JERRY'S STORY

For 17 years, I’ve worked in the field of behavioral health services. When I passed the ten-year mark, I felt an undeniable calling to give back—to provide the best care possible for Veterans. That thought never faded. It stayed with me, a constant whisper in the back of my mind. And as the years passed, each time I received a call about a fellow Veteran taking their own life, the pain cut deeper. It was heartbreaking to know that here, in America, we were losing our brothers and sisters—people who had already fought battles overseas—when we had the ability to rally around them and offer support.

Self-improvement has always been important to me, and I make it a point to take personal retreats each year. In 2015, I found myself at Canyon Ranch in Arizona. One of the daily exercises assigned was a spiritual task—to walk the labyrinth. The goal was simple: clear the mind, focus on deep breaths, and see what comes to you when you reach the center.

But I couldn’t clear my mind. I worried I was doing it wrong.

Step by step, I walked, unsure of what was supposed to happen. And then, as I reached the center, the emotions hit me like a wave. I broke down in tears. In that moment of clarity, everything aligned—I was meant to help Veterans. I had to do something to make a real impact on their mental health, to reduce the devastating suicide rate.

And then I noticed something. Right there, in the center of the labyrinth, someone had left a small coin with a Fleur-de-lis on it.

At first, it was just an object. But then, recognition flooded in. After basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky, I had been assigned to Fort Polk, Louisiana—home of the 2nd ACR, whose crest bore the Fleur-de-lis. My time there was brief—only ten days. I had just become a soldier, barely four months into the Army, and was told that in 30 days, I’d be deployed to Sadr City, Iraq. I was terrified.

Then, one morning, standing in formation, our commander made an announcement: there were last-minute transfers. Name after name was called. Then, “Haffey.” I was being sent to Fort Drum, New York. The relief was immediate. Not only was I closer to home in Pennsylvania, but I’d also receive more training.

And now, standing in the middle of that labyrinth, holding a coin with the same emblem from my past, I understood—I had been moved back then for a reason. I was meant to survive so I could give back. The gratitude overwhelmed me. At that moment, I knew it was time to turn my thoughts into action. That’s when the vision for Fort Freedom was born.

The final push came when I received a call from a close Veteran brother who was struggling badly, on the edge of ending his life. Desperate to help, I asked him to take a leap of faith and try a concept program I had been developing. He agreed. He flew from California to Florida, and over the course of 12 weeks, we put the program to the test. The transformation was undeniable. It worked.

That was it—the proof we needed. We had something real.

Something that could save lives. From that moment on, we dedicated ourselves to expanding the mission of Fort Freedom, determined to be the lifeline that so many Veterans desperately need.

Jerry Haffey