BY DEREK DEVOS
Most people have heard of PTSD.
Fewer people know the term moral injury; yet it is one of the most common and least discussed wounds carried by veterans, first responders, caregivers, and even volunteers here in Iredell County.
Moral injury isn’t about fear.
It isn’t triggered by danger in the traditional sense.
It’s a wound of conscience, a break between who you are at your core and what circumstances forced you to do, witness, or endure.
Right now, moral injury is rising across the veteran community.
Stories in the news, discussions about missions we lived, and divisions at the national level are stirring up things many of us have spent years trying to bury.
For some of us, the injury didn’t come from combat.
It came from the conflict between our values and our reality.
Two Different Battles, One Deep Wound
For me, moral injury didn’t appear as one dramatic moment; it arrived in two completely different eras of my life, each cutting in its own way while attacking the same place: my sense of integrity.
1. The Uniform and the Oath
I served this country for over 15 years. Honorably. Consistently. Constitution first. Always.
That oath wasn’t paperwork. It was my military identity. It guided every decision I made in uniform.
In recent days, when I heard behavior and rhetoric from our commander-in-chief that crossed lines I never imagined, including talk that sounded like threats toward sitting members of Congress, it struck a nerve most civilians will never feel.
This wasn’t about partisan politics.
It was about a moral contradiction that shook the foundation of what my service meant.
I spent years defending a system built on restraint, respect, and rule of law. When leadership at the highest level disregards those principles, it creates a fracture inside the people who swore to uphold them.
I didn’t lose faith in my country.
I lost trust that the values I defended were being honored by those entrusted with them.
That is moral injury — the pain of watching your oath collide with reality.
2. The Alcohol and the Shame
That wasn’t my only struggle, nor my first. Years earlier, I fought a different kind of moral injury, one I inflicted on myself.
My drinking wasn’t casual. It wasn’t “social.”
It was hidden.
It was compulsive.
It was the kind of drinking you lie about — not because you’re trying to manipulate anyone but because you’re drowning, and shame tells you to keep quiet.
I drank behind people’s backs. I said I was sober when I wasn’t. I made choices I knew contradicted my values.
And every time, the gap between who I was and who I had become grew wider.
I got sober on July 19, 2024.
But the moral injury, the grief and guilt of not recognizing yourself in the mirror because of alcohol takes longer to heal.
Both wounds came from different sources. Both changed me.
But both carried the same truth: Moral injury is what happens when you’re forced to live out of alignment with your own compass, whether by circumstance, leadership, pressure, or despair.
Why Veterans Are Feeling This Now
Across the country and here in Iredell County, many veterans are feeling that weight again.
Recent news cycles, debates about missions like the Afghanistan withdrawal and Operation Allies Welcome, and stories involving individuals associated with those events are bringing back questions and emotions we hoped were buried.
When the public starts dissecting missions years after the fact, the fallout rarely lands on policymakers.
It lands on the men and women who executed the orders, the ones who moved families to safety, held the line during chaos, and tried to do the right thing under impossible circumstances.
For many veterans, hearing commentary about those events doesn’t reopen trauma.
It reopens doubt:
“Did I do enough?”
“Did anything I did matter?”
“Am I somehow connected to outcomes I never controlled?”
That’s moral injury. And it’s far more widespread than most communities realize.
Moral Injury Isn’t Weakness – It’s a Sign That You Still Care
I want Iredell County to hear this clearly:
Moral injury does not mean you failed.
It is not a character flaw.
It is not a mental illness.
Moral injury often shows up strongest in people who cared the most, the ones who tried to live with integrity, even when the world made that nearly impossible.
And it can heal.
Not in silence.
Not in isolation.
But in community.
Why The PTSD Exists
I founded The PTSD here in Statesville for exactly this reason.
Not as a clinic.
Not to diagnose anyone.
But to create a veteran-led, trauma-informed place where moral injury can be named and understood, where people can talk openly about the parts of service and life that don’t fit neatly into a medical box.
Veterans, caregivers, and families in our county deserve a place where honesty is welcome, where integrity is restored, and where connection replaces isolation.
If you’re carrying something like this, whether from service, life, leadership, or your own past choices, you are not alone.
You are not beyond repair.
And you don’t have to carry the weight silently.
Sometimes the strongest thing a person can do is simply step into a room where people understand.
The door’s open.
Derek DeVos is the the founder of The PTSD. Learn more at https://www.facebook.com/people/The-PTSD/61579193146179/#