This blog was originally published by The Field Guide on October 2, 2025.
By Tess Hankey
There’s a moment in every veteran’s life when the noise finally stops.
For me, it was the hum of helicopters fading behind me, the last gate click at the base, the quiet of a civilian morning where no one was giving orders and no one needed saving. That silence was deafening. I came home with memories I didn’t ask for, a body that remembered too much, and a heart that wasn’t sure where it fit anymore.
The uniform came off, but nothing about me felt “done.”
Searching for Purpose Again
I didn’t know who I was without the mission. In the military, my life had direction, a team, a cause. Afterward, the world felt… indifferent. I bounced between options, jobs, restless thoughts, trying to outrun the guilt of surviving and the emptiness of not knowing what to do with the peace I’d earned.
It took me a long time to realize that what I missed most wasn’t just the structure, it was the service. The sense that what I was doing mattered.
That realization led me somewhere unexpected: back into the dirt, under the open sky, and into the heart of America’s forests.
Fire and Forests: A New Kind of Battle
I joined a fire crew with SECC not long after that. People say wildland firefighting is the closest thing to combat in the civilian world: the adrenaline, the chaos, the brotherhood, the long hours, and the feeling that you’re holding the line between life and destruction.
But what surprised me most was this: in fire, I found healing.
There’s something brutally honest about the work. The flames don’t care about your past. They test you, strip you down, and demand everything you’ve got, but they don’t lie. And in that brutal simplicity, I found clarity.
Cutting line through heavy brush. Watching a prescribed burn creep low and hot across the duff. Holding the hose as ash rained down like snow. These became my new missions. And when the smoke cleared, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: regrowth.
Conservation as Redemption
Eventually, I moved deeper into conservation. Habitat restoration. Invasive species removal. Tree planting. It’s quieter than the fire line, but no less vital. In a world so wounded, every seed planted feels like a small act of rebellion against despair.
And maybe that’s what this transition really became for me, not a goodbye to who I was, but a rebirth into who I needed to become.
Because I still wear a uniform. It’s just dirtier now, stained with sweat and soil, not blood.
I still serve. Only now, I fight for forests, for balance, for the land itself. For a future that doesn’t burn everything down.
To My Fellow Veterans: There’s a Place for You
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling with the silence, with the shapelessness of life after war, I see you.
There is life after the uniform. There is service beyond the battlefield. You are not done.
There’s a world that needs you, your strength, your discipline, your courage. Whether it’s in fire, conservation, community, or something else entirely, there’s still a mission out here for you.
I found mine where the ashes settle, and the forest begins again.
Maybe you will too.