may be misgendered or denied appropriate care due to outdated assumptions within healthcare settings. The model supports a holistic understanding of how such biases intersect and compound, making it possible to tailor interventions to the unique needs of each survivor. By doing so, the approach not only affirms the dignity and agency of veterans from all backgrounds but also promotes cultural competence within services that have often defaulted to a narrow conception of who “counts” as a victim.

In practical terms, adopting the Shades of Bias model would involve changes at multiple levels within the UK military and veteran care systems. At the individual level, clinicians, welfare officers, and support staff would be trained to recognise and address their own implicit biases. This would include developing awareness of how unconscious attitudes around gender, race, sexuality, and class may shape their interactions with MST survivors. For example, a mental health professional may need to reflect on whether they are more likely to take female disclosures seriously than male ones, or whether they unconsciously pathologise survivors from ethnic minority backgrounds. Such training would not be a one-off exercise but an ongoing process of reflection and accountability, embedded within supervision, team discussions, and service evaluation.

At the service level, organisations would need to assess how their structures and practices may disadvantage certain groups of MST survivors. This might involve revising intake procedures to include gender-neutral language, developing dedicated MST pathways for men, or ensuring that referral networks include services that specialise in LGBTQ+ or culturally specific trauma care. Services would also need to ensure that veterans have access to trauma-informed, survivor-led peer support groups, which can be crucial for reducing isolation and building trust. Importantly, these services must be promoted in ways that reach those who are least likely to seek help, including through targeted outreach and collaborations with grassroots veteran organisations.

At the policy level, the Shades of Bias model calls for a comprehensive review of how MST is defined, tracked, and reported within the Armed Forces and the NHS. Currently, there is a significant lack of data on MST prevalence among UK veterans, particularly among men and gender-diverse individuals. This data gap not only limits the ability of policymakers to allocate resources effectively but also contributes to the invisibility of certain survivor groups. The adoption of a bias-informed approach would support the development of inclusive data collection methods that reflect the full diversity of MST experiences. It would also inform reforms to reporting mechanisms, making it easier for survivors to disclose without fear of reprisal or disbelief. This could include anonymous reporting options, independent investigation bodies, and clear protections against retaliation.

Crucially, the Shades of Bias model also promotes survivor agency. Rather than positioning veterans as passive recipients of care, it views them as experts in their own experiences, whose insights should shape the services designed to support them. Involving survivors in service design, evaluation, and governance not only improves the relevance and effectiveness of interventions but also helps to counter the disempowerment that often follows sexual trauma. For many MST survivors, particularly those who felt silenced or betrayed during their service, having their voice heard and validated can be a profoundly healing experience. A bias-informed approach creates the conditions for such participation by recognising and dismantling the power imbalances that have historically excluded them.

Finally, the broader societal impact of adopting a Shades of Bias approach should not be underestimated. When military and veteran institutions take an active role in addressing bias and discrimination, they set a powerful example for other sectors. The Armed Forces are not only employers and healthcare providers; they are cultural institutions that shape national narratives about service, sacrifice, and identity. By openly acknowledging the reality of MST and committing to inclusive, bias-aware responses, the UK military can help to challenge stigma and shift public attitudes. This cultural shift is essential not only for current and future service members but also for the many veterans who continue to suffer in silence, years or even decades after their trauma occurred.

In conclusion, the adoption of the Shades of Bias model within UK military and veteran care systems represents a critical step toward justice, healing, and equity for MST survivors. By illuminating the complex ways in which bias operates, the model provides a roadmap for identifying and addressing the hidden barriers that prevent many veterans from receiving the care and recognition they deserve. It offers a means of making visible what has long been ignored, and of transforming institutional practices in ways that affirm the dignity of every individual who has served. MST is not just a personal wound; it is a systemic failure. Addressing it requires not only compassion but also a deep commitment to confronting the biases, both seen and unseen, that allow such harm to persist. Through the Shades of Bias approach, the UK can begin to honour that commitment and ensure that no survivor is left behind.

Fictional Case Study: “Corporal James Carter” A Male Survivor of Military Sexual Trauma

1. Snapshot

• Name: Corporal James Carter

• Age: 34

• Branch of Service: British Army – Royal Engineers

• Years of Service: 12

• Identity Factors: White British, heterosexual, working-class background, atheist

• Presenting Issue: Alcohol misuse, emotional numbing, panic attacks, difficulty maintaining relationships

2. History

James joined the British Army at 18 from a small town in the North of England. He found camaraderie and structure in the military, excelling in technical operations. At age 28, while stationed in Cyprus, James was sexually assaulted by a senior NCO after a night out. The assault occurred in a shared barracks room.

James initially brushed it off as "a drunken mistake" but later experienced shame, nightmares, and sexual dysfunction. He told no one. Attempts to speak out two years later were dismissed with remarks such as “Don’t be soft” and “You sure you didn’t want it?” by his chain of command.

His alcohol use escalated, and his performance declined. At age 32, he was medically discharged for mental health reasons without a clear MST diagnosis.

3. Acknowledging Identity

As a working-class white British male, James was deeply embedded in a culture that emphasised toughness, silence, and "banter." Expressions of vulnerability were stigmatised both in his military unit and in his community. The intersection of masculinity norms, class identity, and military culture created an environment where seeking help felt like a betrayal of identity.

4. Dynamics of Bias – Shades of Bias Analysis

Explicit Bias

• Peers and supervisors made homophobic jokes regularly, reinforcing the belief that male survivors were weak or complicit.

• When James informally disclosed to a superior, he was told, “Real men don’t get raped.”

Implicit Bias

• Health professionals repeatedly framed his PTSD symptoms through the lens of combat trauma, ignoring sexual trauma.

• A male nurse assumed James was gay when he hinted at sexual violence, reinforcing his reluctance to be open.

Structural Bias

• Lack of gender-neutral MST screening protocols in the British military and NHS pathways.

• No targeted male survivor services within his garrison or post-discharge veteran support.

• Discharge paperwork made no mention of sexual trauma, leading to gaps in support and benefits.

5. Engagement & Support

James was eventually referred to Forward Assist and this led to a reassessment of his PTSD diagnosis to military sexual trauma-related PTSD.

Key interventions included:

• Trauma-informed therapy using EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing)

• Male MST survivor peer support group 

• Veteran-specific case worker trained in MST sensitivity

• Alcohol recovery support through a specialist charity.

Providers focused on rebuilding trust, using nonjudgmental language, and validating the unique stigma faced by male survivors.

6. Self-Reflection (Provider Lens)

• Do I hold assumptions about male sexual trauma being rare or less serious?

• Am I defaulting to combat-related explanations when hearing about trauma symptoms in male veterans?

• How do I ensure I am not reinforcing harmful masculinity norms in subtle ways (e.g., language like “strong” or “resilient”)?

7. Action & Advocacy

• Partnered with a local military charity to create a pilot programme for male MST survivors.

• Advocated for inclusion of MST screening in routine NHS veteran health checks.

• Campaigned for the MOD to update safeguarding training to include male sexual trauma awareness.

• Provided training to academics on the gendered impacts of trauma disclosure and Moral Injury.

Conclusion

James’s case highlights the deep cultural, institutional, and identity-based barriers male MST survivors face in the UK. Through the Shades of Bias model, practitioners are able to unpack the overlapping layers of silence, stigma, and systemic neglect, creating space for informed care and structural change. His healing journey demonstrates the power of affirmative, trauma-informed, and bias-aware support, particularly when gender expectations obscure recognition of harm.

Tony Wright Registered Social Worker, CEO Forward Assist

Shades of Bias was co-developed and co-produced in response to a groundswell of concerns from Black and Global Majority members of the British Association of Social Workers (BASW) England.  It is the culmination of collective contributions from frontline practitioners and thought leaders from the Black and Ethnic Minority Professionals Symposium (BPS), Professional Capabilities and Development (PC & D) group, Anti-Racist Movement (ARM), School of Shabs, BASW England and  Wayne Reid

“The Courage to Feel Again: Psychedelic Pathways to Healing After Trauma”

Healing after military sexual trauma, bullying, harassment, or sexual violence is not a straight road. It curves through shame and fury, through flashes of memory that arrive uninvited and long stretches where nothing seems to change. For many people, the conventional map, talk therapy, medication, peer support may be the only form of relief. For others, it has not gone far enough. That is the space where interest in psychedelics and microdosing has grown: not as a rebellion against evidence or safety, but as a searchlight for those still wandering at the edge of what mainstream care can currently reach. The promise that draws survivors toward psychedelic-assisted approaches is deceptively simple: these experiences can soften rigid patterns in the brain and in one’s story about oneself, creating a window in which learning, connection, and emotional processing become more fluid. People living with trauma often describe feeling stuck, held fast by hypervigilance, frozen by avoidance, or locked into a looping narrative of self-blame. Psychedelics are thought to temporarily relax the defences that keep those loops spinning and to loosen the grip of fear on the nervous system. In that loosened state, with careful preparation and skilled support, survivors may be able to revisit what happened with fresh courage, to create new associations, and to reconnect to parts of themselves that once felt lost. To appreciate why this matters for survivors of military sexual trauma in particular, it helps to understand the special tangles in that kind of pain. MST happens inside a system that depends on trust and cohesion; when assault or harassment occurs, the betrayal cuts through identity, purpose, and community. Reporting can feel unsafe; retaliation and disbelief are not abstract worries but lived realities for many. The hyperstructured environment of military life, where rank, mission, and unit come before the individual, can multiply the silence that follows. If the attack occurred in a deployed context or under conditions of war-readiness, sensory triggers may be everywhere: a smell of fuel, a door slam, a time-of-day routine. Survivors of bullying and harassment, inside and outside the military, face another sort of erosion: small daily cuts that teach the body to expect danger and the self to shrink. Psychedelics do not erase any of this but by reshaping how memory and fear talk to one another, they might help survivors reclaim authorship over their own minds. A central distinction in the current landscape is between “macrodosing” psychedelic-assisted therapy, one or a few high-dose sessions held in a highly structured therapeutic container and “microdosing,” the practice of taking very small, often sub-perceptual amounts of a substance on an intermittent schedule. The first approach seeks a deep, catalysing experience, sometimes described as a “journey,” with a carefully trained guide and extensive preparation and integration. The second approach aims for gradual shifts in mood, attention, and embodied presence over time, with minimal alteration of ordinary functioning day to day and both are often discussed for trauma, and both carry distinct potentials and risks. In guided, higher-dose settings, survivors sometimes describe an experience that allows them to witness their trauma without being consumed by it. The story is not wiped away; rather, the frame widens. Participants report encountering compassion, for themselves and even for those who harmed them, not as an excuse but as a form of release. Where shame once curled inward, a different feeling, often described as dignity, can stand up. The emotions that were too hot to touch may become bearable. New insights arrive: “I survived.”and/or “It wasn’t my fault.” “I’m allowed to be angry and safe at the same time.” Afterward, the work continues. Integration is the art of turning a single peak moment into a foothold for everyday life, through therapy, peer groups, journaling, movement, and changes in relationships as without integration, even a beautiful experience can fade like a dream but with it, survivors can practice moving differently: less constrained by triggers, more aligned with values, better able to sleep, to set boundaries, to ask for help. Microdosing, by contrast, has been framed by some survivors as a way to lift a fog that never seems to burn off. The appeal lies in the possibility, still under active study, that tiny, carefully spaced amounts of a psychedelic might gently support mood, ease anxious rumination, or increase a felt sense of connection to one’s body and environment. People pursuing this route often say they feel a few degrees more resilient: stressors still happen, but their nervous systems have a bit more room to respond rather than react. For those recovering from sexual violence or chronic harassment, this can be meaningful. The small moment in which you choose to ground yourself instead of dissociating can change an entire day. Yet neither path is a cure-all, and neither is appropriate for everyone. Survivors are not a single group as experiences and identities intersect: gender, race, rank, sexuality, disability, immigration status, and more. Some people have medical histories, medications, or family backgrounds for which psychedelics are contraindicated. Others may be drawn to the idea but find that the actual experience is too intense or destabilising, especially without trauma-informed preparation and follow-up. The truth that must anchor any ethical conversation here is consent, full, informed, enthusiastic consent, and the guarantee that choosing not to pursue psychedelics is every bit as valid and honourable as choosing to explore them. If there is a movement that exemplifies a careful, veteran-centered approach, it is the work of the Heroic Hearts Project in the United States and the United Kingdom. Founded by veterans and built with their needs at the forefront, Heroic Hearts connects former service members with carefully selected psychedelic programmes in jurisdictions where such work is lawful. Their model emphasises rigorous screening, pre-retreat education, and robust post-experience integration, often within a peer community that understands military culture from the inside. The United Kingdom branch extends this ethos on British soil and in coordination with UK veterans’ networks, ensuring that cultural context and local resources are part of the healing arc. The organisation does not simply point people toward an experience and walk away; it scaffolds the journey, from clarifying intentions to processing what arose, and it trains peer mentors to keep the language and values of service present throughout. For survivors of MST, harassment, or bullying, that coherence matters. It signals: you are safe here; your story belongs; your service is respected; your boundaries are primary. Beyond logistics, the cultural translation Heroic Hearts offers is an intervention in itself. Many survivors from military backgrounds distrust mental health systems that have, at times, seemed to pathologise them without understanding them. A veteran-led program can meet that skepticism head-on, not by dismissing clinical rigor but by pairing it with the rituals, humour, and directness that soldiers, sailors, aircrew, and marines recognise. When shame has taught someone to isolate, a cohort built of peers with similar scars can lower the cost of coming forward. When betrayal has taught someone that chain of command cannot be trusted, the simple act of being welcomed by fellow veterans who will not minimise or sensationalise their story can begin to reverse the lesson and when fear has taught the nervous system that surrender equals danger, a container where surrender is reframed as courage, and where consent is actively upheld. Such conditions create a world in which real healing work is even possible. The question of why psychedelic experiences might specifically assist survivors of sexual violence has several answers. One is biological; as traumatic stress imprints not only on memory but also on the body: disturbed sleep and startle responses, altered patterns of inflammation, shifts in the delicate dance between the sympathetic and parasympathetic branches of the autonomic nervous system. Early research suggests that psychedelic states can, for a time, increase the brain’s plasticity and reconfigure patterns of connectivity associated with rigid, self-referential rumination. In plainer language: they sometimes help people get out of their own way long enough to try something new. Another answer is psychological. Psychedelics often amplify awareness of emotion, sensation, and meaning; they can allow a person to feel grief without being shattered by it and to encounter rage without losing their grounding which for a survivor who has learned that emotions are dangerous, or whose prior attempts at disclosure were met with disbelief, the chance to feel deeply in a protected space can be a rare gift. There is also a spiritual dimension, which need not be religious. Many survivors, particularly of sexual violence, carry a rupture in their relationship with their own bodies. The body becomes the scene of the crime, a place to escape, a thing to control, a vessel to numb. Psychedelic experiences can, for some, restore a sense of the body as an ally. A survivor might notice the breath with gratitude, or feel warmth in the chest that has nothing to do with attack or defense. They might, even briefly, experience their body as part of a living world rather than a battlefield. These are subtle shifts, but they matter. If healing is a practice, not a prize, then any practice that turns toward the body with gentleness is worth attention. Still, it would be irresponsible to write only of benefits simply because psychedelics are powerful. They can open doors that were closed for good reasons. Surprises, emotional, autobiographical, even perceptual, can surface and for someone with trauma, this can be healing; it can also be overwhelming. That is why preparation and integration matter as much as the session itself, and why trauma-informed facilitators are non-negotiable. It’s also why peer support organisations and veteran-specific programs like Heroic Hearts are so important: they weave in safety from the culture of the participants outward, rather than trying to retrofit safety from a clinical checklist alone and the legal landscape is complex. What is permitted in one jurisdiction may be prohibited in another. Ethical programmes ensure that participants understand the law, the risks, and the alternatives. Similarly, microdosing deserves its own cautions. The idea of small, steady gains is attractive, and some people report exactly that: improved mood, less reactivity, greater motivation to exercise or to complete therapy homework. Others notice little or feel worse, jittery, irritable, or emotionally raw. Without clinical oversight, some may be tempted to “self-titrate” in ways that drift toward unsafe use or improper combinations with other medications. The most promising possibilities still require the same accountability as any intervention: clear intentions, honest tracking of effects, consultation with healthcare providers, and a willingness to stop if harm outweighs benefit. Even then, microdosing, like any tool, is best framed as an adjunct to a broader plan that might include therapy, peer support, medical care, creative expression, and meaningful work or service. Psychedelics are lenses; they do not replace the photographer’s eye or the labour of developing the picture. An often overlooked question is what healing looks like in community. Survivors do not recover in isolation. The chain of experience moves through partners, families, units, workplaces, faith circles. Programmes that include group preparation and integration can help shift the social field around a survivor, not only the survivor’s internal world. Veterans often speak of missing the camaraderie of service even if the institution failed them. Psychedelic communities that honour that longing, while firmly safeguarding boundaries, equity, and consent can provide a place to practice trust again. The group becomes a mirror where members see their strength reflected and their pain respected. In that mirror, shame softens; in that softening, choices widen. Ethics must remain the foundation as power dynamics are acute when survivors are present. Facilitators must be accountable, transparent, and trained to recognise and prevent reenactments of harm. Clear policies against staff-participant relationships, strict confidentiality, accessible complaints processes, and a commitment to diversity are not extras; they are the frame that keeps the canvas from tearing. Veteran-led organisations often understand this instinctively, because they have seen what happens when bad actors exploit chain of command. Heroic Hearts’ focus on peer mentorship and on partnering with practitioners who respect military culture helps to encode protective norms: consent is explicit and ongoing; disclosures are handled with gravity; cultural humility is expected; and aftercare is a promise, not a pamphlet. Another layer of ethics concerns equity as not all survivors can afford to travel to legal jurisdictions or to pay for private retreats. Not all have employers who will grant the time away, or families who can absorb the labour they usually do. If psychedelic-assisted healing becomes yet another wellness luxury reserved for the well-resourced, then its social promise will have been betrayed. Part of the work, then, must be advocacy: for research, for legal clarity, for insurance coverage where appropriate, for veteran benefits that recognise the unique burdens of MST, for outreach to communities who have been harmed by similar experiences and who deserve to benefit from any new era of care because healing that leaves people behind is not healing; it is curation. It is also essential to weave in the realities of intersectional harm. Survivors from intersectional communities all carry particular patterns of stigma and disbelief. Psychedelic programmes that do not address this will replicate it. It must include staff who reflect the diversity of those they serve and curricula that name systemic harms instead of individualising them as only then can a MST survivor relax enough to do the work. For MST survivors, reaching out to a veteran-led programme such as the Heroic Hearts Project in the USA or the UK can provide a culturally attuned doorway into the conversation, from there, the work unfolds step by step: clarifying intentions, assessing medical considerations, understanding legal constraints, deciding whether macro- or micro-level approaches align with their goals and values, considering timing, and, crucially, building a plan for integration long before any substance is taken. Integration is where the survivor’s agency cuts deepest: choosing practices that make sense for them is essential if insight has the room to become habit. Yet, for those who never choose to engage with psychedelics at all, there is still something to take from this emerging field: the insistence that healing is plastic, that identity is not fixed by what was done to you, that collective care matters, that awe, whether induced by a medicine or by a sunrise, can interrupt despair. Psychedelics, at their best, remind people that meaning is a renewable resource. It belongs to ritual, to art, to friendship, to grief shared in community, to a culture that finally admits what it has too often denied: that sexual violence is not an individual failure but a collective one, and that supporting survivors is not charity but duty. When a survivor of military sexual trauma walks into a space run by veterans for veterans, when they meet facilitators who are clinically skilled and humble, when they encounter a group that will not turn away from their pain, they may begin to imagine a future that does not revolve around what happened. Psychedelic experiences, whether held as a single, profound session or approached incrementally through microdosing, can offer a catalyst for that reimagining. They can help loosen the knots that bind memory to shame. They can help light up the neural pathways of connection and courage. They can remind a person of their own capacity to feel and to choose but a catalyst is not a destination. The destination, if there is one, looks ordinary from the outside: a night of sleep uninterrupted by alarms from the past; a conversation with a friend answered with laughter; a date where consent is explicit and joy uncomplicated; a workplace where dignity is non-negotiable; a morning where the mirror shows someone alive and unafraid. Psychedelics, guided with care and situated within a community that understands, may help more survivors get there. The work of the Heroic Hearts Project in the United States and the United Kingdom points toward a model that combines legal prudence, cultural competence, and deep respect for the agency of those who served. It is not the only path. It is, for some, a true one. The emerging field will mature. Laws will change, for better or worse. Studies will clarify what helps and for whom. Stories will accumulate, including those of people for whom psychedelics were not helpful and those for whom they were transformative. Through it all, the lodestar must remain the survivor’s autonomy and safety. Healing after sexual violence requires not only new tools but a new ethic, one that centers consent, honours complexity, and keeps faith with the possibility that people can become whole again. Psychedelics are not magic. They are, at best, a disciplined form of hope, and hope, when held in capable hands, is sometimes exactly what a survivor needs to take the next step.

Note: This blog explores possibilities and emerging ideas. It isn’t medical advice, and psychedelic substances are restricted or illegal in many places. Survivors deserve safe, lawful, trauma-informed care. Anyone considering any new treatment should consult qualified clinicians, weigh risks carefully, and never feel pressured to try something that isn’t right for them.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Broken Before, Broken After: Rethinking Psychological Screening in the UK Armed Forces

The United Kingdom has long prided itself on its armed forces, institutions that have stood as symbols of national resilience, sacrifice, and unity. Generations of men and women have passed through the gates of barracks and bases, pledging service to the nation in exchange for belonging, structure, and identity. Yet beneath the uniform, and beneath the rhetoric of duty, lie individual stories that often carry invisible scars. Many recruits who enter the military bring with them heavy burdens from their past, burdens of abuse, neglect, deprivation, and instability, commonly grouped under the term adverse childhood experiences. Others may enter service without such histories, only to be deeply scarred by the realities of combat, operational stress, or institutional pressures. Still others experience a devastating combination of both, carrying childhood trauma into military life, having it magnified by the violence or intensity of service, and then being released into civilian society without the care they urgently need. This cycle of brokenness, trauma before service, trauma during service, and abandonment after service, is one of the most pressing issues facing contemporary Britain. Despite public gestures of respect toward veterans, and an increasing awareness of mental health more broadly, the truth is that far too many service personnel are failed. They are failed in recruitment, where psychological histories are poorly understood. They are failed in service, where mental strain is often dismissed as weakness. And they are failed in transition, where the promises of support are rarely matched by adequate provision. The question then arises: what if, alongside the physical tests that determine whether someone can carry a weapon, climb a wall, or march a mile, there were psychological screenings at both entry and exit? Such an approach could change not only individual lives but the moral fabric of the nation’s relationship to its defenders. To appreciate the case for such screening, it is essential first to understand the nature of adverse childhood experiences (ACEs). These encompass a wide range of early life traumas, such as physical, emotional, or sexual abuse; neglect; domestic violence; parental substance misuse; parental mental illness; or family instability such as divorce or imprisonment. The research in psychology and psychiatry is clear: individuals who experience multiple ACEs are at heightened risk of poor life outcomes, including mental illness, substance abuse, homelessness, and difficulties with interpersonal relationships. These individuals are often in search of belonging, identity, and stability, things the military, at least on the surface, seems uniquely equipped to provide. The rigid routines, clear hierarchies, and sense of purpose can feel like a sanctuary for someone whose childhood was chaotic and unsafe. The camaraderie, the bonds of “brotherhood” or “sisterhood,” offer the semblance of family that may have been absent. However, the very same qualities that attract individuals with ACEs can also amplify their vulnerabilities. The culture of stoicism and toughness, the suppression of emotional expression, and the demand for conformity can all interact with unresolved trauma in dangerous ways. A soldier who has learned to dissociate in childhood may excel in the short term, appearing highly disciplined, yet later unravel under pressure. Another may become hypervigilant, a trait valuable in combat but destructive in peacetime relationships. Still another may fall into cycles of aggression, alcohol abuse, or self-destructive behaviour. Without recognition of these dynamics, the military inadvertently recruits individuals whose past wounds are both masked and magnified by the institution itself. At the same time, those who enter service without significant childhood trauma are not immune. Combat is one of the most intense psychological environments a human can endure. Witnessing death, killing others, surviving explosions, or living in constant threat creates a fertile ground for post-traumatic stress disorder. But even outside of direct combat, modern military service presents risks: long deployments away from family, moral injury when actions contradict personal values, institutional bullying, or exposure to sexual harassment and assault. The war may be “out there,” but trauma is also in the barracks, in the routines, in the dislocations of service life. The tragedy deepens when one considers what happens at the point of discharge. Veterans are often lauded in speeches, applauded at public ceremonies, or commemorated on remembrance days. Yet in everyday life many slip into obscurity, struggling with unemployment, mental illness, addiction, or homelessness. For those with childhood trauma, military service was supposed to be an escape, but it often ends with a cruel return to instability. For those traumatised by war, the transition to civilian life can feel like exile, with memories they cannot process and a society that does not understand. And for those who bear both burdens, the weight is unbearable. So why, despite decades of awareness about trauma, does the system continue to fail? One answer lies in cultural attitudes. The military has historically valorised resilience, toughness, and silence. To admit psychological distress has been equated with weakness or failure, both to the individual and to the unit. Screening recruits for ACEs might raise fears that fewer would be deemed “fit to serve.” Screening at exit might expose the sheer scale of unaddressed suffering, creating a moral and financial responsibility that the government is reluctant to bear. There is also the question of resources: mental health provision in the NHS is already stretched, and specialist veteran services are few and far between. The political rhetoric of “supporting our troops” often evaporates when it comes to funding therapy, rehabilitation, or long-term care. Yet the argument for psychological screening is not merely compassionate but practical. From a military perspective, knowing the psychological profile of recruits is essential for operational readiness. A soldier with untreated trauma is not only at risk of personal collapse but may also endanger comrades. Early identification could allow for interventions, whether that be therapeutic support, tailored assignments, or, in some cases, advising against enlistment altogether. At exit, screening could act as a safety net, catching those who would otherwise fall into crisis. Just as soldiers return equipment and undergo medical checks, so too should they have their psychological health assessed, with referrals made proactively rather than reactively. Implementing such screenings would require sensitivity. The purpose must not be to exclude or stigmatise but to support and prepare. A recruit who reveals a history of childhood abuse should not automatically be barred but should enter service with awareness and access to resources. An exiting soldier who shows signs of PTSD should not be discharged with a leaflet and a phone number but should be linked directly to a pathway of care. Screening should not be a bureaucratic box-ticking exercise but a meaningful dialogue between the individual and professionals trained in trauma. The challenge, of course, is cultural change. Military institutions are slow to adapt, and stigma around mental health remains powerful. Many service members fear that admitting vulnerability will harm their careers or reputations. To make screening work, there must be a shift in ethos: from a culture of silence to a culture of strength through honesty. Leaders must model openness, demonstrating that acknowledging trauma is not weakness but courage. Society at large must also change, recognising that supporting veterans is not an act of charity but a debt of justice. It is worth considering the deeper implications of such an approach. Screening at entry acknowledges that the military is not a neutral employer but one that shapes, and is shaped by, the psychological lives of its recruits. Screening at exit acknowledges that the debt to service personnel does not end with their contract but continues as long as their wounds endure. This reframes the relationship between the state and the soldier, moving away from a transactional logic of “serve and be forgotten” toward an ethic of care. There will be critics who argue that such measures are too costly, too invasive, or too impractical. Yet the cost of inaction is already visible: veterans sleeping rough on the streets of British cities, families torn apart by untreated PTSD, coroners’ reports of suicides linked to service. The economic cost of homelessness, addiction, and prison far outweighs the cost of preventative care. More importantly, the moral cost, the betrayal of those who served, is incalculable. To explore this issue further, it is worth imagining the life of a single soldier. Consider a young man raised in a home where violence and neglect were daily realities. Joining the army, he finds the structure he craved, the belonging he longed for. He excels, even thrives, until a deployment to Afghanistan exposes him to horrors he cannot process. Returning home, he begins to drink heavily, becomes estranged from his family, and eventually leaves the military without support. Within a few years, he is homeless, his medals tucked away in a box he no longer opens. Now imagine that same life, but with screening in place. At entry, his ACEs are identified, and he is offered counselling alongside his training. At exit, his PTSD is recognised, and he is connected directly to specialist care. The trajectory is different. The life is saved. Multiply that by thousands, and the case for reform becomes undeniable. What then would screening look like in practice? At entry, recruits could undergo structured psychological assessments alongside their physical tests. These would explore trauma histories, coping mechanisms, and current mental health. Confidentiality would be paramount, as would assurances that disclosure does not automatically mean exclusion. The aim would be to match support with need, not to punish honesty. At exit, a similar process would occur, involving interviews, self-report measures, and clinical evaluations. The findings would not vanish into paperwork but would trigger referrals to ongoing services, with follow-up to ensure continuity of care. None of this is revolutionary. Other high-stakes professions, such as aviation, already integrate psychological assessments. In civilian healthcare, trauma-informed practice is increasingly mainstream. The only difference is that the military has, until now, resisted acknowledging the extent of psychological injury. The United Kingdom owes its soldiers more than medals and ceremonies. It owes them recognition of the full human cost of service, including the ways that service intersects with prior vulnerabilities. It owes them systems that do not abandon them at their most fragile. It owes them lives beyond the uniform, lives in which they can be whole, connected, and healed. To continue the current cycle, where many join already wounded, are further wounded by service, and are then discarded, is to perpetuate a profound injustice. Psychological screening is not a panacea, but it is a vital step toward breaking that cycle. It affirms that those who serve are not expendable tools but human beings whose dignity must be protected before, during, and after their time in uniform. The title “Broken Before, Broken After” is not merely a rhetorical flourish. It captures the reality faced by too many veterans in Britain today. But it also implies that the breakage is not inevitable. With foresight, with courage, and with compassion, the cycle can be interrupted. The nation can choose to honour its soldiers not only in death but in life. The question is not whether it can afford to do so, but whether it can afford not to in these uncertain times.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

"Tomorrow Again" ... The Despair of Socially Isolated Veterans With Musculoskeletal (MSK) Conditions.

Loneliness has many disguises, but for countless UK military veterans, its mask is painfully familiar. When service ends, a new battle begins, not with a visible enemy, but with silence, repetition, and a body that betrays them daily. Many veterans are haunted not only by memories of combat but by the grinding isolation of civilian life shaped by musculoskeletal injuries that make community participation and exercise impossible. The phrase Tomorrow Again captures the bleak cycle as each day mirrors the one before it, steeped in desperation, dulled by painkillers, numbed by alcohol, punctuated by scrolling through social media feeds that promise connection but deliver little more than ghostly echoes of camaraderie once taken for granted. This blog explores the psychological terrain of isolation among UK veterans, tracing how injury, social dislocation, and unhealthy coping strategies form a self-perpetuating loop. It also examines the limits of digital contact, the rise of unhealthy eating habits, and the mood-altering fog of prescribed and self-prescribed substances. In doing so, it seeks to honour the resilience of veterans while naming the structures and silences that leave so many of them stranded in the endless repetition of tomorrow again. For most soldiers, service is not just a job but an identity. From early mornings on the parade ground to the chaos of deployment, life in the military is defined by rhythm, discipline, and shared purpose. Injuries sustained in service often sever this sense of meaning as sharply as they sever tendons or shatter bones. A veteran with chronic back pain or damaged knees may find themselves unable to participate in the simple rituals of community life: walking to the shops, joining a local football club, volunteering at a community centre. Each inability chips away at purpose, reinforcing a narrative of uselessness. The civilian world can feel alien, even hostile. Colleagues in civilian jobs may not understand the military ethos; neighbours may appear indifferent. Injuries restrict not only physical capacity but the sense of belonging. To be unable to kneel in a garden, to carry shopping, or to sit comfortably in a cinema, these small exclusions accumulate. Veterans report feeling like prisoners in their own homes, watching life unfold beyond their reach. The absence of purpose is compounded by the absence of camaraderie. In service, even suffering was shared. In civilian life, pain becomes solitary. It is here that the cycle of loneliness begins: when every tomorrow promises only another day of limitation. Musculoskeletal injuries are not fleeting afflictions; they are permanent companions. Every step can be accompanied by a stab of pain, every movement by hesitation. Veterans speak of pain as a voice that never quiets, a reminder of what was lost and what can never return. Pain shapes behaviour. It narrows the horizon of possibility. Activities once taken for granted, exercise, social outings, travel, become calculations of endurance, when even sitting at a dinner table for too long can become intolerable. Pain not only restricts the body; it shrinks the world. Yet pain is not neutral, it reshapes mood and cognition. Chronic discomfort erodes patience, fosters irritability, and feeds hopelessness. Over time, it becomes more than a symptom; it becomes the environment in which life is lived. For many veterans, pain does not merely accompany loneliness, it creates it. In the absence of physical mobility, many veterans turn to social media. Platforms offer the promise of reconnection: regimental groups, old comrades, military charities. Yet these digital spaces often magnify isolation rather than alleviate it. Scrolling through feeds filled with curated happiness, veterans are reminded of what they lack. Seeing peers engaged in activities holidays, family outings, marathons, only underscores their own immobility. Online exchanges rarely carry the depth of face-to-face connection once shared in barracks or deployment. The pauses, the silences, the physical presence of another human being cannot be replicated by glowing screens. Virtual connection offers stimulation but rarely sustenance. It distracts but does not heal. Veterans describe logging off only to feel the weight of isolation even more heavily, like the echoing quiet after turning off a radio. Social media becomes a loop: scroll, compare, feel worse, repeat! A digital version of tomorrow again. When bodies are restricted, food often becomes both comfort and punishment. Veterans with musculoskeletal injuries may rely on takeaway meals or processed food, either because cooking is physically demanding or because motivation collapses under the weight of depression. Unhealthy eating habits are not merely indulgence, they are symptomatic of deeper despair. Poor nutrition fuels a vicious cycle. Weight gain intensifies joint pain. Sugar highs crash into lows. Energy dwindles. The body becomes both battlefield and burden, reinforcing the sense that nothing can change. Alcohol, too, enters this cycle and for many veterans, drinking begins as a way to blur pain, to quiet intrusive memories, to simulate camaraderie in the lonely kitchen of a small flat. Alcohol provides temporary relief but deepens depression, disrupts sleep, and worsens physical health. What begins as one drink to dull the evening can spiral into dependency. Drugs, whether recreational or misused prescription, serve similar purposes. They become tools for escape, even if only for a few hours. But like alcohol, they extract their price in the form of foggy mornings, strained relationships, and eroded mental health. Doctors, often with limited options, prescribe painkillers to veterans living with chronic injuries. These medications, while sometimes necessary, can profoundly alter mood and cognition. Opioid-based painkillers blur emotional edges but also flatten affect. Days pass not in sharp distress but in dulled monotony, an endless twilight state where ambition dissolves. Some veterans describe becoming strangers to themselves under the influence of medication, irritable, forgetful, detached. While the drugs may reduce pain, they also reduce agency. They replace sharp suffering with a hazy absence and for those already vulnerable to isolation, this chemical dullness compounds despair. The danger is not only physiological dependence but existential erosion. Life becomes a cycle of tablets taken at set hours, a pharmacological clock that dictates the rhythm of tomorrow again. The repetition of days is central to the veteran experience of isolation. Morning pain dictates the pace of the day. A poor night’s sleep, worsened by pain or alcohol, makes waking heavy. Meals are predictable, often processed. Social interaction is limited to a nod at a shopkeeper or a few typed words online. Evenings descend into television, scrolling, or drinking. Then comes night, often restless, and the knowledge that tomorrow will bring the same. This monotony is not benign. It corrodes mental health, feeding depression and suicidal ideation. Veterans may ask themselves: Is this all that remains? When the future offers no promise of change, hope contracts. The cycle of tomorrow again is not merely boring, it is suffocating. The isolation of veterans is not only personal, it is systemic. While charities and government programmes exist, many veterans fall through gaps. Some are unaware of support services; others are too proud to seek help. Still others encounter bureaucratic barriers that make accessing aid exhausting. The silence surrounding veteran isolation allows the problem to persist in shadows. Society praises the heroism of those who serve but often neglects the hidden battles they fight afterward. Loneliness, addiction, and chronic pain rarely make headlines. Yet for thousands of veterans, these are the defining features of daily life. It is not enough to describe the problem without imagining solutions and while this blog dwells in loneliness and despair, it must also point toward possibility. Community outreach must be reimagined to include those with limited mobility. Virtual connection, while limited, can be enhanced by structured programmes, online group therapy, digital storytelling projects, and accessible virtual communities designed for depth rather than superficial scrolling. Medical support should move beyond tablets. Pain management can incorporate physiotherapy, counselling, and holistic approaches that treat veterans as whole people rather than problems to be medicated. Above all, society must listen. Veterans should not be left to whisper their loneliness into the void of social media. Their stories, of pain, isolation, and resilience, must be brought into the open, not only to honour them but to ensure that tomorrow again does not remain the only future they can imagine. Tomorrow Again is not just a blog title …it is a reality for too many UK veterans. Injured in service, they live in bodies that restrict them, in homes that confine them, in societies that fail to see them. Their days are repetitive cycles of pain, unhealthy coping, and digital illusions of connection. To confront this reality is to acknowledge a national responsibility. These men and women once lived with purpose, camaraderie, and discipline. They deserve more than loneliness, more than dependence on substances and screens. They deserve community, compassion, and care. Until society fully recognises and responds, veterans will continue to wake into the bleakness of tomorrow again. Yet by naming their isolation and demanding change, we can begin to turn the cycle, not into tomorrow again, but into tomorrow with hope.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Invisible Wounds, Silent Betrayals: How Institutional Reluctance Deepens Veteran Trauma in the UK.

The relationship between the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defence and its responsibility toward those who have served has always been fraught with tension, negotiation, and at times a profound ambivalence. For centuries, military institutions have faced the challenge of reconciling the demands of war with the long-term obligations owed to those who fight them. In the modern era, the costs of combat are increasingly understood not only in physical terms but also in psychological and neurological dimensions. The experiences of veterans who endure trauma, both from the battlefield and within the culture of the armed forces, reveal gaps between emerging scientific understanding and institutional responses. Three distinct but interlinked areas highlight the consequences of this reluctance: the Ministry’s hesitation to explore psychedelic therapies for trauma, its refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma to frame experiences of abuse and assault within the ranks, and the lack of investment in advanced neuroimaging for veterans with suspected Traumatic Brain Injury. Together, these choices risk isolating and disenfranchising the most vulnerable veterans, leaving many unsupported and amplifying the despair that can ultimately contribute to suicide.

The use of psychedelics as a potential treatment for trauma has, in recent years, gained prominence within clinical and scientific discourse worldwide. Research conducted in the United States, Europe, and elsewhere has suggested that substances such as MDMA, psilocybin, and other psychedelic compounds hold promise in addressing treatment-resistant post-traumatic stress disorder. For veterans whose trauma manifests in persistent flashbacks, hypervigilance, nightmares, and emotional blunting, traditional therapeutic approaches are often insufficient. Cognitive behavioural therapy, exposure therapy, and pharmacological interventions with antidepressants and anxiolytics can provide relief, but they frequently fail to resolve the deep-rooted neurological imprints of trauma. Psychedelic-assisted therapy, by contrast, offers a mechanism to break entrenched patterns of fear and avoidance, allowing patients to process experiences in a radically new way. The reluctance of the Ministry of Defence to explore this avenue represents not merely bureaucratic conservatism but an act of neglect toward those who suffer. Veterans are left with limited options, their suffering prolonged by an institutional culture more concerned with risk aversion than with pioneering solutions.

The moral weight of this reluctance becomes clearer when one considers the human cost of untreated trauma. Veterans are often trained to suppress vulnerability, to embody resilience and stoicism. When these individuals later seek help, it is typically because the burden of trauma has reached unbearable proportions. Denying them access to potentially transformative treatments on the grounds of stigma, outdated drug classifications, or political caution is to compound their suffering. Instead of leading the way in cutting-edge veteran care, the Ministry risks positioning itself as an obstacle, forcing veterans to seek support outside official structures or even to travel abroad for treatments unavailable at home. This failure to adapt perpetuates alienation between veterans and the institution that once demanded their loyalty, and it erodes trust in the state’s commitment to their welfare.

Equally damaging is the Ministry’s refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma. Words carry power, and the absence of a recognised framework for describing experiences of sexual assault or harassment within the military leaves survivors without a language to articulate their pain. In the United States, the term has been formally acknowledged for decades, providing a context in which survivors can situate their experiences and seek validation. In the UK, by contrast, the lack of an equivalent terminology sustains silence and stigma. Survivors of sexual assault within the military community may find themselves isolated, unsure whether their experiences fit within the broader narrative of military trauma. By refusing to legitimise the term, the Ministry implicitly signals that these experiences are not central to its understanding of veteran welfare.

The implications of this refusal extend beyond semantics. Without the recognition of Military Sexual Trauma as a category of experience, survivors are denied the structural supports that flow from such acknowledgment. It becomes more difficult to secure tailored treatment, to obtain institutional redress, or to foster a sense of solidarity with others who have endured similar harm. Veterans who carry both the scars of combat and the wounds of sexual violence are particularly vulnerable, and yet they are rendered invisible by the refusal to name their experiences. The disenfranchisement that follows is profound. Survivors may disengage from services, distrust military or governmental institutions, and retreat further into isolation. For individuals already grappling with the weight of trauma, this marginalisation increases the risk of self-destructive behaviours, including substance misuse, withdrawal from family life, and in the worst cases, suicide.

The consequences of institutional silence are magnified by the military’s cultural norms. Within a structure that valorises toughness and camaraderie, admitting to sexual victimisation carries immense stigma. Survivors may fear disbelief, reprisal, or career damage. Without an official framework to support disclosure, many remain silent. This silence is not neutral; it is corrosive. It breeds shame, alienation, and despair. The refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma thus represents not just a bureaucratic omission but a denial of the lived reality of countless veterans. The Ministry’s reluctance to face this reality perpetuates cycles of disenfranchisement and trauma, particularly among women and other vulnerable groups who may already feel marginalised within the military community.

Parallel to these failures is the chronic underinvestment in neuroimaging technologies such as CT and MRI scans for veterans with suspected Traumatic Brain Injury. The physical injuries sustained in combat are often visible and incontrovertible, but brain injuries can be subtle, their symptoms overlapping with psychological trauma. Headaches, dizziness, memory problems, emotional dysregulation, and difficulty concentrating may all stem from underlying brain injury, yet without adequate imaging these conditions remain undiagnosed or misattributed. Veterans may be told that their struggles are purely psychological, when in fact they are living with the neurological consequences of blast exposure, concussive forces, or repeated impacts. The failure to provide sufficient access to advanced imaging is a failure to take seriously the complexity of modern warfare injuries.

The neglect of brain injury diagnostics is not simply a medical oversight but a structural issue. It reflects a system in which cost-saving and risk management take precedence over comprehensive care. CT and MRI scans are resource-intensive, requiring both infrastructure and expertise, but the cost of neglecting these needs is borne by veterans who are misdiagnosed, untreated, or inadequately supported. The unexplained rise in suicide among serving personnel and veterans may be partly attributable to this neglect. For individuals whose neurological injuries remain invisible, the sense of despair is intensified. They may feel misunderstood, dismissed, or abandoned. Without a clear diagnosis, they are denied validation and tailored interventions. The dissonance between their lived experience and the institutional response deepens feelings of hopelessness, fuelling the tragic pathway toward self-harm and suicide.

These three areas—psychedelic therapies, Military Sexual Trauma, and Traumatic Brain Injury—are not isolated issues but interconnected threads of a broader narrative. They reveal a Ministry of Defence that is consistently cautious, defensive, and reluctant to adapt, even when adaptation is necessary to safeguard the welfare of veterans. At the heart of each issue lies a failure to listen to the voices of those most affected. Veterans themselves have often been the strongest advocates for psychedelic research, for recognition of sexual trauma, and for improved brain injury diagnostics. Yet their voices are too often sidelined by institutional inertia. The result is a widening gap between policy and lived experience, between the promises of support and the reality of neglect.

The impact of these failures reverberates through the veteran community. Disenfranchisement is not an abstract concept but a lived reality marked by isolation, mistrust, and despair. Veterans who feel unsupported are less likely to engage with services, more likely to struggle in silence, and more vulnerable to crises that culminate in suicide. The moral responsibility of the Ministry of Defence is not simply to provide pensions or token support but to ensure that those who have borne the burdens of service are cared for in ways that reflect the best available knowledge. To refuse to explore new therapies, to deny the language of trauma, and to neglect neurological diagnostics is to betray that responsibility.

The broader consequences for society are also significant. When veterans suffer, the effects ripple outward to families, communities, and the public’s relationship with the military. Families often bear the brunt of unaddressed trauma, managing the fallout of emotional volatility, depression, and withdrawal. Communities witness the decline of individuals once held up as embodiments of national service. Public confidence in the state’s willingness to care for its veterans erodes when stories of neglect and disenfranchisement circulate. The suicide of a veteran is not only a personal tragedy but a collective failure, a stark reminder that the cost of war extends far beyond the battlefield.

It is worth reflecting on the symbolism embedded in these institutional choices. Psychedelics are rejected because they are associated with illegality, counterculture, and perceived risk, yet the risk of inaction is far greater. The term Military Sexual Trauma is refused because it challenges the military’s self-image as a cohesive and honourable institution, yet ignoring abuse corrodes that very cohesion. CT and MRI scans are underfunded because they are expensive, yet the cost of untreated brain injury is measured in lives lost. In each case, the reluctance to act stems from an unwillingness to confront uncomfortable truths or to invest in solutions that demand courage and change. For an institution built upon discipline and bravery, this reluctance is paradoxical, even shameful.

The path forward requires more than incremental reform. It requires a cultural shift within the Ministry of Defence toward openness, innovation, and humility. To embrace psychedelic therapies would signal a commitment to evidence-based care and a willingness to lead rather than follow. To adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma would affirm the reality of survivors and provide them with a platform for healing. To invest fully in brain injury diagnostics would demonstrate that every aspect of veteran health is taken seriously, not only those that are visible or convenient. Such steps would not erase the past, but they would begin to rebuild trust between veterans and the institution that shaped their lives.

At the heart of these changes must be an acknowledgment of the unique vulnerabilities faced by veterans. Trauma is not uniform, and the intersection of psychological, sexual, and neurological injuries produces a spectrum of suffering that defies simple categorisation. Institutions must be capable of recognising complexity rather than reducing experiences to one-dimensional diagnoses. They must also accept that vulnerability does not diminish the worth of those who served but underscores the depth of their sacrifice. To disenfranchise vulnerable veterans is to betray the very principles of duty and honour that the military espouses.

Ultimately, the reluctance of the Ministry of Defence to embrace new therapies, acknowledge hidden traumas, and invest in advanced diagnostics has profound human costs. The unexplained rise in suicides among serving personnel and veterans cannot be understood without reference to these failures. Each life lost represents not only an individual tragedy but also an indictment of institutional neglect. If the Ministry wishes to honour the service of veterans, it must move beyond rhetoric and toward substantive action. To do otherwise is to perpetuate a cycle of disenfranchisement and despair, leaving the most vulnerable veterans abandoned by the very system that once commanded their loyalty.

In this sense, the question is not whether the Ministry can afford to embrace change but whether it can afford not to. The costs of inaction, measured in suffering, alienation, and death far exceed the financial or political risks of innovation. To heal the wounds of war, both visible and invisible, requires courage equal to that displayed on the battlefield. It requires the humility to listen, the openness to learn, and the resolve to act. Only then can the debt owed to veterans be meaningfully repaid, and only then can the cycle of disenfranchisement be broken.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Why the UK Armed Forces Charity Sector Struggles to Engage Younger Veterans.

The charity sector that supports armed forces personnel and veterans in the United Kingdom has long been a pillar of assistance for those who have served. From large and well-established institutions that have operated for over a century to smaller grassroots organisations founded in recent decades, these charities have offered practical support, financial aid, medical help, mental health counselling, housing assistance, and a sense of belonging for veterans of every background. Yet, in recent years, a recurring concern has become increasingly visible: a widening gap between these charities and the generation of younger veterans who have served in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Whilst the need for support remains acute, particularly in areas like mental health, employment transitions, and social integration, many younger veterans do not appear to connect with or fully utilise the services available to them. So, why does the UK armed forces charity sector struggles to engage younger veterans ? Is it issues of identity, perception, culture, generational difference, technology, and trust? Or could it be that the legacy of traditional military charities does not intersect with the new realities of younger veterans’ lives ? Do traditional military charities reflect the social, political, and economic shifts that have shaped how recent generations experience both military service and civilian life after leaving? Personally, I believe it is not a story of absence but of misalignment as younger veterans do not reject the concept of support, but many fail to see themselves reflected in the structures, images, and narratives offered by the established charity sector. The UK has one of the most extensive networks of armed forces charities in the world. Many of these organisations emerged from the First and Second World Wars, when vast numbers of men returned from the front lines in need of rehabilitation, pensions, housing, and help finding employment. The culture of those earlier veterans’ charities was rooted in collective identity, national sacrifice, and an ethos of mutual aid that mirrored the camaraderie of military service. Over time, this culture solidified into a model of support that was hierarchical, paternalistic, and heavily steeped in tradition. For older veterans, particularly those of the mid-twentieth century, these traditions were familiar and comforting. The language of remembrance, duty, and regimental pride resonated deeply with men and women who had lived through conscription or long careers in uniform. However, by the twenty-first century, the context of military service had shifted. The UK armed forces had transformed into a smaller, highly professional, all-volunteer force. Deployments became more frequent and often controversial, linked to conflicts such as Iraq and Afghanistan. Veterans of these campaigns returned not to a society where military service was universal or widely understood, but to a more fragmented civilian environment where only a small proportion of the public had direct ties to the armed forces and against this backdrop, many younger veterans found that the cultural assumptions embedded in long-established charities did not align with their lived realities. One of the central reasons for the difficulty in engaging younger veterans is the difference in identity between generations. Older veterans often embraced a collective sense of being part of a brotherhood or family that persisted long after leaving the military. Regimental associations, remembrance events, and local veterans’ clubs embodied this sense of belonging. Younger veterans, however, frequently navigate identity in more individualised ways. They may be proud of their service, but they are also cautious about being defined entirely by their military past. For many, life after the military is a conscious effort to transition into a new identity as a civilian professional, parent, or student. To affiliate closely with traditional veterans’ organisations may feel like holding on to an identity they are trying to move beyond. This difference in expectation is profound. When a younger veteran is approached by a charity whose branding relies on wartime imagery, old regimental insignia, or the language of sacrifice and remembrance, the message can feel out of step with the reality of a 30-year-old who left the army after a decade of service and is now focused on building a civilian career and what older generations viewed as honour and continuity can strike younger veterans as nostalgia and irrelevance. As a result, the charity sector sometimes appears to be speaking a language that does not resonate with its intended audience. Another significant barrier lies in the way younger veterans perceive need. The image of the veteran in the public imagination has often been tied to visible injury, long-term disability, or homelessness. These images were reinforced by decades of charitable campaigns that used them to mobilise sympathy and donations. Younger veterans, however, may not see themselves reflected in these portrayals. They may struggle with invisible issues such as post-traumatic stress, anxiety, depression, or difficulties adjusting to civilian life, but they do not identify with the image of the destitute or broken ex-soldier. In fact, many fear that reaching out to a veterans’ charity would mark them as weak or damaged, a label they resist. The stigma of support is compounded by the military culture itself. Younger veterans, raised in a professionalised force, often internalised the ethos of resilience, independence, and self-reliance. Asking for help can feel like a betrayal of that ethos and where previous generations might have seen veterans’ organisations as natural extensions of their regimental family, younger veterans may see them as places of last resort, to be avoided until a crisis becomes unmanageable. By the time a younger veteran does reach out, the problems may have deepened to the point where intervention is far more difficult. The world younger veterans inhabit after leaving service is also very different from that faced by their predecessors. In earlier decades, the armed forces were often seen as a respected and integral part of national life. The transition to civilian employment, though challenging, occurred in a society that broadly recognised and valued military experience. Today, that recognition is less assured. Many employers do not understand how to translate military skills into civilian qualifications. Media coverage of military operations often focuses on political controversies rather than individual sacrifice. Younger veterans therefore move into a civilian landscape that can feel indifferent or even hostile to their experiences and when charities continue to frame their services around narratives of honour and sacrifice, younger veterans may perceive a disconnect with how they are actually treated in civilian life. They may also feel that charitable assistance risks reinforcing an image of veterans as dependent or pitiful, rather than capable and adaptable. For a generation that values autonomy and modernity, aligning with charities that appear to be ‘trapped in amber’ can feel like a step backward. Communication is another critical factor. Younger veterans are digital natives, accustomed to using smartphones, social media, and online networks for information and support. Many traditional charities still rely heavily on in-person events, printed newsletters, or telephone hotlines and while these methods have value, they may fail to capture the attention of younger veterans who expect seamless online services, instant responses, and the ability to access help discreetly.The absence of digital engagement can make charities appear out of touch. A veteran who is struggling at 2 a.m. may turn not to a charity’s office number but to an online forum, a peer-to-peer support group on social media, or even unrelated communities such as gaming networks where anonymity and immediacy are available so by the time charities reach out through traditional channels, the younger veteran may have already disengaged. The competition for attention in the digital age is fierce, and unless charities modernise their approaches, they risk losing relevance altogether. Trust is another major factor influencing engagement. Over the past decade, public controversies over the governance of some large charities have eroded confidence. Media stories of excessive executive pay, fundraising practices perceived as aggressive, or inefficient use of donations have left many people sceptical and for younger veterans, who are often wary of institutions in general, these stories reinforce doubts about whether charities truly serve their interests. Younger generations tend to place high value on transparency and authenticity. They want to see clear evidence of impact and to know that their peers, rather than distant administrators, are shaping the services they receive. When charities operate in ways that appear bureaucratic or top-down, they alienate younger veterans who prefer horizontal, community-driven support. Trust is not automatically given; it must be earned through responsiveness, openness, and direct connection. The demographic profile of younger veterans is also more diverse than that of previous generations. Women now make up a larger proportion of the armed forces, and their experiences of service and transition often differ from those of men. Minority ethnic personnel are also more represented than in earlier decades, and they face unique challenges related to identity, community, and belonging. Many charities, however, still present imagery and services that reflect a male, white, and heteronormative view of the veteran. This lack of inclusivity can make younger veterans from diverse backgrounds feel that the charities are not for them. Similarly, the experiences of reservists and those who served shorter terms complicate the traditional picture of the veteran. Someone who served four years in the reserves alongside a civilian career may not feel entitled to the same support as someone who served twenty years full-time, yet their needs can be just as pressing. When charities do not make space for these varied identities, younger veterans may conclude that they do not belong in the community of support on offer. I would also argue that economic pressures also shape engagement. The austerity policies of the 2010s reduced public funding for social services, leading to greater reliance on charities to fill the gaps and for younger veterans, this often created confusion about where to seek help: should they go to a government agency, a charity, or a local community service? The overlap between state responsibility and charitable provision blurred boundaries, and some veterans came to see charities less as voluntary helpers and more as substitutes for inadequate public policy. This perception undermines trust and diminishes the sense of gratitude that older generations may have felt toward charities. Politically, younger veterans have also served in conflicts that divided public opinion. Whereas service in the Second World War or even the Falklands War was framed in clear moral terms, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan provoked widespread debate. Veterans of those campaigns sometimes feel that their service is viewed through a political lens rather than a purely humanitarian one. If charities present their support using narratives of national unity and unambiguous heroism, younger veterans may find the portrayal at odds with their own ambivalent experiences. Mental health has become one of the most urgent issues for younger veterans, yet it is also one of the hardest areas for charities to address effectively. Its true that younger veterans are more willing than older generations to acknowledge mental health challenges, but they want services that are modern, professional, and evidence-based. If a charity appears to offer outdated or generic counselling rather than specialised therapeutic interventions, younger veterans may choose to seek help elsewhere. Moreover, the landscape of mental health care has become crowded with multiple providers, including the NHS, private clinics, and grassroots peer-support groups. In this environment, the role of a traditional charity is less clear. Some veterans perceive duplication of services, while others become overwhelmed by the sheer number of organisations claiming to help so without clear coordination, younger veterans may simply disengage from all of them. The enduring traditions of the armed forces charity sector, while a source of pride and stability, can also become obstacles. Ceremonial language, formal structures, and hierarchical governance mirror the military system itself and for veterans trying to step away from the rigidity of military life, this continuity may feel oppressive rather than comforting. Younger veterans often seek informal, flexible, and user-led spaces where they can share experiences without judgment. They want communities that are responsive to their contemporary culture, not ones that bind them to a past they do not fully identify with. If the armed forces charity sector in the UK struggles to engage younger veterans, it is not because younger veterans are unwilling to connect, but because the sector often fails to meet them where they are. To re-engage, charities must adapt. This means embracing digital platforms and online communities with the same seriousness as physical gatherings. It means developing inclusive branding that reflects the diversity of today’s armed forces. It requires a shift from paternalistic models of support to collaborative ones where younger veterans shape the services they receive. It also means demonstrating transparency, impact, and authenticity in every aspect of work. Most importantly, it requires listening. Younger veterans bring with them complex stories of modern military service, stories shaped by rapid deployments, political controversies, and the pressures of reintegration into a society that often does not understand them. To engage them, charities must acknowledge these complexities honestly, without relying on simplistic narratives of heroism or sacrifice. The challenge is not merely to provide services but to create communities of belonging where younger veterans feel seen and valued. The UK armed forces charity sector faces a critical moment. The veterans it was originally designed to serve are ageing, while a new generation emerges with different needs, expectations, and identities. The struggle to engage younger veterans is not a matter of apathy but of misalignment between tradition and contemporary reality where cultural differences, perceptions of stigma, technological gaps, and questions of trust all contribute to the disconnect. Unless the sector adapts, it risks losing relevance for the very people it was created to support. Yet within this challenge lies opportunity because younger veterans are not rejecting support outright; they are seeking forms of engagement that align with their values and their lived experiences. If the charity sector can listen, adapt, and evolve, it can re-establish its place as a vital source of solidarity, assistance, and belonging. The task is not easy, but it is necessary and as long as the United Kingdom maintains armed forces, there will be men and women who carry the weight of service into civilian life so ensuring that they are supported in ways that are meaningful to them is not merely the duty of the charity sector but of the nation as a whole.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

A Theory of Change in Support of UK Military Veterans with Lived Experience of Military Sexual Trauma

Military service is often associated with sacrifice, loyalty, and courage. Yet for many who have served, the period of military life has also been marked by deeply traumatic experiences, not only in combat but within the very institution meant to protect them. Military Sexual Trauma (MST) has emerged as a profoundly damaging reality that affects a significant number of veterans. While the United States has led much of the research and policy development in this area, the United Kingdom is only beginning to grapple with the depth of the problem and the specific needs of veterans who carry the scars of sexual assault or harassment experienced during their service. Veterans with lived experience of MST face a particularly complex set of challenges. The trauma is not only personal but also institutional, as it often involves betrayal by comrades, leaders, or the organisation itself. For these survivors, the transition to civilian life can be significantly more difficult, compounded by shame, stigma, mistrust, and an absence of dedicated services. To address these challenges, it is necessary to build a coherent and holistic framework of support that is informed by a clear theory of change. A theory of change provides a roadmap for understanding how interventions can lead to meaningful outcomes. It articulates the assumptions underpinning support strategies, sets out the processes through which change can occur, and envisions the long-term transformation for which services should strive. This article sets out such a theory of change for UK veterans who have lived experience of MST. It begins by contextualising the problem, exploring the scale and nature of MST and its impact on individuals. It then examines the theoretical frameworks that inform approaches to trauma and veteran support. Building on this foundation, the article develops a theory of change tailored to the UK context, outlining the vision, processes, and anticipated outcomes of interventions. Finally, it reflects critically on the strengths, challenges, and implications of adopting such a framework. Military Sexual Trauma is a term that encompasses sexual assault, harassment, and abusive behaviours experienced during military service. Although widely recognised in the United States, in the UK it has been less explicitly defined, though increasing public scrutiny is forcing the Ministry of Defence and other stakeholders to acknowledge its existence. Surveys and parliamentary inquiries in recent years have revealed that a substantial proportion of service personnel, particularly women, have faced unwanted sexual behaviours ranging from harassment to assault. Men too experience MST, though their voices are often less visible, silenced by stigma and entrenched gendered norms. The impact of MST is profound and multifaceted. Survivors often experience mental health conditions such as post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety, and dissociation. Many live with physical manifestations of trauma, such as chronic pain, headaches, and sleep disorders. Beyond individual health outcomes, the experience of MST damages trust in the institution of the military, leading to feelings of betrayal and alienation. Survivors may find themselves unable to rely on comrades or leadership structures, cutting them off from the very sources of support that military culture typically promotes and to which they are entitled. Transition to civilian life is already a complex process for many veterans, requiring an adjustment of identity, lifestyle, and support networks and for those with MST experiences, this transition can be severely hindered. They may feel excluded from veteran communities, especially where a culture of silence prevails. They may avoid accessing services out of fear that their disclosures will not be believed or will be mishandled. These challenges illustrate why MST survivors require tailored and sensitive support strategies that go beyond generic veteran programmes. Therefore, any effective theory of change must be rooted in an understanding of trauma and the contexts in which it occurs. Trauma-informed approaches provide a particularly important framework. Such approaches emphasise safety, trust, collaboration, empowerment, and respect for choice. They recognise that survivors of trauma often experience heightened vulnerability to re-traumatisation, and thus support systems must avoid replicating dynamics of power, silence, or control that echo the original trauma. When it comes to MST survivors, trauma-informed care has special significance. The military environment is highly hierarchical and often characterised by expectations of obedience and loyalty so when trauma occurs within this context, it can fundamentally disrupt a survivor’s ability to trust authority or engage with formal structures. Trauma-informed care acknowledges this reality and seeks to build relationships of safety and respect that allow survivors to regain agency. Similarly another important perspective is the intersectional lens. As experiences of MST do not occur in isolation from other aspects of identity such as gender, sexuality, ethnicity, or rank. Women, LGBTQ+ personnel, and individuals from minority backgrounds may face heightened vulnerability, while also encountering unique barriers to seeking help. An intersectional perspective ensures that services are not one-size-fits-all but instead respond to the diversity of survivors’ experiences. The veteran transition model also sheds light on the challenges MST survivors face, simply because, leaving the military involves not only a change in occupation but also a shift in identity and belonging. This process od adjustment is often complicated by a sense of betrayal and alienation and where other veterans may find camaraderie and pride in their service history, MST survivors may struggle with feelings of shame or exclusion. Therefore, recognising these dynamics is essential for any theory of change aimed at supporting this group. A theory of change is more than a service plan; it is a conceptual map of how desired outcomes can be achieved for UK veterans with lived experience of MST. The ultimate vision must be one in which survivors are able to live dignified, fulfilling lives marked by wellbeing, empowerment, and reintegration into society. However, achieving this vision requires significant input to address not only individual trauma but also institutional barriers, cultural attitudes, and systemic gaps in support. The starting point of this theory of change is the recognition of the problem: survivors of MST face unmet mental health needs, barriers to justice, and experiences of social exclusion. These challenges are exacerbated by the culture of stigma, silence, and denial that has historically characterised the military and veteran communities. The theory of change assumes that meaningful progress can only be made when services are survivor-centred, trauma-informed, and independent enough to build trust. The pathway to change begins with immediate interventions that focus on safety and validation and survivors must have spaces where they can disclose their experiences without fear of dismissal or reprisal. Running parallel to to this theory is the need for professionals in the NHS, veteran charities, and community organisations to access training so they can understand MST and respond appropriately. Such early interventions can reduce the risk of crisis, such as suicide or substance misuse, while laying the foundation for longer-term healing. In the medium term, survivors must have access to specialised, MST-specific support services. This includes counselling, therapy, and peer networks that are designed with survivor input. Services must be accessible and independent of the Ministry of Defence, to avoid retraumatisation and to build trust among survivors who feel betrayed by the institution. Peer support networks are particularly valuable, as they allow survivors to connect with others who share their experiences, breaking down isolation and fostering empowerment. At the same time, systemic advocacy is required to integrate MST recognition into broader veteran policy. This involves pressing for dedicated funding, independent reporting mechanisms, and the inclusion of MST in official veteran welfare strategies. Only through policy change can the structural environment be transformed to sustain long-term progress. The long-term outcomes envisioned by this theory of change include improved mental health and resilience among survivors, increased trust in support systems, reduced stigma, and broader cultural change within military and veteran communities. Survivors should not only heal from their experiences but also be empowered to participate fully in civilian life, whether through employment, community engagement, or family relationships. The ultimate aim is a society in which MST is acknowledged, addressed, and prevented, and where those affected are treated with dignity and respect. The strengths of this theory of change lie in its holistic and survivor-centred nature and by addressing the individual, social, and institutional dimensions of MST, it avoids the trap of focusing narrowly on mental health while neglecting systemic reform. It also places survivor voices at the centre, recognising that those with lived experience are best placed to shape services and ensure their relevance. However, significant challenges remain as stigma and silence continue to be major barriers. Many survivors remain reluctant to disclose their experiences, fearing disbelief, shame, or damage to their reputation. Therefore overcoming this requires sustained cultural change, not only within the military but in society at large as institutional resistance is another obstacle. The Ministry of Defence has historically been slow to acknowledge systemic problems of harassment and assault. While recent reforms have been announced, real change requires deep shifts in culture, leadership, and accountability. As I have pointed out on numerous occassions, without such change, survivors may continue to feel betrayed and excluded. Unlike the United States, where the Department of Veterans Affairs provides substantial infrastructure for MST survivors, the UK system relies heavily on underfunded charities and fragmented services so developing comprehensive MST support will require political will and financial commitment. Finally, intersectional gaps remain a risk. Services must be designed to accommodate the diverse experiences of survivors. Male survivors, for example, often face unique barriers to disclosure due to gendered stigma. LGBTQ+ veterans may experience both sexual trauma and discrimination related to their identity so ensuring inclusivity is essential if services are to reach all those in need. In conclusion, Military Sexual Trauma is an under-recognised but profoundly damaging issue within the UK veteran community. Survivors carry not only the burden of individual trauma but also the weight of institutional betrayal, stigma, and social exclusion. To address these challenges, a clear and coherent theory of change is essential. The theory of change outlined in this essay envisions a future in which MST survivors are able to heal, find empowerment, and reintegrate into society with dignity. It begins with immediate steps to ensure safety and validation, progresses through the establishment of specialised support services and peer networks, and culminates in long-term cultural and policy change. While challenges remain, stigma, institutional resistance, limited resources, and the need for inclusivity, the framework provides a roadmap for progress. Ultimately, supporting veterans with lived experience of MST requires more than individual therapy or charity initiatives. It demands a systemic transformation of the ways in which the military, government, and society recognise and respond to trauma. It will only suceed if we embed trauma-informed, survivor-led principles into every level of service provision and policy development. I hope that one day we can create an environment in which veterans are not defined by their trauma but empowered to build lives of dignity and hope.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Military Veterans & The Destructive Power of Bitterness

“Anger and bitterness rob you of peace, not your enemy.” (Allene van Oirschot)

Bitterness among military veterans often emerges from a combination of factors: physical and psychological trauma, loss of comrades, the gap between their sacrifices and the recognition (or lack of it) they receive, and difficulties reintegrating into civilian life. The figure of the military veteran occupies a unique place in collective imagination: both revered as a symbol of sacrifice and resilience, yet often marginalised when the war ends and civilian society moves on. Veterans return home carrying the physical scars of battle, the invisible wounds of trauma, and memories of comrades lost in the chaos of war. Many face difficulties in reintegration, battling unemployment, stigma, and inadequate medical or psychological care. It is within this landscape that bitterness often emerges. The question, however, is not simply whether veterans feel bitterness, but whether such bitterness is justified and if so, to what extent? Bitterness can be described as a long-lasting state of anger, resentment, or cynicism arising from perceived injustice or betrayal. Unlike momentary anger, bitterness tends to persist, shaping worldviews and relationships. For veterans, bitterness may be directed toward governments, military institutions, or civilian populations who seem indifferent to their sacrifices. Psychologically, bitterness may arise from unprocessed grief, Military Sexual Trauma (MST), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and survivor’s guilt. Unlike sadness, which is often recognised and treated, bitterness is less socially acknowledged, making it particularly corrosive. Research suggests that long-term bitterness can be linked to mental health disorders, impaired social relationships, and chronic stress. The horrors of war leave deep impressions as does MST. Witnessing the death of comrades, killing under orders, or living through near-death experiences creates existential wounds. Veterans may return home to a society that cannot comprehend these experiences. The sense of isolation fuels resentment: civilians “will never understand.” Many veterans feel betrayed by governments that send them to war but fail to support them afterward. Insufficient pensions, poor healthcare, or bureaucratic neglect confirm the perception of abandonment. Historical examples abound, from MST veterans fighting for justice while facing hostility, to Afghan and Iraqi veterans struggling with the moral injury of wondering what their sacrifice and service actually achieved. Bitterness also stems from the gap between the high esteem in which military service is held in rhetoric and the often lukewarm support given. Appreciation, can feel hollow when accompanied by systemic neglect. A society has a moral duty to care for those who risked their lives on its behalf. When this duty is not fulfilled, bitterness is not only understandable but morally justified. Veterans’ resentment becomes a critique of collective failure. History offers many examples of justified bitterness. After World War I, many soldiers in Europe returned to shattered economies and broken promises of care. Their disillusionment contributed to political unrest and generational trauma. Today, even in countries with veteran support systems, many former soldiers face homelessness, unemployment, and untreated trauma. Such conditions render bitterness not only natural but reasonable. While bitterness may be justified, its long-term consequences can be problematic. Constructive bitterness fuels activism, advocacy for reform, and community building. Destructive bitterness, however, alienates veterans from society, hardens prejudice against civilians, and prevents healing. Bitterness, if left unchecked, risks becoming self-destructive. It may prevent veterans from seeking help, undermine family relationships, and trap individuals in cycles of resentment. From a psychological perspective, justification does not negate the harm it causes. There is a balance to be struck between acknowledging veterans’ justified grievances and encouraging pathways toward healing. While society must take responsibility, veterans also require tools to transform bitterness into resilience rather than despair. Psychological research suggests that bitterness can be mitigated through therapy, community support, and meaning-making practices. Programmes focusing on narrative therapy, peer support, and mindfulness help veterans reframe their experiences, reducing corrosive resentment. Veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan in Western countries often express bitterness at the futility of prolonged wars, especially when political goals remain unclear. Their grievances highlight the moral responsibility of governments to justify wars and provide post-service care. If wars are unjust or poorly justified, the bitterness of veterans becomes a moral indictment of political leaders. Soldiers are asked to risk their lives under the assumption of just cause; when this is betrayed, resentment is morally valid. From an existential lens, bitterness can be seen as part of the struggle to make sense of suffering. Veterans search for meaning in sacrifice. When society fails to provide recognition, the existential vacuum fuels resentment.Bitterness among military veterans is not only understandable but often justified by the traumatic realities of war and in service trauma (MST) and the failure of society to adequately care for them. It is a mirror reflecting both the personal cost of conflict and the collective responsibility of nations. Yet bitterness, if allowed to harden indefinitely, risks isolating veterans and hindering their path toward healing. The challenge is therefore twofold: society must honour its obligations to those who served, and veterans must be supported in transforming their resentment into resilience and advocacy. Only then can bitterness serve as a force for justice rather than a prison of the soul.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

The Meaning Behind the Quote: “What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us”

The quote, “What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us”, is often attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson, though some scholars suggest that its phrasing and circulation owe as much to Henry Stanley Haskins or other authors in the transcendentalist and post-transcendentalist tradition. Regardless of its exact origin, the saying has endured for well over a century, capturing the imagination of readers, philosophers, educators, spiritual leaders, and ordinary people searching for meaning in their lives. The reason for this endurance is clear: the statement speaks directly to human nature, the role of inner character, and the importance of personal resilience. At its core, the quote asserts that the external circumstances of our lives, our past experiences and our uncertain futures, are far less significant than the inner resources we cultivate within ourselves. It suggests that our strength, integrity, values, and imagination shape our destinies more powerfully than external events. In other words, the true measure of a person lies not in their history or their fate but in their inner character and capacity for growth. The phrase “What lies behind us” refers to the past, our personal histories, our triumphs and failures, the decisions we have made, and the circumstances into which we were born. The past often shapes how we see ourselves and how others see us. It can provide valuable lessons, but it can also trap individuals in regret, nostalgia, or bitterness. The quote challenges us not to dwell too heavily on these “behind us” matters, for they are not ultimately decisive in shaping who we are at any given time. Similarly, the phrase “What lies before us” points to the future, our hopes, fears, expectations, and uncertainties. The future is often a source of anxiety because it is unknown. We anticipate opportunities and dread obstacles, sometimes investing too much energy in speculating about what might happen. The quote suggests that while the future matters, it is not as important as what we carry within ourselves in the present moment. Finally, “What lies within us” should be the central focus as it points us towards our inner resources. This includes our moral compass, courage, imagination, capacity for love, and the resilience to adapt to whatever life presents. Unlike the past or the future, which are outside our control, the inner self is something we can cultivate. It is the seat of agency and meaning, the space where personal transformation is possible. Taken together, the three parts of the quote present a hierarchy of importance: past and future are relatively small, while the inner self is vast and decisive.

If we accept Emerson as the originator, the quote reflects the transcendentalist movement, which emphasised the power of the individual spirit over external circumstances. Emerson believed in the inherent goodness of people and the primacy of the individual conscience. For transcendentalists, truth and meaning are discovered not by looking to tradition or external authority but by cultivating self-reliance and inner awareness. Thus, “what lies within us” is nothing less than a spark of the divine, a capacity to access universal truths through intuition. The quote also resonates with ancient Stoic philosophy. Stoics like Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus taught that external events are beyond our control and thus not worth undue worry. What matters is our response to those events, our internal state of virtue and reason. This mirrors the idea that the past and future are “tiny matters” compared to the character and wisdom within us. Existentialist thinkers, such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Viktor Frankl, would also find meaning here. For Sartre, human beings are condemned to freedom: we must define ourselves not by our past or external conditions but by the choices we make. Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, argued in Man’s Search for Meaning that even in the most dire external circumstances, individuals can discover meaning through their inner attitudes and values. The existentialist message aligns perfectly with the idea that “what lies within us” is decisive for our lives. Research on resilience shows that individuals who thrive in the face of adversity are those who cultivate inner coping mechanisms, optimism, adaptability, and purpose, rather than those who rely only on external circumstances. “What lies within us” is the resource that allows us to navigate the uncertainties of past trauma or future challenges. The statement also anticipates themes in mindfulness, which encourages individuals to focus on the present moment rather than ruminating on the past or worrying about the future. By recognising that what lies “behind” and “before” us are small compared to what lies “within,” we can ground ourselves and re-center attention on cultivating peace and awareness within ourselves in thye present.

Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs culminates in self-actualisation, the fulfillment of one’s inner potential. This concept embodies the quote’s meaning: the ultimate goal of life is not external success or the avoidance of failure but the realisation of one’s inner capacities. The idea that inner resources outweigh external circumstances has also permeated literature and culture. In classic literature, characters often discover that true power lies in courage, love, or moral conviction rather than wealth or status. Great leaders embody the spirit of the quote. They face uncertain futures and troubled pasts, yet their integrity, vision, and courage, qualities within, enable them to inspire others. For example. leaders like Nelson Mandela or Mahatma Gandhi drew strength from their inner convictions even when external circumstances were oppressive. Artists, writers, and innovators understand this principle intuitively. Creative breakthroughs rarely come from external conditions alone but from tapping into the imagination and passion within. On a personal level, the quote is a call to self-discovery and responsibility. It urges us to stop dwelling on regrets or anxieties and instead cultivate virtues, talents, and resilience that will allow us to flourish no matter what our projected anxieties or life circumstances. The afore mentioned notwithstanding, it is not without limitations. Some critics argue that it downplays the very real effects of external circumstances like poverty, injustice, or trauma. To tell someone that only “what lies within” matters can sound dismissive of systemic barriers. The most balanced reading of the quote, then, is not to deny the importance of external conditions but to emphasise that our capacity to respond to them is ultimately the most empowering factor available to us at any given time.

In summary, the quote,“What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us”, is more than a motivational saying. It is a profound expression of philosophical, psychological, and spiritual insight. It reminds us that while the past and future shape us, they do not define us. What truly defines us is our inner character, our values, and our ability to draw upon inner resources to face life’s challenges. In order to understand we can, if we choose to, adopt a trans-theoretical approach to understanding. We can do this by embracing the thinking of the transcendentalists, the modern psychologists and the wisdom of the stoics while celebrating existential courage. The message is consistent: we hold within ourselves the capacity for meaning, growth, and transformation. In a world that often overwhelms us with external pressures, whether the weight of history or the uncertainty of the future, this reminder is invaluable and it is by cultivating what lies within us that helps us navigate life more successfully whilst also discovering the deepest sources of human dignity and fulfillment.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist