Let’s rewind to 2013. I’d just left the Army and was back in Edgewood, New Mexico, still living in the house I’d soon sell. I’d received my separation pay, but I felt completely lost—no clear next step.

Flash back one more day: the morning I out-processed. I needed one last signature from the Sergeant Major. He had me at parade rest in his office and asked for three “sustains” and three “improves” for the unit. I half-assed my answers—my mind was already on the cold beer waiting at home to celebrate freedom.

Then he asked the real question: “What are you planning to do after the Army?”

“I want to travel the world and go to college,” I said.

He let out a short chuckle. I could practically feel the eye-roll. He was a good man, the kind with that fatherly vibe that says, “Prove it, kid. Grow up and make it happen.” It stuck with me.

Fast forward to the house. I watched my stepmother pass away in the very room I was sleeping in. Grief piled on top of everything else. I felt trapped. Extreme insomnia hit hard—I’d lie awake reliving things I didn’t want to remember. To fill the hours, I tinkered with my Jeep in the garage or obsessively planned travel routes. Anything to keep moving.

A high-school friend reached out. She was working in Cambodia. Southeast Asia? I’d barely thought about it before. But I was in a place where I wanted to say yes to anything and everything. Depression had me desperate for escape.

The house sold quickly. I bought a one-way ticket. Before flying out, I drove my vehicle up to Washington state and left it with a Gold Star family—they’d lost their son in Afghanistan. It’s not my story to tell in detail, but they welcomed me like family. We swapped stories about him, laughed, cried. I’ll always be grateful they took me in and accepted me as part of their circle. I stayed a while before heading to the airport.

When I landed in Cambodia, something reset to a default mode—and it wasn’t a good one. Cheap beer (under a dollar) and old bad habits pulled me right back in. I learned about the culture, sure—the Khmer people were warm, the history rich—but I spent too much time wrestling demons instead of soaking it in. Suppressing memories by day, reliving pain by night.

The mental game is brutal. No one else has lived your exact life. The bodies you carried to the back of a vehicle. The photos you took for evidence. That first firefight full of terror that slowly became… normal. Numbness creeps in. Emptiness. A lack of empathy you can mask but never fully shake. I see it in buddies who’ve done multiple deployments too.

God, this is getting dark. But I’m dropping the guard here because I know a lot of my brothers-in-arms are fighting the same silent battles.

I ended up spending four months backpacking across Asia—Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, and beyond. I dove headfirst into the backpacker life: hostels, guesthouses, meeting people from everywhere. It saved money and forced connections.

But honestly? I hated parts of it. A shocking number of travelers seemed allergic to deodorant and daily showers. Hygiene matters, you nasty fuckers (sorry, not sorry).

My stomach probably experienced more of Southeast Asia than my mind did—street food adventures, questionable water, the works. It was chaotic, beautiful, exhausting, and exactly what I needed at the time.

Even if I didn’t come back “fixed,” I came back changed. And that Sergeant Major’s chuckle? It still motivates me to prove I meant what I said.