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

Healing Through Self: How Overcoming Trauma Requires Self-Regulation and Mindful Practice

Trauma is not merely a moment in time but an experience that rewires the way the brain and body respond to the world. Whether it arises from childhood neglect, physical abuse, emotional betrayal, or the loss of a loved one, trauma leaves a residue that often distorts how individuals see themselves, others, and the future. Overcoming trauma is rarely a passive experience; it demands active engagement with one’s inner world. The path toward healing is not linear, and it cannot rely solely on external solutions. Rather, it is a deeply personal journey, requiring individuals to work on themselves through intentional self-regulation, self-awareness, and the consistent practice of healthy, mindful activities. These approaches help re-establish a sense of safety, foster resilience, and ultimately cultivate inner peace. It is crucial to understand what trauma does to the human mind and body. Traumatic experiences, especially those that are chronic or occur in early development, can disrupt a person’s sense of control and stability. According to the American Psychological Association, trauma can result in lasting adverse effects on the individual’s functioning and mental, physical, social, emotional, or spiritual well-being. Neuroscientific research, particularly the work of Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, demonstrates how trauma can lead to hypervigilance, emotional numbing, disassociation, and difficulties in forming trusting relationships. The brain’s fear centre, the amygdala, can become overactive, while the prefrontal cortex, responsible for decision-making and emotional regulation, may be underactivated in trauma survivors. These neurological changes mean that trauma recovery is not just about "thinking positive" or "moving on." It involves recalibrating the body and mind to re-establish safety, trust, and emotional regulation. This is where self-work becomes essential. Self-regulation refers to the ability to manage one’s emotions, thoughts, and behaviours in different situations, especially stressful or triggering ones. For trauma survivors, this ability is often compromised. They may swing between emotional numbness and overwhelming emotional flooding. Self-regulation, then, becomes both a goal and a method of healing. One of the most crucial elements of recovery is relearning how to feel emotions without being overwhelmed by them. Trauma can teach the brain that emotions are dangerous. For instance, someone who grew up in an abusive home may associate anger or sadness with punishment or abandonment. As a result, they may suppress these emotions or experience them in exaggerated ways. Through therapeutic techniques like cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), and somatic experiencing, individuals can begin to build a new relationship with their emotional experiences. Grounding techniques are powerful self-regulation tools that help trauma survivors stay present. Many traumatic symptoms, such as flashbacks or disassociation, involve being mentally removed from the present moment. Grounding techniques like deep breathing, 5-4-3-2-1 sensory exercises, and physical movement anchor the individual back into the here and now. One of the most damaging effects of trauma is the destruction of internal safety. Survivors may constantly feel threatened, even when nothing external is wrong. Cultivating self-regulation skills restores the feeling that one is in control of their own body and mind. This sense of control is essential for any further healing to take place. Working on oneself requires a courageous, ongoing process of self-exploration. For trauma survivors, this can feel daunting, but it is also one of the most empowering aspects of recovery. The above notwithstanding, there is an important distinction between blame and responsibility. Many survivors, especially of childhood trauma, carry misplaced blame for what happened to them. Part of self-work involves releasing this blame while taking responsibility for one’s healing. No one chooses trauma, but everyone has the capacity to choose how they respond to its aftermath. This shift in mindset is empowering and transformative. Self-work also involves identifying and understanding patterns that developed as survival strategies but no longer serve the individual. For example, people-pleasing, emotional withdrawal, or perfectionism might have helped avoid conflict or gain approval in traumatic environments but now interfere with healthy relationships but by adopting daily wellness practices such as journaling, therapy, or self-reflection, individuals can trace these patterns back to their origins and consciously choose different behaviours. By learning how to recognise triggers, (the things that cause emotional reactivity) also allow individuals to prepare for and manage them rather than being blindsided. Trauma often results in a harsh inner critic. Survivors may internalise messages of worthlessness or shame. Self-work involves replacing this voice with one of compassion and support. Practices like inner child work, affirmations, or compassionate self-inquiry help rebuild the inner narrative in a way that supports healing rather than hindering it. Mindfulness, the practice of paying nonjudgmental attention to the present moment, is a cornerstone of trauma recovery. Unlike some therapeutic methods that focus on analysing the past, mindfulness anchors the individual in the now, teaching them that this moment is safe and livable. Chronic trauma can dysregulate the nervous system, keeping individuals in a prolonged fight, flight, or freeze state. Mindfulness practices, especially those that involve breath awareness and body scans, activate the parasympathetic nervous system, the body’s natural “rest and digest” response. Research from institutions like Harvard Medical School has shown that regular mindfulness meditation can reduce symptoms of PTSD and anxiety, improve emotion regulation, and increase self-awareness. Yoga, especially trauma-informed yoga, is a powerful practice that combines mindfulness with physical movement and for trauma survivors who feel disconnected from their bodies, yoga can be a gentle way to reclaim bodily autonomy and cultivate inner awareness. The emphasis on breath and intentional movement fosters a sense of control and self-trust. Mindful activities are not limited to meditation and yoga. Art, music, dance, and creative writing can all serve as mindful outlets. These practices provide non-verbal ways to process emotions and experiences that are difficult to articulate. Creative expression becomes a mirror to the soul, allowing repressed feelings to surface safely. Spending time in nature is a deeply healing, mindful experience. The natural world doesn’t judge, demand, or rush and for trauma survivors, being in nature can soothe the nervous system and offer perspective. Mindful walking, forest bathing, or simply sitting under a tree can reconnect individuals to the rhythms of life beyond their internal chaos. Healing is not a singular event but a daily commitment to practices that support growth, peace, and resilience. Trauma often brings chaos, so establishing a daily routine creates predictability and safety. This might include a morning ritual, designated time for exercise or meditation, regular meals, and consistent sleep patterns. Similarly, learning to say no and protect one’s energy is a critical part of self-work. Trauma survivors may have weak boundaries due to past violations so setting boundaries is not about pushing others away, but about honoring one's needs. While healing is an internal journey, support from others is invaluable, whether through therapy, mutual support groups, or close friends, being seen and heard is a powerful antidote to the isolation that trauma often causes. Healing can be slow, and it's easy to overlook how far one has come so it is essential to regularly acknowle small victories, such as responding to a trigger with calm, setting a boundary, or showing oneself compassion, all reinforce positive change. It’s natural to have setbacks in the healing journey and the goal is not perfection but progress so when old patterns resurface, it's an opportunity for learning, not self crticism or punishment. Trauma survivors often avoid emotions because they feel dangerous. However, feeling is necessary for healing so gradual exposure to emotions, guided by a professional if needed, helps build tolerance and emotional literacy. However, healing does not mean becoming someone else, it means integrating painful experiences into the larger story of who you are, and learning to live fully in spite of, or even because of, those experiences. Overcoming trauma is an act of profound courage. It requires more than time, it requires intentional work, deep honesty, and compassionate persistence. Self-regulation helps restore a sense of inner safety and control. Self-work fosters self-awareness, responsibility, and the unlearning of harmful patterns. Mindful practices ground individuals in the present and provide nurturing spaces to rebuild the mind-body connection. Together, these approaches form a powerful triad that supports long-term healing and transformation. Trauma may shape us, but it does not have to define us. So, by turning inward, learning to listen to the body and the heart, and being committed to daily practices that honor our humanity, we become not just survivors but self-empowered individuals capable of growth, connection, and peace. Healing is not the erasure of the past, but the reclaiming of one’s power to live fully in the present.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Overlooked and Underserved: The MoD’s Failure to Recognise Universal Rehabilitation Needs Among UK Armed Forces Veterans

Each year, thousands of men and women leave the UK Armed Forces and begin the complex journey back into civilian life. While the Ministry of Defence (MoD) has implemented various programmes aimed at supporting injured service personnel, particularly those with physical wounds or PTSD, it continues to fall short in recognising that all veterans, regardless of visible injury or mental health diagnoses, undergo profound transformations that warrant structured rehabilitation. I would argue that the MoD’s current approach is too narrow, failing to appreciate the psychological, emotional, social, and cultural reconditioning required for all former service members to reintegrate effectively. In doing so, the MoD inadvertently neglects a significant portion of the veteran population, leaving them isolated, disoriented, and underserved. Serving in the Armed Forces fundamentally changes a person. From day one, recruits are trained to conform to a strict, hierarchical system. Their identity is reshaped by discipline, camaraderie, collective responsibility, and high-stakes decision-making. The longer one serves, the more deeply ingrained these attributes become. Upon discharge, veterans often find that civilian life no longer fits the worldview they have adopted in service. Compounding this, the civilian world itself may have changed during a veteran's time away. Former friends and loved ones have moved on, social norms have evolved, and institutions (such as the job market) now expect a very different set of skills and behaviours. In essence, the transition is not simply a return, it is a radical re-entry into a society that may feel foreign. This cultural and identity dissonance is experienced by virtually all who have served, not just those who have suffered physical or psychological trauma. Yet, the MoD’s framework continues to treat only the physically or mentally "wounded" as in need of adjustment support. The MoD's rehabilitation services have historically prioritised those with visible injuries or diagnosed mental health conditions, especially PTSD. This emphasis stems from a post-Afghanistan and Iraq era narrative in which public awareness was raised about the severe consequences of combat exposure. While this was a necessary and commendable shift, it also created a binary system of support: those who are visibly or diagnostically "injured" receive rehabilitation and resources, while those who are not are often presumed to be fine. This binary fails to recognise "sub-clinical" suffering, emotional numbness, identity loss, difficulty adapting to unstructured environments, lack of purpose, that may not meet diagnostic criteria but significantly impair a veteran’s quality of life. It also ignores the systemic effects of military conditioning: the need to suppress emotion, hyper-vigilance, dependency on routine, and black-and-white thinking. These traits, adaptive in a military context, often hinder successful reintegration in the civilian sphere. Military life instils a profound sense of identity rooted in purpose, community, and routine. Discharge from service often results in what psychologists call identity dislocation—the loss of a previously stable sense of self. Many veterans find that they no longer know who they are outside of uniform. The military was not just a job; it was a life. And when that life ends, the absence can be both psychologically destabilising and existentially painful. This identity crisis does not manifest as a mental illness per se, but it can lead to depression, substance abuse, domestic issues, and in some tragic cases, suicide. Yet because it does not present as a diagnosable condition, the MoD’s traditional rehabilitation pathways offer little support. The lack of recognition for these “invisible wounds” for example, but not exclusively, Military Sexual Trauma suggests a fundamental misunderstanding of the veteran experience.One of the most challenging aspects of reintegration is finding meaningful civilian employment. Veterans often face difficulties translating military skills into civilian qualifications. Employers may not understand the value of military leadership, resilience, or problem-solving under pressure. This disconnect contributes to higher-than-average unemployment and underemployment rates among veterans, particularly within the first five years of discharge. While some MoD programmes such as the Career Transition Partnership (CTP) offer support, many veterans report that such services are generic, underfunded, or poorly tailored to the diversity of military backgrounds. Moreover, these programmes often assume a level of civilian “readiness” that simply does not exist in many transitioning personnel. True rehabilitation must include vocational reorientation, life skills training and wellness practices, identity reconstruction, and long-term mentoring, not just CV writing workshops. Another critical yet overlooked aspect of rehabilitation is the strain on personal relationships. Returning veterans often feel emotionally distant from family and friends. They may struggle to express vulnerability, relate to everyday concerns, or cope with the perceived triviality of civilian life. This emotional gap can erode marriages, fracture parental bonds, and deepen isolation. Unfortunately, the MoD does not systematically offer family-centred reintegration programmes. Spouses and children, though deeply affected, are rarely included in the transition process. This omission neglects a vital support network and places an unfair burden on families to manage the consequences of service without adequate tools or guidance. Rehabilitation also requires cultural translation. Military culture emphasises obedience, sacrifice, and group identity, while civilian society increasingly values individualism, emotional transparency, and ambiguity. Veterans may find civilian institutions to be inefficient, disloyal, or morally ambiguous, traits that clash with the clear mission-oriented ethos of the military. This culture shock is rarely acknowledged in MoD programming. By not preparing service members for this divergence, the MoD essentially sets them adrift in a foreign land without a map. The result is frustration, disillusionment, and alienation, which can contribute to homelessness, incarceration, or chronic underachievement. Current MoD approaches largely follow a “fix the broken” model, whereby resources are allocated to those who show visible signs of damage, however this model fails to see the bigger picture. Rehabilitation should not only be reactive but also preventative and universal. Every veteran has undergone a significant transformation, and every veteran deserves the opportunity to rebuild a fulfilling civilian identity. A more humane and effective model would treat rehabilitation as a normal and necessary phase of the military lifecycle, just like basic training or deployment preparation. Doing so would destigmatise the need for support, promote early intervention, and better prepare service personnel for life after service. Other nations offer instructive models. In the United States, the Department of Veterans Affairs provides a wide range of post-service resources, from vocational rehabilitation to educational funding, social reintegration programmes, and peer support networks, while not without its flaws, the U.S. system acknowledges that all veterans face challenges. In Scandinavia, particularly Norway and Denmark, a more holistic and family-inclusive model of veteran care has emerged, which supports the idea that transition is a systemic, rather than individual, process. These models show that it is possible to design policy frameworks that view rehabilitation as an integral part of service, not an exception granted to the injured. The failure of the MoD to recognise the universal rehabilitation needs of all veterans is not just a bureaucratic oversight, it is a moral failing. Focusing narrowly on those with physical wounds or diagnosed PTSD, the MoD disregards the broader and deeply personal consequences of military service as every person who has worn the uniform has sacrificed, changed, and adapted in profound ways. We must also prepare them for what comes after. If the UK truly values its Armed Forces, then it must commit to a new model of veteran care, one that sees rehabilitation not as a privilege for the wounded, but as a right for all. Only then can we begin to honour the full measure of their service.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

Some Combat Veterans Are Bitter… With Good Reason.

In Britain today, the term "combat veteran" still carries an aura of honour, sacrifice, and discipline. Yet beneath the public ceremonies, commemorative poppies, and respectful nods lies a much more troubling reality. Many of the UK's combat veterans are angry, disillusioned, and profoundly bitter. And they have every right to be.This bitterness is not born from personal failure or a lack of gratitude. It is a rational response to systemic betrayal, by politics, by big business, by society, and by a culture that venerates military service in theory but neglects those who serve in practice. Serving in the armed forces, particularly in combat roles, is unlike any other job. It requires the total surrender of individual autonomy. Troops are trained not just in how to fight, but in how to obey, how to suppress personal feelings, how to kill. In the British Armed Forces, the focus is on discipline, cohesion, and mission. Yet, when the mission ends and the uniform comes off, that discipline and cohesion often give way to chaos and isolation. Veterans are thrust into a civilian world that doesn’t understand them, doesn’t value their experience, and often sees them as damaged or dangerous. What civilian job teaches you how to survive an ambush in Helmand Province? What employer knows how to interpret a service record that includes multiple deployments but no formal qualifications? The transition is jarring. One minute, you're leading men through a firefight; the next, you're navigating Universal Credit applications. The skills that were once praised and indispensable are suddenly irrelevant. Military indoctrination is not a side-effect of training; it is the goal. Recruits are broken down and rebuilt into soldiers who can operate in the most extreme conditions imaginable. This is necessary for survival in combat. However, that same indoctrination also creates a mindset that can be disastrously incompatible with civilian life. Service personnel are taught to prioritise the mission above all else. Emotions are suppressed. Aggression is channelled. The military teaches hyper-vigilance, distrust, and a relentless drive for results. These traits, while essential in a war zone, become liabilities in everyday civilian interactions. Many veterans report feelings of restlessness, purposelessness, and alienation. Relationships break down. Patience wears thin. The sense of belonging they once had is gone, replaced by a society that neither understands nor values the depth of their transformation. British veterans are often used as political pawns. Politicians queue up to praise them on Armed Forces Day, yet the same politicians preside over budget cuts to the NHS mental health services they depend on. Successive governments have promised to "do more" for veterans while outsourcing key services to private contractors and hollowing out the very institutions that once supported service personnel. Afghanistan and Iraq remain painful examples. Many veterans feel betrayed not just by the outcomes of those conflicts, but by the political motives behind them. The infamous dossier on weapons of mass destruction, the shifting goals in Afghanistan, the lack of clear exit strategies, all contribute to a deep sense of cynicism. Veterans fought and watched friends die for causes that were later revealed to be riddled with misinformation or outright lies. Northern Ireland is a case in point. The withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021 was a particularly bitter moment. Veterans watched, horrified, as the Taliban swept back into power in mere weeks. It felt like a betrayal of everything they had sacrificed. The silence from the government during this period was deafening.Adding salt to the wound is the undeniable fact that war makes some people very rich. Defence contractors, private security firms, logistics providers, these corporations made billions during the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Meanwhile, those doing the fighting often returned home to broken bodies, broken minds, and broken promises. Combat veterans are not naive. They know that defence contracts are awarded not based on merit but on connections. They see former generals move effortlessly into high-paying consultancy roles while rank-and-file soldiers are left to struggle. This stark inequality fuels resentment. Veterans know they were the muscle behind someone else’s profit margin. One of the most persistent lies told to service members is that their military experience will translate seamlessly into civilian employment. It rarely does. The truth is, most employers have no idea how to read a military CV. Leadership under fire, logistics coordination in combat zones, and technical skills developed in the field are often misunderstood or overlooked entirely. A Sergeant with years of leadership experience may find themselves applying for entry-level jobs. A combat medic might be told their skills don't count toward NHS qualification requirements. There is also the problem of stigma. Some employers fear hiring veterans, worried about PTSD or aggression. Others see former-military candidates as too rigid or institutionalised. The result is a large population of highly trained, highly disciplined individuals unable to find meaningful work.The issue of mental health among veterans is well-documented but poorly addressed. The mad bad and sad narrative persists but is it true? For others PTSD, depression, anxiety, and substance abuse are common. Yet the support structures are woefully inadequate. Veterans report long waiting lists for therapy and a lack of understanding from civilian mental health professionals. The MOD's own services are underfunded and overstretched. Charities attempt to fill the gap, but they are often under-resourced and cannot meet the scale of demand.The end result? Homelessness, addiction, suicide. According to recent studies, veterans are overrepresented in all these statistics. Yet the public narrative rarely shifts from shallow hero-worship to substantive support.There is a profound disconnect between the military and the society it serves. Most civilians have never served, never had a family member serve, and have no concept of what it means to live a life defined by war. This ignorance breeds misunderstanding. When veterans try to express their frustrations, they are often met with platitudes or deflected by claims of national pride. "Thank you for your service" common in America but not so much in the UK rings hollow when followed by a refusal to hire, a lack of funding to retrain or go back to futher education and/or University, or policies that prioritise optics over outcomes. The British public often sees veterans through two lenses: either as brave heroes or as broken men and women. There is little space for complexity, for understanding the contradictions of pride and pain, of strength and vulnerability. Veterans are often reluctant to speak out. The military teaches you to get on with it, to suffer in silence, to never show weakness. This culture persists long after discharge.As a result, many veterans bottle up their feelings, unwilling or unable to articulate the depth of their bitterness. Some fear being judged. Others have simply lost faith that anyone is listening. The reality is the silence must end. Veterans must be allowed to voice their discontent without being dismissed as ungrateful or mentally unstable. Their experiences are valid. Their anger is earned. The first step is recognition. Not just of service, but of sacrifice—not just on the battlefield, but in the years that follow. Government policy must go beyond ceremonial praise and offer concrete, consistent support. Perhaps most importantly, society needs to listen. To really listen. Veterans are not relics of a bygone war machine; they are living, breathing people with voices that matter. In summary, many combat veterans in the UK are bitter and they have every reason to be. They were sent to fight wars that many now question. They returned to a society that fails to understand them, a job market that doesn't value them, and a political class that pays lip service to their sacrifice while quietly dismantling the institutions meant to support them. Their anger is not the problem. It is a symptom of deeper failures, failures that must be addressed if we are to be a society worthy of their service. Until then, the bitterness will remain. And it will be justified.

Tony Wright CEO Forward assist

The Healing Power of the Spoken Word: How Storytelling, Poetry, and Creative Expression Can Help UK Military Veterans Heal

For many UK military veterans, the return to civilian life after deployment can be as psychologically grueling as the combat they’ve faced. The mental scars of warfare, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), moral injury, survivor’s guilt, anxiety, and depression, can linger long after the battlefield falls silent. Added to this is the deep loneliness and social isolation that often accompanies a disconnection from the military community and difficulties integrating into civilian society. Traditional treatment methods like therapy, medication, and support groups are valuable, but they don't work for everyone. Increasingly, a powerful complement to these approaches is gaining ground: the spoken word. Whether through storytelling, poetry, creative writing, or lived experience narratives shared aloud in front of an audience, the spoken word offers a deeply human, emotionally resonant tool for healing. Trauma, especially combat trauma, is a complex and often invisible wound. PTSD, anxiety, depression, and emotional numbness are common responses to witnessing or participating in violence. For many veterans, especially men, expressing vulnerability is culturally discouraged, both in military settings and society at large. As a result, many carry their trauma in silence. This silence is compounded by the transition to civilian life. The camaraderie and structure of military service are replaced by uncertainty, loneliness, and the sense of being misunderstood. Veterans often report feeling alienated, invisible, or judged, experiences that can deepen their psychological wounds and contribute to self-isolation.Breaking this silence is critical and this is where the spoken word, a tool as old as humanity itself, comes into play. The spoken word is more than just speech. It’s expression with intention, emotion, and authenticity. Through poetry, storytelling, or sharing a lived experience, speaking aloud can give form to pain, create meaning out of chaos, and foster human connection. One of the central wounds of trauma is the shattering of narrative. Traumatic events often resist integration into a coherent story, leaving individuals stuck in cycles of intrusive memories, shame, or emotional disconnection. Storytelling helps veterans rebuild a sense of identity by reclaiming control over their experiences, so when veterans share their stories publicly, whether in a community centre, a spoken word event, or a veterans’ storytelling circle,t hey are not just recounting events. They are choosing what to emphasise, how to frame their journeys, and how to find meaning in their suffering. This process is empowering and helps participants feel seen and heard. It also fosters empathy in listeners, breaking down societal stereotypes of veterans as either broken or heroic. Poetry distills emotion into language and for veterans, writing and speaking poetry allows for the articulation of feelings that might otherwise remain buried; grief, anger, love, confusion, guilt. Through metaphor, rhythm, and imagery, poetry can externalise inner pain and transform it into something beautiful, powerful, and shareable. Public readings of poetry allow veterans to voice these emotions in safe, supportive spaces. The act of reading aloud validates their pain while inviting others into their emotional world. Importantly, poetry doesn’t require a linear narrative, which is particularly helpful for those whose trauma resists chronology or coherence. Poetry can provide a way to “speak the unspeakable,” and in doing so facilitate catharsis and clarity. Creative writing, short stories, memoirs and/or fiction can offer a more expansive canvas. It allows veterans to explore themes of identity, loss, resilience, and hope, sometimes through invented characters or imagined worlds. Writing fiction can provide emotional distance, helping veterans approach painful memories obliquely while still processing them. Spoken word performances of this writing give voice to these creations. Sharing these pieces in front of an audience, whether live or virtual, transforms private reflection into communal experience. It breaks isolation by reminding veterans they are not alone in their struggles. Equally important as speaking is being heard. The presence of an attentive, empathetic audience transforms spoken word performance into a reciprocal act. Performing can be simultaneously terrifying and liberating, yet the act of being witnessed, truly seen and heard,can restore a sense of human connection and dignity. Similarly, audience members also undergo transformation. They come to see veterans not as statistics or stereotypes but as fully human individuals. This mutual recognition fosters a sense of belonging, validation, and community. One of the most insidious effects of trauma is disconnection. Veterans may lose contact with military friends, feel misunderstood by civilians, or withdraw due to shame or numbness. Spoken word events create community through shared vulnerability and artistic expression. Peer-led initiatives, especially those built by veterans for veterans, are especially effective. They offer a safe space where participants understand the language, humour and pain of military life. These communities are often more accessible than formal therapy and can serve as stepping stones toward deeper healing. Veterans are not a homogenous group so not all veterans have the same experience. Women, LGBTQ+ and BAME veterans may experience compounded isolation. Spoken word projects offer a uniquely inclusive medium where diverse voices can be amplified and validated. Intersectional mutual support groups help individuals claim space, assert their humanity, and challenge dominant narratives. While spoken word projects offer immense promise, they also carry risks. Reliving trauma aloud can trigger both speakers and audience members alike, if not done in a supportive environment. Facilitation of such projects by trained professionals, access to mental health resources, and consent-based storytelling are crucial elements of any trauma informed spoken word projects. Moreover, not every veteran will be ready or willing to speak, alternatives like writing for private reflection, peer-to-peer conversations, or visual arts may be more appropriate for some. The power of the spoken word lies not just in the telling, but in the transformation it enables, for the speaker, the listener, and the wider community. For UK military veterans grappling with the aftermath of war, speaking aloud through poetry, storytelling, and creative writing can be a profoundly healing act, simply because it restores agency, affirms humanity, and builds bridges where there were once walls. In a world where veterans too often suffer in silence, the stage can become a place of truth, courage, and connection.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist

"Military Sexual Trauma" Increases Suicide Risk Among Survivors.

Military Sexual Trauma (MST) is a term used widely in the United States and increasingly in global discourse to encapsulate experiences of sexual assault and harassment during military service. The UK, however, has remained resistant to adopting this terminology, particularly within the Ministry of Defence (MoD) and broader governmental frameworks. This refusal is not merely semantic; it represents a deeper institutional reluctance to acknowledge and address the unique psychological, social, and structural harms that accompany sexual violence within the military. I would argue how this resistance significantly increases the risk of suicide ideation and completion among survivors of in-service sexual violence. Furthermore, it critically examines why the UK military establishment may be one of the last major institutions in the country to meaningfully recognise and support victims and survivors of sexual assault and rape. Language frames experience so when institutions fail to name a phenomenon, they often fail to understand or address it. The term "Military Sexual Trauma" provides a specific, validated category of harm that acknowledges both the context and impact of sexual violence within the armed forces. By declining to adopt this term, the UK Government and MoD deny survivors a recognised identity, a pathway to tailored care, and a sense of communal validation. This absence can exacerbate feelings of isolation, betrayal, and hopelessness, all known risk factors for suicidal ideation and behaviour. Survivors of sexual violence often experience a range of mental health issues, including post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, anxiety, and complex trauma. These are frequently compounded in military settings by factors such as chain-of-command dynamics, institutional denial, and the culture of stoicism. When the institution refuses to name or acknowledge the specific nature of their trauma, it deepens the psychological wound. Research from the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs demonstrates that MST survivors have significantly higher rates of suicidal ideation than other veteran populations so without a similar recognition framework in the UK, survivors are left to navigate these complexities without targeted support. The UK military has historically maintained a hierarchical, masculinist, and often insular culture that prioritises discipline, loyalty, and resilience. While these values are integral to military cohesion, they can also function to silence or marginalise individuals who challenge institutional norms, particularly those who report sexual misconduct. The refusal to adopt the term MST reflects a broader culture of denial and minimisation. Survivors frequently report retaliation, career damage, and social ostracisation after disclosing sexual violence. In such an environment, the absence of institutional recognition serves to reinforce a culture of silence. If a survivor cannot name their experience within an accepted framework, they are less likely to come forward, access support, or pursue justice. This isolation contributes to feelings of entrapment and despair, further elevating suicide risk. While civilian institutions in the UK have made strides in recognising and addressing sexual violence, including through trauma-informed care and survivor advocacy, the military remains notably behind. Survivors within the armed forces face additional layers of complexity, including chain-of-command reporting structures, lack of confidentiality, and fear of career repercussions. The failure to adopt MST as a recognised term and framework results in a dearth of specialised support services tailored to military-specific experiences. Without a formal recognition of MST, the UK MoD lacks a structured system for identifying, treating, and supporting survivors. This institutional gap means that survivors often fall through the cracks, receiving generalised or inappropriate care. The disconnect between military health services and civilian mental health frameworks further complicates this issue. For those already grappling with trauma, the lack of a clear, supportive pathway to care can lead to deteriorating mental health and increased suicide risk. The U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs has adopted MST as a clinical and legal category, allowing for dedicated treatment programmes, research funding, and legislative advocacy. While far from perfect, this recognition has led to the development of targeted interventions that have demonstrably improved outcomes for survivors. The contrast with the UK highlights the cost of inaction. Survivors in the UK face similar, if not more severe, challenges without the benefit of systemic recognition or support. Studies in the U.S. context show that MST specific care leads to better engagement with mental health services, reduced symptoms of PTSD and depression, and decreased suicide ideation. This demonstrates the tangible benefits of naming and addressing the problem. The UK’s refusal to follow suit not only denies these benefits to its service members but also signals a troubling disregard for their wellbeing. The reluctance to adopt MST terminology is symptomatic of broader resistance to institutional accountability. Admitting to the prevalence and impact of military sexual trauma would necessitate a reckoning with past and ongoing failures. This could expose the MoD to legal liability, reputational damage, and internal upheaval. In many ways, the institution may perceive these risks as outweighing the benefits of change,despite the human cost. There is also a legal dimension to the MoD's resistance. Recognition of MST could open the door to claims of negligence, duty of care violations, and breaches of human rights obligations. Politically, there may be concerns about undermining public confidence in the armed forces. However, these fears must be weighed against the moral imperative to protect and support those who serve. Behind every statistic is a person, a service member who joined the armed forces with a sense of duty and was met with violence, betrayal, and neglect. The refusal to recognise MST is not a neutral stance; it is an act of institutional abandonment. It signals to survivors that their pain is unacknowledged, their service is undervalued, and their lives are expendable. The tragic outcome of this message is visible in the suicide statistics that continue to plague military communities. Survivors have consistently called for greater recognition, justice, and support. Many recount being disbelieved, blamed, or punished for reporting their assaults. Some have lost careers, relationships, and hope. Their testimonies are a powerful indictment of a system that prioritises institutional preservation over individual wellbeing. Listening to these voices is not just a moral imperative, it is a crucial step toward reform. See: https://www.forward-assist.com/forward-assist-research-1 The UK Government and MoD must confront the reality of military sexual trauma. This begins with the adoption of the term MST as a formal category within military health and legal frameworks. Once this happens the military may be able to begin to rebuild trust with survivors and reduce the preventable loss of life due to suicide. The refusal of the UK Government and Ministry of Defence to adopt the term "Military Sexual Trauma" is more than a linguistic oversight, it is a systemic failure that endangers lives and by denying survivors recognition, support, and justice, the institution exacerbates the very conditions that lead to suicide ideation and completion. It is time for the UK to join the international community in acknowledging MST, supporting survivors, and committing to meaningful reform. The cost of continued silence is too high.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist