When Braveheart hit theaters in 1995, it gave us more than a cinematic epic. In the final moments, the narrator describes the men not just as warriors but as warrior poets. That phrase inspired me as a cadet at West Point. It still does. Here was a man forged by fire and loss, yet guided still by love, faith, and meaning. Wallace wasn’t fighting merely to survive—he was fighting for something higher.

That image may sound romantic today, but it’s rooted in deep tradition. Homer’s Iliad spoke of such men. So did the writings of Marcus Aurelius. And throughout our own history, American soldiers have returned home from war to find solace not just in silence, but in scripture, storytelling, and service. These warrior poets understood something our modern world often forgets: strength and sensitivity aren’t opposites—they’re allies.

And right now, America needs those kinds of men and women more than ever.

We need them not just on battlefields but in classrooms, churches, neighborhoods, and boardrooms. We need leaders who’ve walked through fire and emerged not just hardened, but deepened. We need leaders who understand that true strength includes self-knowledge and that the job of the warrior is not only to defend life but to make it worth living.

I know something about the weight warriors carry. In 2003, I led an infantry platoon into Iraq during the opening battles of that war. Upon redeployment, I began writing chapters about that experience—though I wouldn’t fully understand why until years later, after both my personal life and professional aspirations unraveled. I had a lot to unpack.

But what I really carried was unprocessed trauma—ghosts that showed up not as flashbacks, but as numbness, disconnection, and frustration I couldn’t explain. It took me years to admit I needed help. It took longer to sit down and write. And even longer to develop it into something relatable for a reader.

The result, fifteen years later, was Downriver: Memoir of a Warrior Poet—a book not about being heroic, but about being honest. About navigating grief, PTSD, and the slow climb toward healing. Along the way, I found that language itself became a lifeline. Words helped me build a bridge back to my children, my faith, and myself.

And what I’ve learned is this: when we send young Americans to war, we owe them more than just thank-yous and parades. We owe them reintegration, reconnection, and respect for the full person behind the uniform. That doesn’t mean treating veterans as damaged. It means seeing them as dimensional, capable of leading not just with strength, but with insight.

The warrior poet archetype isn’t a contradiction. It’s a calling. And one we’d do well to elevate—not just for veterans, but for the next generation of recruits who face starkly different and more threatening challenges in the world.

I appreciate that Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth has renewed focus on the Warrior Ethos. That’s needed. We must train to win wars. And I also believe we need to recover something just as important: the idea that warriors can lead not only with force but with wisdom. Not because every soldier should become a poet, but because every society needs people who can carry both courage and conscience. Who can fight when needed, but also feel.

That spirit should animate our institutions, from the military to the media to the pews. It should inspire the stories we tell, the leaders we cultivate, and how we think about healing—not just after war, but after loss or disillusionment.

You don’t need combat experience to be a warrior poet. Some people fight private wars—addiction, grief, injustice, and depression. And some of the most powerful warriors I know are artists, mothers, and quiet teachers who bear witness to suffering and still choose to love and show kindness.

To be clear, the warrior poet isn’t a soft ideal. It’s a strong one. Because it takes guts to feel. It takes humility to heal. And it takes real strength to lead with both heart and spine.

In a culture that too often confuses volume with leadership, we need more quiet conviction. More men and women willing to stand for ideals—and also kneel in prayer. Willing to fight—and also to forgive. That’s how we rebuild families. That’s how we strengthen communities. That’s how we restore unity.

Mel Gibson’s Braveheart ends with Wallace sacrificing everything for freedom and inspiring others to rise. But it wasn’t brute strength that moved them. It was his heart. His vision. His voice.

That’s why America still needs warrior poets. And why I’m still learning how to be one.

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Ryan McDermott is an Iraq War veteran, recipient of the Bronze Star medal, and author of the award-winning and critically acclaimed book, Downriver: Memoir of a Warrior Poet. His views do not reflect those of his employer or any affiliated organization.