A Soldier's Silent Struggle: From Hidden Pain to Hopeful Resilience

Finale

I tried to convince myself that she was okay, that she was in good hands, but the uncertainty gnawed at me. I missed her every day, and the pain of not knowing where she was or how she was doing consumed me.

When my wedding day finally arrived, I was filled with excitement, not only to marry the man I loved but also to see Hera again. But when they arrived, my heart shattered. Hera, my little pea, was so thin and fragile. She looked like she hadn't eaten in days, her once vibrant spirit now dimmed by the hardships she had faced.

She clung to me, her small voice filled with desperation as she told me how much she missed me, how she wanted to stay with us because her life with her mother was so hard. She told me she slept on the floor, that her sister wouldn't let her eat, and that she was often hurt.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn't sleep. My mind was consumed with thoughts of Hera, her fragile frame, and her heartbreaking words. The anxiety that had been simmering inside me for years finally erupted. I cried uncontrollably, unable to shake the images from my mind. It wasn't just about Hera anymore—it was everything I had bottled up for years: the guilt over my parents' separation, the trauma of witnessing my mother's breakdown, the loneliness of being away from my family, the loss of my father, the miscarriage, and now, the fear for Hera's safety.

I knew something was terribly wrong, and I couldn't ignore it any longer. I sought help and was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. It was a relief to have a name for what I was feeling, but it was also terrifying to face the reality of it. My emotions were a storm that I couldn't control, and every day felt like a battle just to keep going.

After the wedding, life didn't get any easier. My husband and I were excited to start our family, but fate had other plans. I became pregnant again, but before we could even celebrate the new life growing inside me, I experienced a second miscarriage. The pain was unbearable, and I felt like my world was falling apart. How could I endure so much loss? How could I keep going when it felt like everything I loved was being taken from me?

I haven't told my mother about my condition—I don't want to add to her burden—but I've confided in my husband and some of my colleagues. They've been incredibly supportive, especially my commandant, who has gone above and beyond to help me through this difficult time. It's been a struggle, and there are days when I feel like I'm drowning, but I'm holding on to hope. I'm fighting this battle with everything I have because I want to get better—not just for myself, but for those who love and depend on me.

I know I'm not alone in this fight. There are so many others out there who are battling their own demons, and I want them to know that it's okay to ask for help, to admit that you're struggling. There's no shame in it. We all have our breaking points, but we also have the strength to heal, to rise above our pain, and to find a way forward. I'm not there yet, but I'm on my way, and that's enough for now. One day, I'll look back on this chapter of my life and see how far I've come. Until then, I'll keep fighting, one day at a time.