A combat veteran painting in a dimly lit studio, surrounded by canvases filled with raw, emotional brushstrokes.
May 21, 2022

LionHearted: A Journey of Combat, Art, and Healing

I still remember the night LionHearted was born. I was sitting alone with my thoughts swirling—images from combat tours, names of friends I’d lost, and that heavy statistic that 22 veterans take their own life every single day. As a former Army Infantry Sergeant in the 10th Mountain Division and a Purple Heart combat veteran, I carry the scars of war both on my body and deep in my soul. The weight of those memories and the silence surrounding them had become unbearable. I knew I needed to do something—not only to help myself cope, but to reach other veterans who were quietly fighting their own inner battles.

I began drafting the idea for a film project in early 2018, almost on a whim, with the hope that maybe sharing our stories could be a way out of the darkness. I didn’t want to honor veterans day like any other typical ‘marketing’, ‘look at how much we care’ campaign. It needed to hit and hit hard. What started as a small project to chronicle a few veteran stories for Veterans Day quickly grew into something much larger. In a matter of months, that seed of an idea blossomed into LionHearted, a multi-platform tribute to veterans that would encompass film, visual art, and storytelling. Little did I know that this journey—shot over a whirlwind six months of crisscrossing the country—would transform not just my life, but the lives of so many others.

Finding Purpose After the Battlefield

Coming home from war, I often felt adrift. Its like slamming the brakes from 120mph to 0, but your heart never lets off the gas.The transition from battlefields to backyard barbecues is jarring. One day you’re in Afghanistan, feeling every heartbeat thunder in your ears; the next, you’re back home, expected to slip into normalcy as if nothing ever happened. But of course, so much had happened. I had seen bravery and loss, felt terror and camaraderie in equal measure. I had memories I couldn’t forget and pain I struggled to voice. For years, like many vets, I bottled it up.

For a long time, I was that guy—the one who didn’t want to talk about it. I dodged the questions, buried the memories, and wore the mask like a second skin. I told myself I was fine, just like a lot of us do. But over time, I realized that silence is just as dangerous as any enemy I ever faced in combat. It doesn’t shoot at you—but it eats you alive from the inside out. The nightmares, the guilt, the isolation—they don’t go away. They just wait in the dark, growing stronger the longer you pretend they’re not there. It’s like walking through a minefield in your own mind, hoping if you don’t move too fast, nothing will explode. In the middle of all that pain, somehow—that was the path forward. It cracked me open, forced change, made me human again. Gave me a shot at putting words to what I went through. See, the sick part about coming back from combat is how it poisons your connection to the people you love. You start pulling away from your wife, your kids, the ones you swore you’d protect—not because you don’t love them, but because you feel like an alien in your own home. Like they’ll never understand the shit that’s replaying in your head. The blood. The screaming. The fucking nightmares of someone dying in your arms. And you sure as hell don’t want them carrying that weight. So you shoulder it alone. But the moment you stop fighting that silence… the minute you stop pretending you’re fine and you actually face it—that’s the moment you start coming back to yourself. That’s when the healing starts.

There’s real power in speaking our truth. That’s what this whole project is—this is our story, and saying it out loud is survival. It’s redemption. It’s how we remember who we are. Because when you’re locked in a dark-ass garage with just your thoughts and a bottle, your story doesn’t feel like it means anything. It feels like dust. But when someone else hears it, when the world leans in to actually listen, it becomes something more. It fills in the gaps of what it means to be a warrior after the war. And maybe—just maybe—it helps someone else find their way out too. You want to talk about courage? That’s it right there. Facing it. Owning it. Telling it.

And yeah—it’s scary. It’s risky. But that’s where the meaning lives. And you’ve got to be brave enough to reach for it. I thought about my brothers and sisters who were doing the same—carrying invisible injuries, stuck in their own private wars. We often “pray for peace, for it is [we] who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war,” as General MacArthur said. And after years of trying to outrun the pain in silence, I finally realized: talking wasn’t weakness—it was survival.

You want to talk about courage? That’s it right there. Facing it. Owning it. Telling it.

That urgency became my purpose: to create a space where veterans could speak openly, and to ensure their stories would not be forgotten. I wanted to honor their courage and give voice to their experiences, in the hopes that others would realize it’s okay to talk about what happened and to seek support. In my heart I believed that telling our stories could heal us. If even one veteran could find comfort, if one civilian could better understand what we go through, it would all be worth it. With that mission in mind, I teamed up with my colleague and friend Owen Garitty (a brilliant filmmaker I’d worked with before) and together we set out to make LionHearted a reality.

An Unlikely Partnership with a Veteran Artist

No sooner had the idea taken shape than I knew I needed a visual component as powerful as the stories themselves. That’s when I discovered Shawn Ganther, an Air Force veteran and talented artist. Late one night, scrolling through an online gallery of veteran art, I stumbled upon Shawn’s work. It stopped me in my tracks. Here was someone who had been to war and then turned around to paint and draw those experiences in haunting detail. Shawn’s pieces were raw and honest—you could feel the PTSD, the pride, and the pain woven into each stroke. I learned he had even showcased art at places like the Pentagon and advocated for art therapy as a treatment for PTSD. I thought to myself, this is the guy.

I reached out to Shawn immediately. To my surprise, getting him on board was not instant—he was cautious at first. I like to joke that I pursued him relentlessly until he finally agreed to hear me out. I sent emails, left voicemails, probably even slipped a message into his Twitter DMs. I was a man on a mission, and poor Shawn didn’t stand a chance! Eventually, he agreed to collaborate, and that moment changed the trajectory of LionHearted.

From the first phone call, it was clear we were kindred spirits. We talked about our service, our struggles coming home, and how art had helped him cope. Shawn later told me that my passion for the project practically leapt through the phone. I remember telling him, “I need your help to make this project real. I want to capture the true stories of veterans and I want your art to be the vessel for those memories.” He was in. In that instant, an unlikely but powerful partnership was formed.

Working with Shawn on this project has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. We didn’t just collaborate—we bonded like brothers forged in the same fire. Shawn spoke the language of trauma, survival, and healing in a way that didn’t need translation. From the start, we knew LionHearted couldn’t just be a film—it had to be something veterans could physically see themselves in, something that carried the same weight their stories do. If it was a film, it would of just been that typical, sit down in a chair style interview. We needed this to live in art and forever. 

That’s where the body armor came in. It wasn’t just a prop—it was a deliberate choice. Stories carry weight, and so does armor. Both are designed to protect. Both take damage so something inside can live. As each veteran shared their truth, Shawn etched their portrait onto a plate of body armor—memorializing their experience on the very thing that once shielded them. And when all 22 plates came together, they formed something larger than any one of us: an American flag made of courage, pain, survival, and brotherhood. A mosaic of the invisible war we carry home.

Capturing Stories of Healing and Memory

Once our team was assembled, we hit the ground running. Over about half a year in 2018, Owen, Shawn, myself, and a small crew traveled across the United States to meet 22 veterans, one from each branch of the military and each with a unique story to tell. We filmed everywhere from quiet living rooms in small towns to bustling city centers, wherever these warriors were now making their lives. Each encounter began the same way: with a simple conversation, veteran-to-veteran, no filters, no sugarcoating. I would sit with them, sometimes with the camera rolling, other times just listening first, as they recounted their experiences of courage, combat, and camaraderie.

These interviews were the heart of LionHearted. I can’t count the number of times I had to wipe tears from my eyes behind the camera. One former Army medic described the day he couldn’t save his best friend’s life; a Marine Corps vet opened up about the nightmares that still wake him at 3 a.m.; an Air Force pararescueman talked about the harrowing mission where he held dying soldiers in his arms on a mountainside (stories like his showed just how “we’re always flying into the worst day of somebody’s life,” as one veteran put it). These were stories laden with grief and guilt, but also pride, love, and even humor at times.

As they spoke, something amazing happened: you could see a weight lifting off many of their shoulders. Nearly all these veterans told their story for the first time. Ever, so think about that. Nearly all of these men and women later said that opening up allowed them to release inner demons and changed – possibly even saved – their lives. I will never forget the quiet relief on a Navy veteran’s face after he finished telling us about a battle at sea; it was like years of burden had finally been put down. In those moments, I understood that LionHearted was more than a film project. It was a form of catharsis. We were helping these veterans reclaim their narratives from the darkness of memory, simply by listening.

Meanwhile, Shawn was right there in the room for each interview, turning those moments of storytelling into art in real time. He set up his easel or sketch pad with a blank armor plate – the kind of hard ballistic plate soldiers wear in their vests – and as each veteran recounted their journey, Shawn drew their portrait and symbols of their story onto that plate. It was incredible to watch: a Marine would be describing a firefight in Fallujah while, little by little, his face emerged in pencil and paint on the armor in Shawn’s hands. A female Army officer talked about leading her platoon through ambushes in Kandahar, and around the edges of her portrait, images of her unit’s insignia and a battlefield cross took shape. Art became a parallel form of storytelling, unfolding side by side with the spoken words. By the time each interview ended, the once-blank piece of armor was transformed into a vivid snapshot of that veteran’s life – their fears, their triumphs, and their lost friends all captured in images and color.

Those body armor art pieces became sacred objects to us. Each one held a story. When we finally finished traveling and filming, we had 22 pieces of decorated armor. Shawn and our team carefully fitted them together like a giant puzzle. Piece by piece, a pattern emerged: colored in red, white, and blue, all the plates together formed a 6-foot-long American flag mosaic It weighed nearly 400 pounds, heavy with both steel and stories. The flag was unlike any I’d ever seen – up close you see individual faces and moments; step back and you see the flag that all those individuals collectively served. We decided to call this artwork “The LionHearted”, because it symbolized the bravery and heart of every veteran in the film.

Throughout the project, I often thought about my own healing too. I won’t lie: listening to these stories was hard. Many nights after filming, I’d retreat to my hotel room and finally allow myself to just sit in silence, feeling the weight of what I’d heard. Much of it I blocked out and was resurfacing to face head-on. But there was also a profound sense of connection. In their bravery to share, I found the courage to confront my own demons. It’s as if every story they told also helped me make sense of my own experiences in combat. In helping them heal, I was healing myself. Memory by memory, we were all sailing home together.

Communication and Coping Through Art

One of the biggest lessons I learned on this journey is that communication is a form of medicine. For veterans, simply talking about war can be as daunting as any battle. There’s a code of silence we often adopt—whether out of fear of being misunderstood or the desire to protect our loved ones from the ugly truths of combat. LionHearted set out to break that silence. We facilitated conversations that were raw, unfiltered, sometimes messy, and we showed that that’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary. “It’s okay to talk about their experiences and get support,” I often remind fellow vets, because staying quiet nearly killed me and so many others.

Yet LionHearted was not only about talking—it was also about creating. The fusion of dialogue with visual art turned out to be our secret sauce. There is something profoundly therapeutic about art. I saw it in Shawn’s eyes as he sketched, and in the faces of the veterans who watched their stories take shape in paint. Art gave them a voice beyond words. Some things are too painful or complicated to express verbally, and that’s where the drawings and symbols on those armor plates spoke for them. A painted silhouette of a soldier carrying a wounded comrade, or a child’s name scrawled in a corner of the artwork, could convey what the veteran might have struggled to say out loud.

For Shawn, art had long been his personal lifeline. After serving from 1998 to 2003, including deployments in Operation Enduring Freedom, Shawn found that painting helped him process his trauma. He once told me that creating art quieted his nightmares and gave him a focus when life felt chaotic. It’s no surprise he’s been a strong advocate for art therapy for PTSD in the veteran community. Through LionHearted, we essentially turned that individual therapy into a collective experience. Each veteran’s participation was a form of therapy—talk therapy and art therapy all at once. They talked, Shawn created, and together we all made meaning out of chaos.

I vividly recall one young OIF participants in our project, Art Espinoza who had initially been reluctant to dredge up old memories. But as he sat with us, he began to describe the friends he lost. While he spoke, Shawn drew those friends’ initials onto the corner of the armor plate, beneath the veteran’s portrait. When we revealed the finished piece to that veteran, he fell silent, tears in his eyes. He reached out and touched the painted initials of his fallen comrades and managed a smile. “Now they’re part of the flag too,” he whispered. In that moment, I understood the power of art in healing trauma and preserving memory. The conversation had allowed him to share his grief, and the artwork had given that grief a tangible tribute.

Art also became a bridge to connect veterans and civilians. Not everyone understands what a deployment feels like, or what combat does to the human spirit. But anyone can look at Shawn’s beautiful, brutal mosaic and feel something. The National Veterans Art Museum often says their mission is to bridge the gap between the perception and the reality of combat, and that’s exactly what our project aimed to do. By putting these deeply personal artworks on display, we invited civilians into our world. A person visiting the exhibit might not know what “IED” or “dustoff” means, but they can stand in front of that flag of armor plates and sense the reality of sacrifice and resilience it represents. In this way, communication through art extended beyond the veterans themselves—it spoke to the broader society about war, trauma, and healing in a universally understandable language.

When we finally edited all the footage down into a 24-minute documentary and launched LionHearted online and in exhibitions, the response exceeded our wildest expectations. Each veteran also had their own separate part, so that was an additional 21 short films. On Veterans Day 2018, we premiered the film in front of an audience of veterans, families, and supporters.

I was equal parts nervous and hopeful when LionHearted was ready to go live. This film wasn’t sugarcoated—it was raw, brutal, and real. It was the truth. And that’s exactly why YouTube blocked it. They flagged it as “harmful to their community,” like telling the truth about war and what it does to a human being somehow crosses the line. Meanwhile, violent video games and Hollywood bloodbaths get a hall pass. That’s the hypocrisy. That’s the bullshit.

I was livid. I made every call I could, pushed every angle, and wasn’t about to let this thing die in the dark. I even reached out to a friend of mine—you might’ve heard of him—Tony Robbins. He saw what this was, believed in it, and helped me push it through. Once he got behind the project, YouTube backed off. But I was still pissed. We shouldn’t have to beg to tell the truth—especially when that truth could save lives.

And once people finally did see it, the impact was undeniable. From the first screening, the reaction was overwhelming. Veterans came up to me in tears. One said, “It was like watching my own memories—but it gave me hope, because I saw I’m not alone.” A Vietnam vet gripped my hand and said, “I wish I’d had something like this 40 years ago.” That hit me hard. This wasn’t just a film. It was a mirror, a lifeline, a voice for people who’ve been silent for too long.

The film doesn’t pull punches. It shows the grit and grief, but also the brotherhood and healing. I think that honesty is what hit home for people. A reviewer from VetFlix wrote that LionHearted “hits you hard in the gut and the heart… At times it made me cry but, more importantly, it made me appreciate the stories of our warriors… A must-see and must-share film.” Such feedback meant the world to me. We wanted to spark conversation, and that’s exactly what was happening. Veterans were talking, families were asking questions, even civilians were reaching out saying, “I never understood what you all went through. Now I have a glimpse of it.”

Perhaps most gratifying was the effect on the 22 veterans who participated in the project. They had formed a community of their own as a result of this film. We kept in touch with many of them after filming. In fact, one year later, we reunited a bunch of the LionHearted crew and participants. The transformations were heartening: a former Marine who had been struggling with depression was now volunteering at a veterans’ art workshop, inspired by what he’d experienced with us. An Army vet who had once been on the verge of giving up had since started attending a weekly storytelling circle, helping other vets open up. They told me that being a part of LionHearted was like a turning point. It gave them a sense of purpose and pride back. Hearing that, I felt a lump in my throat every time. It’s one thing to create a film you hope will help people; it’s another to see that hope being realized in front of your eyes.

The broader veteran community and media also took notice. The American Legion called LionHearted “what it looks like to truly listen and uplift the stories of our modern-day Veteran… a must see. BRAVO Shane Ruiz!”. Knowing that an institution representing millions of veterans appreciated our work was incredibly humbling. North American Rescue, a company known for battlefield medic equipment, praised the film as a “raw, unfiltered story of the American War Fighter… This hits the soul!”. And RECOIL Magazine wrote, “Bone chilling! What an incredible tribute to our Veterans.” Such reviews reassured us that we had done justice to these stories. We weren’t just screaming into the void; people heard us, and they cared.

Even more important than the critical praise were the private reactions. I’ve received countless emails and messages from veterans and military families. Wives have written to say, “After watching your film, my husband opened up about his deployment for the first time.” Parents have said, “Now I understand my son’s struggles a little better.” And fellow vets have shared, “I didn’t realize other people felt like I do until I saw LionHearted. Now I know I’m not alone.” This is the real impact—the quiet healing happening in living rooms and around kitchen tables because a story in our film resonated with someone. It’s beyond anything I dreamed of when we first set out.

One particularly memorable note came from a younger veteran who had nearly become a statistic in that 22-a-day figure. He told me he watched the film online in the middle of a sleepless night, tears streaming down his face. The next day, he reached out to a therapist for help, because LionHearted made him realize that if those 22 people in the film could talk about their demons, maybe he could too. That, right there, is why we did this. To let veterans know it’s okay to not be okay, and that seeking help or simply sharing your story can be a life-saving act of courage.

What we never expected—but are deeply honored by—is how LionHearted is now being used across the country in ways we couldn’t have imagined. The Department of Veterans Affairs is using the film as part of training for clinicians and caregivers working with PTSD patients. Psychology departments at major universities have incorporated it into their curriculum. Medical schools, trauma specialists, and even law enforcement agencies are using it as a tool to better understand the invisible wounds veterans carry. LionHearted didn’t just start conversations—it’s now helping shape how professionals show up for those who’ve been to war and back. That’s impact that lasts. That’s legacy.

From the Battlefield to the Smithsonian: An Unbelievable Honor

When we set out to create LionHearted, I often said to the team, “This isn’t just for Veterans Day. I don’t want this to be seen for a day and forgotten. I want it to live on forever.” At the time, that was more a wish than a plan. But incredibly, that wish came true in ways I never anticipated. Our project found a home in some of the nation’s most respected institutions, ensuring its message endures for future generations.

In November 2018, as part of the Veterans Day events, LionHearted was screened at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C. It was featured in the Smithsonian’s Veterans Day Film Festival, alongside a handful of other films honoring veterans. I flew out to D.C. for the event, and I’ll never forget walking into that grand museum hall knowing our little 24-minute film was about to play on a Smithsonian screen. I took a seat in the back row, and as the lights dimmed, I felt this surreal mix of pride and disbelief. Here we were, telling our story in the heart of the nation’s capital. Being showcased in such a prestigious place was an affirmation that LionHearted wasn’t just our project—it had become part of the broader American story. The Smithsonian even listed our film as an official selection in their program, which to me meant that the experiences of these 22 vets were being recognized as part of American history, not just isolated personal tales. After the screening, it was silence, tears and chatter of “what the fuck, wow.”  Museum staff told us that the audience feedback was incredibly positive, if not the best they’ve had – people were moved and wanted to know how to share the film with others. In that moment, I felt LionHearted had truly become more than a film; it was a national tribute.

Around the same time, back in Chicago, something equally incredible was happening. We had arranged for Shawn’s magnificent mosaic flag artwork to be unveiled at the National Veterans Art Museum (NVAM) on Veterans Day. On November 8, 2018, just a few days before the Smithsonian screening, a crowd of veterans and art lovers gathered at NVAM to witness the big reveal. With great fanfare, we showed the assembled flag of armor plates for the first time. The reaction was awe. People stood in silence just taking it in, some with their hands over their hearts, others wiping away tears. The museum’s curators spoke about how LionHearted fits into their mission of bridging the civilian-military divide, and how this artwork speaks to the true, honest impact of combat. I even got to say a few words, though I was choked up with emotion. I expressed how honored we were that NVAM believed in our project enough to give it a home.

And what a home it is – NVAM officially accepted The LionHearted mosaic flag into their permanent collection. In other words, our 6-foot flag of stories will live on in the museum indefinitely, on display for all to see. The idea that something we created will be preserved in a museum for future generations is beyond humbling. NVAM’s team told us, “We are honored to have LionHearted on display and in our collection. This speaks to veterans and the broader society about the true, honest impact of combat.” Knowing that the artwork and the film are enshrined in a place where all can experience combat-inspired art and understand its meaning is deeply fulfilling.

For me personally, having LionHearted showcased at the Smithsonian and NVAM is the highest honor I could imagine. It means the world is listening. It means the stories of those 22 veterans—and by extension, all veterans—have been acknowledged as an important part of our cultural heritage. The film’s inclusion in the Smithsonian’s event effectively elevated it to a national treasure in my eyes, a sentiment echoed by others who noted that being in such an institution underscored the film’s cultural and historical significance. And at NVAM, LionHearted now stands alongside other powerful veteran artworks, contributing to an ongoing dialogue about war and healing. I often think of a line we used when describing the project’s mission: we wanted LionHearted to be something enduring, something that helps others “sail home to themselves.” Seeing it “enshrined” in a museum to live forever feels like the culmination of that dream. It ensures that long after I’m gone, the voices captured in our film will continue to speak, and the message that healing is possible will continue to spread.

At NVAM, LionHearted now stands alongside other powerful veteran artworks, contributing to an ongoing dialogue about war and healing

Carrying the Legacy Forward

Standing here now, reflecting on this journey, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. What began as a personal coping mechanism—a desperate attempt to make sense of my own past—transformed into a movement of healing and remembrance. LionHearted became far more than just a short film we released online; it became a beacon of storytelling, art, and hope that has touched countless lives. I’m humbled by the lives it has impacted and the conversations it has sparked. The success of this project has shown me that there is incredible power in vulnerability. By sharing the hardest truths of our lives, we unlocked understanding and compassion in others.

For me, the greatest reward is knowing that somewhere, a struggling veteran might watch LionHearted or visit the museum exhibit and feel a little less alone. Perhaps they’ll see a part of their own story reflected back at them and find the courage to speak up or seek help. Perhaps a young service member’s family will gain insight into what their loved one is carrying inside. Every time LionHearted helps someone “sail home” to their own true self out of the fog of war, I consider our mission accomplished.

The journey doesn’t end here. In many ways, LionHearted has laid the foundation for future projects and initiatives. I remain committed to exploring how art and film can continue to serve as bridges between veterans and civilians, between trauma and healing. Shawn and I still collaborate, and we’ve been mentoring other veterans who want to tell their stories through creative means. There’s talk of doing a follow-up series, or perhaps organizing community workshops where veterans and artists come together to create, share, and heal. The possibilities are endless, and my heart is open to where this path leads next.

Through this experience, I have learned that healing is not a destination but a journey—one that is better traveled together. Each story, each painting, each screening is a step forward for someone. As I continue this work, I carry with me the lessons LionHearted taught us: that the human spirit is incredibly resilient, that art can speak when words fail, and that even the darkest chapters of our lives can give way to meaning and connection.

In closing, I want to thank every person who has been a part of LionHearted—the veterans who bravely shared their stories, the crew who poured their souls into the production, the museums and organizations that believed in our vision, and the audiences who have listened with open hearts. You have all contributed to making LionHearted more than a film. It’s a living memorial, a conversation starter, and a sanctuary for truth. I am honored to have been a part of it, and I will cherish this journey for the rest of my days.

As I finish writing this, I glance at a small replica image of the mosaic flag hanging on my wall. It reminds me daily of what we accomplished and why. It reminds me of the faces of 22 veterans who had the courage to face their past and in doing so, helped others find the strength to do the same. It reminds me that no matter how rough the seas of memory get, with open communication and a bit of creative courage, we can all find a way to sail home to ourselves.