Wayward Betrayal
Turning Pain Into Moral Leadership
Welcome to issue #6 of Wayward Purpose. We decided to slow down a little this week and take our time with this one. Wayward Purpose exists to rebuild what breaks along the way through faith, discipline, and direction. It’s about turning moral injury into moral leadership. It’s about changing the mindset so that suicide is never an option. A quick disclaimer: this article does include discussions of suicide.
This space is becoming a home for veterans, leaders, and those who feel lost. For those who dedicated everything to a mission and lost themselves along the way. But we can’t do it alone here. If this mission hits home for you, or you or someone you know is still facing darkness, please share it. Upgrade, gift, or send it to a friend. Every act of support makes a difference.
‘God can only meet you in one place, and that is where you are.’
My Breaking Point
This past year has been a profound internal struggle against feeling severed from those around me. Under relentless, dark skies, I sat in silent stillness, rain tapping as I stared blankly, my loneliness pressing heavily. Many active duty service members or veterans, like me, endure these silent battles. An ache beneath the surface. If you’re reading this and hurting, you’re not alone. Even in the bleakest moments, connection and understanding can break through.
Let me take you on a journey through isolation, self-betrayal, and the slow work of healing. Before things began to change, I had to face what felt like an ending. I’m still at it: keeping appointments, facing silences, confronting my own self-deception. This is where my story starts as I translate my journals into these personal stories.
That night, overwhelmed, I broke down. “I can’t do it all at once,” I whispered in the parking lot, my voice trembling. Saying it out loud made the pain sharper, exposing a hidden crack I couldn’t ignore. The fear that my isolation might consume me drove me to reach out desperately and frustrated. Later, alone at my desk, in my self-isolated room, under self-imposed surveillance, my hands shook as I wrote a clear, respectful email asking for help.
Instead of real reassurance or care, I received paperwork, an order for treatment, counseling, and humiliation disguised as help. I was exhausted, seeking support, but only met rules and protocol. A sense of being pushed away. Suddenly, I was told what to think and feel, over and over again. Three fears showed up like old friends at a bar: failure, rejection, and pain. Death didn’t arrive, but something essential inside me died. My belief that anyone cared as deeply as I did. Facing that loneliness shattered me.
I don’t hold grudges. Therapy showed me what was mine to carry and what belonged to others. I learned from psychologists how to step back and process my thoughts. But even as my mind healed, faith in shared values wavered. When people insisted things were fine, I saw through to a deeper pain. Something inside me fractured, and I could feel it every day.
Afterward, frustration arose and disguised itself as anger. I thought we were a team, bound by trust, understanding, and open doors. But what I believed in fell apart. I felt like a problem to be managed, not a brother seeking help. The isolation cut deeper because it came from those I trusted, making the betrayal feel even more personal, sharpened without a whetstone.
Isolation grew, and betrayal settled in my bones. Moral injury centers on betrayal. Sometimes from others, sometimes from yourself. I’ve felt both. Betrayal is raw and personal. Even if no one intends harm, cold policy can bruise as sharply as a deliberate act. When rules replace presence, it feels violent. The ideal I carried slipped away. Bureaucracy’s indifference felt like its own betrayal. If you’ve felt that shattering loss of trust, you’re not alone.
These losses became crucial to my understanding of what happened. Betrayal sneaks in quietly. It takes away trust, belonging, and the belief that you matter. It even takes away the sense that your care matters. In that empty, exposed place, that’s where I met God and my faith. Not in fixing things or winning, but in the broken, honest center of my defeat.
Something inside me broke this past year, and it happened more than once. Gaps formed between what I thought we, and I, stood for and what I saw happen, both at work and in my personal life. Pain met indifference in many places, fueling a sense of moral injury. By the time I recognized it, things had already worsened.
At least this is the story I told myself at first. But as time passed and I reflected more, my understanding began to shift.
The Real Betrayal Was Losing Myself
Much happened this past year at work and in my personal life. Here, the narrative shifts from the outside world to my internal experience. What I was missing, and am only starting to regain, was self-awareness. At first, I viewed everything as a string of failures, confirming my worst fears and reminiscing with my three friends from mentioned before. In my mind, I played the hero. But stepping back, I saw myself falling apart.
There were changes at work, challenges in personal relationships, and a growing sense of disconnection. Interpreting these facts negatively made them feel insurmountable. I felt trapped by moral injury and overwhelmed by unprocessed grief and loss. During this time, so many people and systems (be it medical professionals, workplace processes, or outdated support structures) felt empty to me, unable to reach the heart of what I was experiencing. It was only my military church community, standing with me when everything else was a void, that truly helped me break free and begin to heal.
Destruction became automatic. I felt like a passenger in my own mind, watching myself make mistakes and calling it survival. Therapy showed me that part of me is always on alert. When my values are challenged, I can’t ignore it. My body reacted with a racing heart, clammy skin, and tunnel vision. These sensations hijacked my choices, locking me into a cycle of vigilant survival mode. I replayed every moment: the harsh tone of an email, quiet calls, slumped shoulders, people looking away. The times I stayed quiet. The times I spoke up and was told to fall in line.
Betrayal quickly turned into shame. Every time I faced resistance, every time I was treated like just another case, I pulled back more and more, cutting myself off from others. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I was weak for caring so much.
The Trap of Disconnection
That’s the trap of disconnection, as research calls it. You make the wound permanent by letting it become your identity. You start to believe it happened because you’re broken, or because the world can’t be fixed.
I think we all face a choice between thinking, “that was wrong” and “I am wrong.” If you take the wrong path, it gets harder to find your way back. Sometimes, the hardest part of healing is returning to that moment when you stopped believing you were worthy of love, trust, and wholeness.
So I began betraying myself in small, quiet ways. I left honesty out of my words to keep the peace. I acted as if I were vulnerable, rather than truly being vulnerable. Broadcasted pain and self-betrayal as vulnerability. In a culture afraid of betrayal, I betrayed my own values first. I numbed my empathy, hid my anger, and smiled while saying, “I’m fine.” Inside, I was angry, grieving, lost, and hoping someone would notice how much I was hurting.
Have you ever caught yourself doing the same, telling little lies to yourself or others just to keep everything looking alright on the surface? This isn’t just my story; it’s a shared experience in our silent struggles. Reflect on your own moments of hidden self-betrayal and consider how they might shape your path. It’s in these shared vulnerabilities that we can begin to find connection and healing. To further support this journey, I suggest trying a small self-honesty practice. It helped me.
Start with a daily check-in or a journaling prompt. Each morning or evening, ask yourself a simple question like, “What am I truly feeling today?” or “In what ways have I been honest with myself today?” These practices encourage reflection and help create a deeper connection with your true self. Something I lost along the way myself.
Because that’s how moral injury works. Clinically, it results in what’s called a loss of self-trust and meaning. But really, it feels like looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself. The reflection seems hollow, and the air around you feels thick with doubt, like a dense fog clinging to your skin. One of the hardest parts is how it breaks your relationship with yourself. I began to doubt my ability to make good choices, lead effectively, and even be a good person.
Cynicism was the first thing to emerge, especially in conversations with friends. It wasn’t because I stopped caring, but because I cared too much. I told myself things would work out, buff out, that the system would fix itself, and that people meant well. But cynicism just covers pain with sarcasm; it dulls the pain but never heals it. The more I repeated those stories to myself, the more I drifted away. Pretending not to care was easier than admitting how much it hurt. But cynicism was really just a hidden despair, and that despair became a constant presence I couldn’t shake.
That breakdown didn’t just happen suddenly. It was the result of many betrayals. Some from others, some from the institution, and many from myself. We often talk about betrayal as something done to us, but the deepest wounds are often the ones we inflict on our own spirit. For me, there was a lot of both.
I felt betrayed by “the system,” by the institution into which I’d poured my loyalty. Psychologist Jennifer Freyd refers to it as institutional betrayal when an institution harms those who depend on it for safety or justice. That’s exactly how it felt. I had trusted the military to be a kind of moral family, something larger than myself that would always stand for what was right. But when paperwork replaced presence, and optics replaced honesty, the brotherhood I believed in turned bureaucratic.
Now I see that the system itself wasn’t the real problem; it was the people within it. Those who relied on it, and those whom I tried to rely on; instead of living by its values.
‘Handing off responsibility to someone else, or something else, is easier than caring for it yourself.’ Or, at least that is the lie we tell ourselves.
‘That’s just how it is’ becomes an excuse. Rules replace presence. Policies replace people. We create systems, ranging from bureaucracy to AI, to make decisions for us and call it efficiency. Each time we let the system decide, we lose some humanity. But not all stories end this way. I remember a leader who, despite the rigid policies in place, chose to prioritize human connection over protocol. When faced with a fellow member in distress, they took the time to sit, listen, and genuinely engage, creating a space where presence spoke louder than paperwork. In that moment, they defied the norm, embodying the kind of leadership that bridges the gap between policy and people, showing that true success lies in our ability to care for one another.
It’s a quiet kind of giving up, to be honest. The same thing is happening in our talks about AI. We warn against letting it think for us, but we already let policy make our moral choices, let procedures decide our compassion, and let systems tell us what’s acceptable. When we give up that much of our humanity, betrayal is bound to happen. Psychologists call it a rupture of moral coherence. The break between who I thought I was and who reality forced me to become. It’s an injury deep in the soul.
Knees on a thin bathroom mat, the phone glowing like a verdict in my hand. My heart pounded so loudly, it seemed to echo in the room. In that moment, I was ripped away from my family and felt utterly isolated, having been ordered to be removed for seeking help in weakness. A mistake I will never make again. My chest tightened, as if suffocated by an invisible weight. That night shattered something deep inside me, forcing me to act against my own call for help, deepening my shame. Flashbacks to the times I sat in silence, the decisions I regretted, and the moral injury I inflicted on myself flooded back. My hands trembled as I scrolled through my phone, each name a reminder of the isolation I felt from those I once counted on. The shame of burdening my family weighed heavily, and having lost the connection with the only two people on earth I trusted to talk to.
I learned that while earthly connections can fail, reaching out in any form, however imperfect, can be a first step towards finding hope. It taught me to turn to God in these moments. A single call or message can become a lifeline in our darkest times. It’s a hard lesson, but one that needed to be learned.
I have been carrying years of unspoken shame and guilt. On the surface, I was a decorated service member, a husband, the guy who had it together. Inside, I felt damned. Mostly, though, I was furious at myself. I’d look at the mirror and see a liar. Someone who had sold out his ideals to survive. That kind of self-loathing is its own prison. And it’s here I want to speak carefully: when a person gets to that place, suicide can start to feel less like an act of weakness and more like a logical escape.
I know, because I went there in my teens and twenties. It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t write a note or load a gun, but I began to fantasize, calmly contemplating not existing. I thought I was the source of everyone’s pain, that those around me saw me as a problem. The logical solution, it seemed in those twisted moments, was to erase myself so no one else would have to deal with me. For someone who cares deeply, it can feel like a misguided, martyred act; believing everyone would be better off if I was gone. I’d tell myself my family might hurt for a while, but would ultimately be better off without the hollow fraud I’d become. Despite following every rule and doing everything “right,” I had never felt more discouraged and alone. These are the lies we tell ourselves when our mindset lacks faith, discipline, and direction. The very mindset we strive to change. Having such thoughts isn’t the issue; acting on them is a different matter.
Learning I Wasn’t Alone
I later learned in “The Courage to Be Disliked” that Alfred Adler, one of the pioneers of psychology, believed the core human problem is discouragement and disconnection, what he called a loss of feeling of community and belonging. That’s exactly where I was: utterly discouraged, cut off from any sense of belonging. When those thoughts take hold, suicide starts to look reasonable.
I wasn’t weak or crazy for feeling that way. I was injured. My pain wasn’t a pathology; it was the logical result of a soul pushed past its limit. I wish more people understood this.
We often discuss suicide as either an unfathomable tragedy or a coward’s escape, but for many, it represents a last stand against confronting their deepest shadows. What I once considered “the ultimate self-betrayal disguised as escape.” I didn’t want to die; I don’t want to die. Currently, I am the happiest I have been in a really long time. But, in those moments, I craved relief from overwhelming moral pain, shame, guilt, grief, loss, and crushing futility. In the darkness, the thought of ending it all whispered promises of freedom. A voice I now recognize as one influenced by evil.
What saved me wasn’t a sudden burst of courage or a step-by-step plan. It was meaning, or, more accurately, the desperate search for it. It was the work I had done previously, the small daily acts carried out with faith, discipline, and direction. I believe more people think about death than they admit, and I understand why it’s difficult to talk about. Labels, judgments, and checklists make it even harder.
I knew what I was. But I had no idea why I did any of it, or who I was really trying to become. I was all “what” and no “why.” In the weeks that followed, I began clawing for answers. Not the kind of answers you find in a briefing or an operations manual, but the kind you find scribbled in a tear-soaked journal at 3 AM. I started seeing a therapist again, as well as continuing the work with my priest, and I’ll be honest: at first, it felt like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.
With the therapist, we discussed my symptoms: anxiety, depression, insomnia, and my recent struggles with communication. But simply treating the symptoms wasn’t enough. I hate feeling numb. Being disconnected from my emotions actually makes things worse. I truly dislike taking antidepressants and would much rather rely on breathing exercises, prayer, and doing the difficult inner work. While medication has helped me in the past, it never addressed the underlying moral crisis at the core of my struggles.
I didn’t just have a stress disorder. I had a meaning disorder. I had lost my faith in the values I lived by, lost trust in the institutions I served, and lost connection with the people I loved. The roots of my life were poisoned, and no amount of trimming the leaves would save the tree.
Finding the Wayward Purpose
Over the past few years, I have dug deeper, searching for ways to make sense of what happened and rebuild. I delved into philosophy, theology, and psychology. My previous work in innovation at the University of Michigan’s Engineering Department led me to ‘The Prosperity Paradox,’ which suggests that new markets, rather than top-down aid, help lift societies out of poverty. Recently, an idea has resurfaced: perhaps, through this metaphor, we can address despair and suicide not only with crisis intervention but by creating new cultures of meaning and belonging.
As I recalled the book, something clicked. I began to realize that we approach issues like veteran and active duty military suicide and despair in much the same misguided way: we focus on the symptoms by allocating resources, launching programs, hotlines, and awareness campaigns, yet the underlying despair endures. Don’t get me wrong, these are important and necessary steps in the right direction. However, despite spending billions, suicide rates remain nearly unchanged. Why?
Because we treat the death, but not the disconnection.
Or, in some cases, we never even discuss what happened or acknowledge it.
Around this time, I spoke with a fellow service member whose story echoed mine. They, too, struggled silently with the same institutional gaps. After seeking help, they encountered endless procedures and paperwork, but little real human connection. They once told me, “It felt like I was just another box to be checked, not a person needing help. Everyone was so afraid I’d kill myself that they stopped seeing me as human and treated me like a case to manage. That way, if I did harm myself, everyone else could rest easy knowing they followed the rules and did everything ‘right’.” This shared experience revealed the systemic neglect that affects many active duty service members and veterans like us, highlighting a deeper cultural issue that too often goes unaddressed.
We push treatments, but we don’t fix the culture that breeds the despair. And when you end up writing one paper on how to shift culture, so suicide isn’t an option, you end up having to talk to 3-star generals because of it (a story for another time).
Using divergent thinking exercises I’ve learned through my innovation work, I began to imagine what a market-creating innovation for the human spirit might look like. Who are the ‘non-consumers’ of hope and healing? They’re the ones who have lost trust in traditional institutions, or, who avoid church or therapy because they feel betrayed or judged. There are millions of us: morally injured, alienated, spiritually displaced individuals who don’t engage with the usual support systems.
However, that doesn’t mean we don’t need meaning and belonging; we’re just dying in the shadows without it. What if someone created a new way to reach those people? What if instead of dragging hurting people back to old institutions, we brought meaning to them in a way they could actually receive it?
To start building or finding such a ‘meaning market’, even small actions can set the foundation. Reach out to someone you haven’t connected with in a while or offer a listening ear to a colleague who seems withdrawn. You might also consider joining or forming a small group centered around shared interests or struggles, where participants can connect over shared experiences and find support. Even virtual communities can provide vital connections. These initial steps are small, but they can lead to significant change by creating an environment where people feel valued and understood. Consider exploring concrete support options such as local veteran groups, online forums, or helplines. These resources offer immediate and practical avenues for seeking connection and support.
Still, I realized I was searching for, and perhaps finding, a new way to heal. Rather than simply fixing what’s broken, we could develop new ways to find meaning. Instead of viewing despair solely as a medical issue, we might see disconnection as a cultural problem that we all need to address. Most of us are familiar with studies highlighting the number of suicides in the United States across different metrics and demographics. Alarmingly, the 2023 annual military suicide report shows that over 92% of all active duty military suicides occur within the continental United States (CONUS). This suggests that the culture overseas creates a greater sense of belonging and connection than stateside. Yet, someone born and raised in California but now living on the East Coast might also feel like they’re in a foreign land. All these studies and stark statistics underscore the urgent need for solutions that go beyond mere symptom management.
We have hypothesized that suicide cannot be prevented solely by treating despair. Instead, we believe it is ended by creating meaning. By making life deeply fulfilling and community easily accessible, the idea of giving up becomes unthinkable. This led me to a profound question:
How do we make belonging and purpose as common as a visit to a coffee shop? How do we innovate belonging?
That question led me, of all places, back to faith, but in a new way. I’ll admit, I had a chip on my shoulder about religion for a long time. I grew up without faith, and I have wrote about my journey here in other articles. Also, some people aren’t ready for big “God talk,” but they might be ready for a little light. By “light” I mean the simplest hope. The idea that in the deepest darkness, you’re not alone.
In the small gatherings I’ve led and joined, we weren’t thumping Bibles or debating doctrine; we were simply sharing the faint light we’d found in our darkest moments. For one person, it was the memory of his daughter’s laughter that kept him going; for another, it was a quiet prayer whispered through clenched teeth. It felt humble, human, and, in its own scrappy way, holy. I realized faith doesn’t always begin in stained-glass glory, sometimes it’s just a flicker on a dim driveway or lawn. It’s a fire shared in the dark among friends or dinner at a crowded restaurant over a fake candlelit table. I’ve held onto that image of light in the darkness, and I still do. That’s how I usually introduce faith to those who are uneasy: I don’t start with theology; I begin with that image. Can you see even a tiny light in this dark? If so, that’s our starting point. If not, we strive to be that light until one appears.
Slowly, I found myself reaching out rather than pulling away. As I healed, my desire grew, my mindset improved, and I regained self-awareness. This transformation strengthened my resolve to help others struggling with similar despair. I became involved with my parish advisory board and joined the Knights of Columbus, a Catholic service fraternity. Now, I spend my time assisting with outreach, organizing events, collaborating with my wife on Wayward Purpose, and serving at Mass or in the chapel on my base.
It felt strange at first, but something kept tugging me out of my isolation. For the first time in ages, I felt useful in a way that aligned with my values. I wasn’t performing or “making rank”; I was just helping, human to human. Over time, these small acts and rituals have become a lifeline. I have slowly been re-forming myself from the inside out, through community and service.
Looking back now, I see that what saved me was not any one thing. It was a web of renewal. Therapy played a role, sure. So did prayer. So did time and maybe a dash of grace. But above all, it was people. I had been handed off to systems. To the military machine, to the military hospital, to the therapists on the clock, but what I needed was to be held by people. I needed community, fellowship, a sense that I still belonged somewhere. The betrayal broke me by making me feel utterly alone. The presence of others put me back together by quietly insisting, “More than belonging; you still matter.”
I think often of a simple contrast: Betrayal says, “I was left.” Healing says, “I’m here to stay.” In my darkest nights, I believed no one could handle my truth and that if I showed my real broken self, everyone would run. The men and women in my new community proved me wrong. They stayed. They listened without flinching to my story of moral injury and depression. They didn’t try to fix me; they just did life with me. And that made all the difference. The wound had come through abandonment; the repair came through presence.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that content alone doesn’t heal. You can read all the books, watch all the videos, and consume all the advice in the world and still feel empty. What heals is formation and fellowship: the slow process of becoming who you’re meant to be, through practice, habit, and lived values, and doing it alongside others you trust. My story changed when I stepped into spaces where vulnerability was welcomed and purpose was shared. That’s when theory started to become reality, and hope began to sprout (If you live in the DMV area and are looking for a military chapel that understands you, you are more than welcome to join us here).
I won’t pretend. It takes real effort to heal this way. It takes discipline and a lot of work. It’s easier to let people fall through the cracks, to hand out a prescription or a pamphlet and move on. It’s easier to scroll past and think, ‘That’s sad, but not my problem.’ But I’m asking you to see that it is your problem. It’s everyone’s. You don’t have to be a therapist or chaplain to help save a life. There will never be enough professionals to meet the needs of everyone who requires help.
The government can fund programs, and doctors can treat bodies, but only a community can heal a soul. Only we, neighbors, friends, fellow humans, can help people feel like they belong again. That means we have to show up: in our families, towns, churches, and workplaces. We need to have tough conversations, sit with someone in their pain without trying to fix it, and say, ‘You matter. You belong. I’m not letting go.’ It also means being what I call a wayward boundary broker. Someone who crosses the invisible lines that keep people apart.
The wayward boundary could be between faith and doubt, military and civilian, or mental health and daily life. Wayward boundary brokers stand in the gap and reach out to help others across. They don’t wait for the hurting to come back; they bring hope to where the wounded are.
To take an actionable first step today, send a simple, sincere text to someone in your circle. At the time of writing this, it is Veterans Day, so maybe reach out to a fellow veteran or service member that comes to mind, or perhaps just someone you think could use a reminder that others are there for them. You might also invite a friend for coffee. These small acts of connection can quietly ripple outward, showing the people around us that they are not alone, and that there is a community ready to support them. By incorporating such gestures into your daily routine, you’re participating in a meaningful web of ongoing support.
In business, innovators create new markets to uplift an economy. Similarly, in life, we are called to be creators of hope and purpose, building new opportunities for connection where none existed. We need ‘moral prosperity’ in our communities. A surplus of trust, belonging, and shared purpose that leaves no room for despair.
My journey is much like a personal Prosperity Paradox: betrayal nearly broke me, but it also drove me to innovate in my own life. Faced with the bankruptcy of my old ways, I began to develop new values: forming deeper relationships, nurturing honest faith, and engaging in new found purposeful work. Betrayal wasn’t the conclusion; it was a starting point for innovation, compelling me to create new meaning from what remained.
I had a choice: moral collapse or moral leadership.
Collapse says, ‘Everything I believed was a lie, so nothing matters anymore.’
Leadership says, ‘I must live what I now know to be true.’
Collapse whispers defeat;
Leadership demands courage and truth.
I won’t pretend I’ve got it all figured out now, or that I live every day in a state of enlightened bliss. I still wrestle with ghosts and demons. I still have days when cynicism nips at my heels, when I wake up, and that old voice in my head sneers that all this ‘meaning’ talk is naïve. Setbacks are a natural part of any healing journey; they do not signify failure, but rather remind us that healing is a continuous process.
Acknowledging these moments helps us remain compassionate with ourselves as we progress. But then I go and sit with a struggling young service member over coffee, connect with someone new that has found this Substack, or I watch my kids giggling during fellowship after Mass, and I remember: This is the work. This is the way forward. Not heroic, not flashy; just one honest connection at a time.
We live in an age of tremendous betrayal: trusted institutions have failed, leaders have lied, and even technology seems to fray the fabric of reality. Many of us feel cast into a wilderness of the self, disoriented and distrustful. But I believe, with every scar on my heart, that if faced honestly, this wilderness can become a doorway. Betrayal can become beginning. It can drive us to integrity, faith, and leadership we might never have otherwise discovered.
So here’s my fireside confession, my hard-won testimony: I was lost, and now I’m finding my way. Not back to who I was, because that person is gone. But forward to someone new, someone more whole than before, precisely because of the cracks.
The Japanese have an art form I first heard about during a moral injury meeting in Lourdes, France, called kintsugi, where they repair broken pottery with gold veins. The breakage isn’t hidden; it becomes part of the art, making the object more beautiful for having been broken. I think of my soul that way now. I’m bonding together the shards of trust, faith, and purpose with gold in the seams.
And I’m inviting you to do the same with me, in your own life and community.
Do the hard work.
Lead where you are.
We need you out here on the wayward boundary, brokering hope between the isolated and the community, between despair and meaning. We need you to help create that moral prosperity, that abundance of belonging and purpose that makes the thought of suicide absurd, because life, even when painful, is imbued with unshakable meaning. We need you, and more fellow moral leaders. This isn’t something we can delegate. It starts with you and me, in the quiet choices we make every day to show up for others and for ourselves.
My story is just one story. I share it not because I think it’s special, but because I know it’s not. It’s achingly common. There are so many of us, quietly breaking behind perfect performances. If you’re one of them, let this be my hand reaching to you. You are not alone. You matter. You belong. There is light in your darkness, even if you can’t see it yet. And if you’ve made it through your own betrayal and despair, then your job (the sacred duty of the healed) is to light the way for someone else. Become the mentor you wished you’d had. Be the change you needed. Stand at the wayward boundary and welcome the stranger home. Be the one who says, “I’ll stay. I’ll listen. I’ll walk with you through the dark.”
What Moral Leadership Looks Like
I started this essay broke. Empty with no self awareness. I want to end with what moral leadership looks like as its a journey to go from moral injury to a place of moral leadership. Moral leadership doesn’t start with a badge, a promotion, or a title. It starts in a quiet moment when you choose integrity over comfort, when you speak the truth even if your voice shakes. It means not looking away when someone is hurting. Not because you have all the answers, but because you have the courage to stay.
It’s being present without pretending to fix.
I used to think leadership meant always being calm, decisive, and perfect while carrying others. However, I have come to realize that moral leadership is a more complex concept. Sometimes it means sitting with someone as they fall apart and saying, “Me too.” It means holding your ground not with anger or pride, but with compassion. It means standing up for someone, even when no one is watching. One clear example of this behavior is initiating an honest conversation with a colleague who seems troubled and saying, “I noticed you might be having a rough time. Do you want to talk about it?” This kind of outreach requires vulnerability and the courage to take a small step that, although simple, can make a meaningful difference.
For me, it has meant admitting that I’ve struggled with my own faith and values. I’ve failed, not just once, but in quiet ways no one saw. Betraying my own heart by pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. I’ve had to stop pretending to be strong and choose to be vulnerable instead. That’s not a weakness. That’s what gives leadership real weight.
I don’t want to be the person who checks every box perfectly but feels empty inside. I want to be the one who, even with scars, still shows up. Someone who listens without judging, who says the hard thing when it’s right, not just when it’s popular, and who carries burdens alongside others, not above them. That’s the new code of honor I live by. That’s the banner I carry now. Not the one handed down to me, but the one I chose after the old one let me down.
Wearing the uniform means something different to me now. It’s not about performance or appearances. It’s about honoring my oath with moral courage. To lead wherever I can still make a difference, and to serve as long as my presence means someone else doesn’t have to be alone in their struggle.
If you’ve made it this far with me, thank you. That tells me you’ve felt some of this, too. Maybe not in uniform, but in whatever invisible role you’ve carried. A parent, nurse, pastor, coach, survivor. Because betrayal doesn’t just happen in war zones. It also happens in marriages, in companies, in organizations, in families. It happens when we give our trust and get silence back. It happens when we speak the truth and are punished for it.
And the worst part? It convinces us that our pain is singular. That no one else could understand. But that’s the lie betrayal tells, and it thrives in that silence.
Naming betrayal is the first step toward healing. Call it what it is. Don’t dress it up in soft words. Moral injury festers when we stay quiet, when those in power act like nothing happened, and when we convince ourselves we should have been stronger.
So let’s refuse silence. Name the wound for what it is. And be here for each other.
Let’s demand something better. Not just from broken systems, but from ourselves.
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. I still have nights where shadows crawl in. I still have conversations that take me right back to the moments everything cracked. But the difference now is this: I’m not alone anymore. I’ve rebuilt trust in small, steady ways. Friends who let me be fully honest, a faith that catches me when I spiral, and a purpose that’s rooted in service instead of performance.
Even in the wayward wandering, I’ve found a way forward.
If any of this stirred something in you, don’t leave it in the dark. Talk about it with someone you trust. Write it down or pray about it. Leave a note in the comments if that is all you have. The road from moral injury to moral leadership isn’t linear, but it doesn’t have to be walked alone.
Little by little, we’re working to change the narrative. We’re reclaiming broken places as sacred ground. We’re choosing to believe that despair doesn’t have the final word. And, most importantly, that suicide never has to be the solution, nor should it be.
There’s more to write. More to live. And I’m grateful we get to walk this road together.
This is just the beginning of the Wayward Purpose. Let’s keep moving.
Changing a culture, especially regarding suicide and moral injury, requires more than just sharing stories or conducting research. I acknowledge these are difficult topics to discuss; even bringing them up involves risk and stigma. Yet, naming the wound is the first step toward healing. It’s okay to feel frustrated, to struggle, and to talk about it. Even when it’s uncomfortable. I hope that by sharing my failures, insights, and ongoing journey, I can encourage others to embark on their own honest work. Change begins with each of us and grows when we empower others to lead themselves, their families, and their communities toward faith, discipline, and a renewed sense of purpose.
Wayward Purpose is about transforming moral injury into moral leadership. Ensuring despair never has the final say and suicide is never the answer. This is how we change our lives and, ultimately, our culture. Together.