About six years ago, I was preparing to retire. Starting to cut back on my clinical psychiatry practice, I was looking forward to spending more time with my grandchildren and traveling with my husband, Donald. But then Donald and I happened to walk along the beach in Santa Monica, just as a veterans’ group was putting up hundreds of little white crosses in the sand, commemorating deaths of U.S. soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. I gasped, stunned by the enormity of the losses. And then I started thinking about all the soldiers who have been returning home alive, and maybe physically well, but traumatized by all they have seen and endured. As a therapist, I knew I had the tools to help, and also that I couldn’t ignore the need.