I never expected war to try to kill me twice. In 2004, during the Battle of Fallujah, I took two rounds through both knees. The pain was instant and blinding. Medics dragged me out of that hellhole, and when the dust settled, my left leg was gone. I came home, proud to have served but carrying scars no one else could see. For 7 years, I focused on rebuilding, learning to walk again on a prosthetic, fighting through physical therapy, trying to be a husband and dad. Life felt like it was finally settling. Then, in 2017, the second war started. I was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer that had already spread to my lungs. I dropped from 210 pounds down to 98. Chemo wrecked me so badly I couldn’t finish the full rounds. My body just quit. One afternoon my oncologist sat my wife and me down and said the words no family wants to hear: “It’s time to consider hospice becasue nobody on earth can save him now.” I remember my wife gripping my hand so tight her knuckles went white. Our small kids, 8, 10, and 14, tried to act strong, but I saw the fear in their eyes every time they looked at me. They stopped bringing friends over. My wife slept in a chair by my bed for weeks, terrified I wouldn’t wake up. Cancer didn’t just attack my body; it shook our whole family to the core. Somehow, I didn’t die. Slowly, painfully, I started putting weight back on. A few pounds at a time. One more day. One more bite I could keep down. Eight years later, I’m sitting here cancer-free, still in awe of that second chance. But those months in hospice changed us forever. My kids learned what it means to watch someone you love fight for their life. My wife became a full-time caregiver while still holding down the house. We all learned how fragile “normal” really is. I learned that hope isn’t some fluffy feeling; it’s a decision you make when the doctors have already written you off. I learned how much a family carries when one person is sick. The quiet fear, the missed school events, the way everyone walks around trying not to break. It taught me that healing isn’t just physical; it’s something whole families have to do together. That second chance is exactly why I’m back in school at forty-eight. I never finished high school, so every class feels like a mountain. But I’m finishing my Bachelor’s in Marriage and Family Therapy with a focus on trauma, and I plan to continue on to my Master’s. My lived experience, Fallujah, amputation, cancer, hospice, gives me something no textbook can teach. I want the academic side so I can do this work right. I want to sit across from other veterans and their families and say, “I’ve been where you are. I almost didn’t make it. But you don’t have to give up either.” I’m not going back to school for a diploma on the wall. I’m going so I can help the next guy who’s down to 98 pounds or lying in a hospital bed thinking it’s over. I want to give families the tools my family had to figure out on our own. Because if a stubborn old soldier like me can come back from two wars, one in Iraq and one in my own body, then maybe I can help someone else find their fight again. Life gave me another shot. Now it’s my turn to pay it forward.

Coming home from Iraq should have been the end of the fight. Instead, it was the start of the toughest one I’ve ever faced. After an IED tore through our convoy, I left my left leg on the battlefield and spent the next few years in and out of surgery—fifty-eight operations in total. The pain was constant. Doctors handed me OxyContin like it was candy, then Vicodin, Percocet, whatever kept the screaming in my nerves quiet. Within months, I was hooked. I told myself it was just medicine, but the pills owned me. They stole my patience, my marriage, my ability to be a father. I’d wake up in cold sweats, chase the next dose, and hate the man staring back at me in the mirror. Addiction became the war I couldn’t seem to win. Losing that battle almost cost me everything. I hit rock bottom more times than I can count—lost friends, lost trust, lost myself. The VA programs helped some, but nothing stuck until I started helping others. In 2014 I founded Our Heroes Dreams, a small all-volunteer peer-support group for veterans. At first, it was just late-night phone calls and guys showing up at my kitchen table. Then it grew. We started running weekend retreats and eventually built The Homefront Battlefield Training Center—a place where veterans and their families come for real, hands-on healing. Over the years we’ve walked hundreds of brothers and sisters through the same darkness I knew too well: addiction, PTSD, the anger, the shame, the feeling that you’re broken beyond repair. Something powerful happened as I sat with them. Every time I shared my story—how the pills had owned me, how I crawled out one painful day at a time—I healed a little more myself. Helping them stay clean gave me the strength to stay clean. Teaching them to rebuild their relationships taught me how to rebuild mine. That experience showed me I couldn’t stop at peer support. I needed real clinical tools. At forty-eight years old, I went back to school—even though I never finished high school. I’m finishing my Bachelor’s in Marriage and Family Therapy with a minor in Substance Abuse and Trauma. The classes are hard. My TBI still fogs my memory some days, and my leg aches after long nights studying, but every lecture on trauma-informed care or addiction cycles hits different when you’ve lived it. I’m taking everything I’ve survived—the surgeries, the pills, the nights I almost didn’t make it—and pairing it with evidence-based methods I’m learning now. My plan is simple: keep growing Our Heroes Dreams and especially the work at The Homefront Battlefield Training Center. I want to offer licensed marriage and family therapy right alongside the peer support we already provide. I want veterans to learn how to demilitarize their minds, rebuild their homes, and find a new mission that doesn’t revolve around their injuries. Addiction taught me that recovery isn’t about being “fixed.” It’s about learning to live fully with the scars. I want to give the next guy the same second chance someone gave me. Going back to school at my age isn’t easy, but it feels right. My lived experience gives me credibility no textbook can teach. My academic training will let me do this work the right way—legally, professionally, and with even greater impact. Together, they’ll help me save more lives at the camp and beyond. The war took my leg and nearly took my soul, but it didn’t get the last word. I’m still here, still fighting for every person who needs to know that a new life is possible.

Coming home from Iraq should have been the end of the fight. Instead, it was the start of the toughest one I’ve ever faced. After an IED tore through our convoy and inflicted gunshot wounds through the center of both knees, I left my left leg on the battlefield and spent the next few years undergoing over 50 surgeries. The pain was constant. Doctors handed me OxyContin like it was candy, along with fentanyl and more. Within months, I was hooked. I told myself it was just medicine, but the pills owned me. They stole my patience, my marriage, my ability to be a father, and at times, my will to survive. I’d wake up in cold sweats, chase the next dose, and hate the man staring back at me in the mirror. Addiction became the battle I couldn’t seem to win. Losing that battle almost cost me everything. I hit rock bottom more times than I can count. I lost friends, lost trust, lost myself. The VA programs helped some, but nothing stuck until I started helping others. In 2014, I founded Our Heroes Dreams, a small all-volunteer peer-support group for veterans. We started running weekend retreats and eventually built The Homefront Battlefield Training Center, a place where veterans and their families come for real, hands-on healing. Over the years, we’ve walked hundreds of brothers and sisters through the same darkness I knew too well: addiction, PTSD, the anger, the shame, the feeling that you’re broken beyond repair. Something powerful happened as I sat with them. Every time I shared my story, how the pills had owned me, how I crawled out one painful day at a time, I healed a little more myself. Helping them stay clean gave me the strength to stay clean. Teaching them to rebuild their relationships taught me how to rebuild mine. Soon, I had no time for the opioids because people depended on me to be clean and clear-minded. That experience showed me I couldn’t stop at peer support. I needed real clinical tools. At forty-eight years old, I went back to school even though I never attended high school. I’m finishing my Bachelor’s in Marriage and Family Therapy with a minor in Substance Abuse and Trauma. The classes are hard. My TBI still fogs my memory some days, and my leg aches after long nights studying, but every lecture on trauma-informed care or addiction cycles hits different when you’ve lived it. I’m taking everything I’ve survived, the surgeries, the pills, the nights I almost didn’t make it, and pairing it with evidence-based methods I’m learning now. I want to offer licensed marriage and family therapy right alongside the peer support we already provide. I want veterans to learn how to demilitarize their minds, rebuild their homes, and find a new mission that doesn’t revolve around their injuries. Addiction taught me that recovery isn’t about being “fixed.” It’s about learning to live fully with the scars. I want to give the next guy the same second chance someone gave me. Going back to school at my age isn’t easy, but it feels right. My lived experience gives me credibility no textbook can teach. My academic training will let me do this work the right way, legally, professionally, and with even greater impact. Together, they’ll help me save more lives at the camp and beyond. The war took my leg and nearly took my soul, but it didn’t get the last word. I’m still here, still fighting, this time for every veteran who needs to know that a new life is possible.

I never thought war could steal my grandfather twice—once in Vietnam, and again decades later when Agent Orange finally caught up with him. He served in the late 1960s, came home with stories he rarely told, and tried to build a quiet life raising my mom and her siblings. But by the time I was in my twenties, the dementia started creeping in. It wasn’t the kind you see in movies where someone just forgets names. This was angry, confused, and violent at times. He’d wake up swinging at ghosts in the jungle, forget who we were, and eventually couldn’t even feed himself. The VA doctors confirmed it: Agent Orange exposure. Watching a man who once carried me on his shoulders shrink into someone who didn’t recognize his own grandkids broke something in me. It showed me how war doesn’t end when the bullets stop. The chemicals linger, the trauma echoes down through families, and the “lucky ones” who make it home still pay years later. That lesson hit even harder when I lived it myself. I enlisted right after 9/11 at eighteen, no high-school diploma, just a kid who’d already been homeless at fourteen and figured the Army was my way out and my way to serve. A few years in, during combat, an IED blast threw me hard. The doctors later diagnosed me with a traumatic brain injury on top of the gunshot wounds that cost me my left leg. The TBI wasn’t dramatic at first—no big Hollywood blackout. It was the slow erosion: headaches that felt like someone was hammering behind my eyes, mood swings that turned small arguments into rages, memory lapses where I’d forget entire conversations, and this crushing fatigue that made simple tasks feel impossible. Sleep became a battlefield of nightmares. I’d snap at my family over nothing, then hate myself for it. The physical loss of my leg was visible; the TBI was the invisible thief that stole my patience, my focus, and parts of who I thought I was. Coming home felt like I’d left pieces of myself in the desert. Those years taught me more about trauma than any textbook ever could. I learned that PTSD and TBI don’t just affect the warrior—they ripple through marriages, kids, and entire households. Spouses become caregivers, children learn to walk on eggshells, and the veteran often feels like a stranger in his own home. I also learned that disability isn’t the end of the story unless we let it be. After my own dark nights, I founded Our Heroes Dreams, an all-volunteer program that’s walked over 3,000 veterans back from the edge of suicide. What worked wasn’t fancy therapy at first; it was meeting them where they were, sharing the raw truth of my own scars, and reminding them they weren’t broken beyond repair. But I kept hitting a wall. Peer support could get someone through the night, yet it couldn’t replace the clinical tools needed for deep, lasting healing. I realized I needed the academic side—the evidence-based methods for treating PTSD, TBI, and the family systems that get torn apart by them. That’s why, at forty-eight, I’m back in school finishing my Bachelor’s in Marriage and Family Therapy with an emphasis in trauma, and I’m looking at Master’s programs for later this year or early next year. It’s not the path I imagined. I never sat in a traditional high-school classroom; I got my GED to enter the military and pieced together life experience instead of diplomas. Walking into my first college class felt terrifying. My hands shook filling out the application. I worried I’d be the old guy who couldn’t keep up, who’d freeze during discussions about theories I’d only lived through. Some nights I stare at textbooks until my TBI headaches kick in and wonder if I’m crazy for trying this now. But then I remember the veterans I’ve sat with at 2 a.m., the ones who say, “I wish someone really got it,” and the fire comes back. My lived experience gives me credibility no degree can buy, but the academic piece—the neuroscience of TBI, the systemic approaches to PTSD, the ethical frameworks for trauma-informed care—will let me do this work professionally and legally. I want to be licensed so I can legally practice and have the credibility from the certificate on the wall. My goal isn’t just to treat symptoms. I want to help warriors build a new normal. Too many of us come home still in battle mode—hyper-vigilant, mission-driven, defined by rank and injury. Demobilizing and demilitarizing ourselves is some of the hardest and most important work in healing. It means learning to put down the armor, to talk to our spouses and kids without issuing orders, to find purpose beyond the uniform. I want to guide veterans through a true life makeover: not ignoring the disability, but refusing to let it become the whole identity. We teach them to discover a new mission—maybe mentoring other vets, coaching youth sports, starting a small business, or simply being present again. TBI might fog your memory, PTSD might trigger anxiety in crowds, but those things don’t have to own the rest of your days. I’ve watched men go from “I’m just a broken soldier” to “I’m a dad who shows up, a husband who listens, a man with a new purpose.” That shift gives hope when nothing else does. My grandfather never got that chance. The dementia took him before anyone understood how to fight the long-term effects of Agent Orange. I carry that regret, but it fuels me. Every class I struggle through, every paper I write late into the night, is for the families still fighting invisible wars. Once I finish my Master’s and get licensed, I plan to expand Our Heroes Dreams into a full-service program that offers marriage and family therapy alongside peer support. I want to create spaces where veterans and their loved ones learn practical tools—cognitive strategies for TBI, communication skills that bridge military and civilian worlds, and rituals for letting go of the old mission so a new one can grow. Going back to school at my age isn’t easy, but it feels right. The same stubbornness that got me through homelessness, combat, amputation, and starting a nonprofit is carrying me through these classes. My experiences have shaped everything I value: honesty about pain, the power of second chances, and the belief that no one is beyond hope. With the academic knowledge I’m gaining, I’ll be able to give veterans and their families more than empathy—I’ll give them proven pathways to healing. War took a lot from my grandfather and from me, but it didn’t take our ability to turn survival into service. That’s the new mission I’m building, one class, one veteran, one family at a time. Have a blessed day, Sincerely, Justin Bond

I never planned on going back to school at my age. After everything I’ve been through, sitting in a classroom again felt like a distant dream. But here I am, applying for this scholarship because I fully understand that my lived experiences, accompanied by my academic education, will help save more lives. I was homeless from the age of 14 and enlisted in the Army for stability. Soon, I found myself wounded on the battlefield after I was shot with an AK-47 through both knees and losing my left leg. The pain, the nightmares, the loss of purpose, it all hit hard. For a while, I felt completely broken and alone. That darkness taught me things no classroom ever could. I learned how deep trauma runs, especially for military families. I saw brothers and sisters struggling with the same invisible wounds I carried. That’s why, years later, I founded Our Heroes Dreams, an all-volunteer program dedicated to supporting veterans. Through late-night calls, peer support, and just showing up when someone was on the edge, we’ve helped over 3,000 vets step back from suicide watch. It wasn’t about fancy degrees or titles; it was about lived experience, meeting someone where they were. I knew their pain because I lived it. Those years of service reshaped my core values. I believe in resilience, but more importantly, in the power of real connection and second chances. I value honesty about struggle, because pretending everything’s fine only makes the isolation worse. My career aspiration grew directly from this: I want to become a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist with a special emphasis on military families and trauma. I want to combine my hard-earned wisdom from the streets, the battlefield, and veteran advocacy with solid academic training. Too many warriors and their families fall through the cracks because the help they receive doesn’t understand the unique culture and pressures of military life. I want to bridge that gap. Going back to school now at 49 years old isn’t easy. I never even attended high school, so every class feels like climbing a mountain. But my experiences have given me a fire I didn’t have as a young man. I’m not just studying theory, I’m connecting every lecture on trauma-informed care directly to the faces of the veterans I’ve sat with at 2 a.m. My commitment to community service runs deeper than ever. Once licensed, I plan to open a practice focused on military families, offering counseling that honors both the uniform and the home front. I want to help marriages survive deployments, parents heal from the secondary trauma their kids carry, and warriors process grief without shame. I also hope to expand Our Heroes Dreams by integrating professional therapy services alongside our peer support. This scholarship would be a game-changer. It would ease the financial burden of going back to school as a disabled veteran with limited income, allowing me to focus on my studies instead of worrying about bills. Every dollar saved means I can pour more energy into becoming a therapist. It would help me finish my degree faster so I can start making a bigger impact sooner. My journey—from homeless teen to soldier, amputee, advocate, and now student has shown me that pain doesn’t have to be the end of the story. It can become the foundation for helping others rewrite theirs. With this education, I’m not just healing myself; I’m equipping myself to help thousands more warriors and their families find hope again. Thank you for considering my story and believing in second chapters like mine.