Invisible Wounds, Silent Betrayals: How Institutional Reluctance Deepens Veteran Trauma in the UK.
/The relationship between the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defence and its responsibility toward those who have served has always been fraught with tension, negotiation, and at times a profound ambivalence. For centuries, military institutions have faced the challenge of reconciling the demands of war with the long-term obligations owed to those who fight them. In the modern era, the costs of combat are increasingly understood not only in physical terms but also in psychological and neurological dimensions. The experiences of veterans who endure trauma, both from the battlefield and within the culture of the armed forces, reveal gaps between emerging scientific understanding and institutional responses. Three distinct but interlinked areas highlight the consequences of this reluctance: the Ministry’s hesitation to explore psychedelic therapies for trauma, its refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma to frame experiences of abuse and assault within the ranks, and the lack of investment in advanced neuroimaging for veterans with suspected Traumatic Brain Injury. Together, these choices risk isolating and disenfranchising the most vulnerable veterans, leaving many unsupported and amplifying the despair that can ultimately contribute to suicide.
The use of psychedelics as a potential treatment for trauma has, in recent years, gained prominence within clinical and scientific discourse worldwide. Research conducted in the United States, Europe, and elsewhere has suggested that substances such as MDMA, psilocybin, and other psychedelic compounds hold promise in addressing treatment-resistant post-traumatic stress disorder. For veterans whose trauma manifests in persistent flashbacks, hypervigilance, nightmares, and emotional blunting, traditional therapeutic approaches are often insufficient. Cognitive behavioural therapy, exposure therapy, and pharmacological interventions with antidepressants and anxiolytics can provide relief, but they frequently fail to resolve the deep-rooted neurological imprints of trauma. Psychedelic-assisted therapy, by contrast, offers a mechanism to break entrenched patterns of fear and avoidance, allowing patients to process experiences in a radically new way. The reluctance of the Ministry of Defence to explore this avenue represents not merely bureaucratic conservatism but an act of neglect toward those who suffer. Veterans are left with limited options, their suffering prolonged by an institutional culture more concerned with risk aversion than with pioneering solutions.
The moral weight of this reluctance becomes clearer when one considers the human cost of untreated trauma. Veterans are often trained to suppress vulnerability, to embody resilience and stoicism. When these individuals later seek help, it is typically because the burden of trauma has reached unbearable proportions. Denying them access to potentially transformative treatments on the grounds of stigma, outdated drug classifications, or political caution is to compound their suffering. Instead of leading the way in cutting-edge veteran care, the Ministry risks positioning itself as an obstacle, forcing veterans to seek support outside official structures or even to travel abroad for treatments unavailable at home. This failure to adapt perpetuates alienation between veterans and the institution that once demanded their loyalty, and it erodes trust in the state’s commitment to their welfare.
Equally damaging is the Ministry’s refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma. Words carry power, and the absence of a recognised framework for describing experiences of sexual assault or harassment within the military leaves survivors without a language to articulate their pain. In the United States, the term has been formally acknowledged for decades, providing a context in which survivors can situate their experiences and seek validation. In the UK, by contrast, the lack of an equivalent terminology sustains silence and stigma. Survivors of sexual assault within the military community may find themselves isolated, unsure whether their experiences fit within the broader narrative of military trauma. By refusing to legitimise the term, the Ministry implicitly signals that these experiences are not central to its understanding of veteran welfare.
The implications of this refusal extend beyond semantics. Without the recognition of Military Sexual Trauma as a category of experience, survivors are denied the structural supports that flow from such acknowledgment. It becomes more difficult to secure tailored treatment, to obtain institutional redress, or to foster a sense of solidarity with others who have endured similar harm. Veterans who carry both the scars of combat and the wounds of sexual violence are particularly vulnerable, and yet they are rendered invisible by the refusal to name their experiences. The disenfranchisement that follows is profound. Survivors may disengage from services, distrust military or governmental institutions, and retreat further into isolation. For individuals already grappling with the weight of trauma, this marginalisation increases the risk of self-destructive behaviours, including substance misuse, withdrawal from family life, and in the worst cases, suicide.
The consequences of institutional silence are magnified by the military’s cultural norms. Within a structure that valorises toughness and camaraderie, admitting to sexual victimisation carries immense stigma. Survivors may fear disbelief, reprisal, or career damage. Without an official framework to support disclosure, many remain silent. This silence is not neutral; it is corrosive. It breeds shame, alienation, and despair. The refusal to adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma thus represents not just a bureaucratic omission but a denial of the lived reality of countless veterans. The Ministry’s reluctance to face this reality perpetuates cycles of disenfranchisement and trauma, particularly among women and other vulnerable groups who may already feel marginalised within the military community.
Parallel to these failures is the chronic underinvestment in neuroimaging technologies such as CT and MRI scans for veterans with suspected Traumatic Brain Injury. The physical injuries sustained in combat are often visible and incontrovertible, but brain injuries can be subtle, their symptoms overlapping with psychological trauma. Headaches, dizziness, memory problems, emotional dysregulation, and difficulty concentrating may all stem from underlying brain injury, yet without adequate imaging these conditions remain undiagnosed or misattributed. Veterans may be told that their struggles are purely psychological, when in fact they are living with the neurological consequences of blast exposure, concussive forces, or repeated impacts. The failure to provide sufficient access to advanced imaging is a failure to take seriously the complexity of modern warfare injuries.
The neglect of brain injury diagnostics is not simply a medical oversight but a structural issue. It reflects a system in which cost-saving and risk management take precedence over comprehensive care. CT and MRI scans are resource-intensive, requiring both infrastructure and expertise, but the cost of neglecting these needs is borne by veterans who are misdiagnosed, untreated, or inadequately supported. The unexplained rise in suicide among serving personnel and veterans may be partly attributable to this neglect. For individuals whose neurological injuries remain invisible, the sense of despair is intensified. They may feel misunderstood, dismissed, or abandoned. Without a clear diagnosis, they are denied validation and tailored interventions. The dissonance between their lived experience and the institutional response deepens feelings of hopelessness, fuelling the tragic pathway toward self-harm and suicide.
These three areas—psychedelic therapies, Military Sexual Trauma, and Traumatic Brain Injury—are not isolated issues but interconnected threads of a broader narrative. They reveal a Ministry of Defence that is consistently cautious, defensive, and reluctant to adapt, even when adaptation is necessary to safeguard the welfare of veterans. At the heart of each issue lies a failure to listen to the voices of those most affected. Veterans themselves have often been the strongest advocates for psychedelic research, for recognition of sexual trauma, and for improved brain injury diagnostics. Yet their voices are too often sidelined by institutional inertia. The result is a widening gap between policy and lived experience, between the promises of support and the reality of neglect.
The impact of these failures reverberates through the veteran community. Disenfranchisement is not an abstract concept but a lived reality marked by isolation, mistrust, and despair. Veterans who feel unsupported are less likely to engage with services, more likely to struggle in silence, and more vulnerable to crises that culminate in suicide. The moral responsibility of the Ministry of Defence is not simply to provide pensions or token support but to ensure that those who have borne the burdens of service are cared for in ways that reflect the best available knowledge. To refuse to explore new therapies, to deny the language of trauma, and to neglect neurological diagnostics is to betray that responsibility.
The broader consequences for society are also significant. When veterans suffer, the effects ripple outward to families, communities, and the public’s relationship with the military. Families often bear the brunt of unaddressed trauma, managing the fallout of emotional volatility, depression, and withdrawal. Communities witness the decline of individuals once held up as embodiments of national service. Public confidence in the state’s willingness to care for its veterans erodes when stories of neglect and disenfranchisement circulate. The suicide of a veteran is not only a personal tragedy but a collective failure, a stark reminder that the cost of war extends far beyond the battlefield.
It is worth reflecting on the symbolism embedded in these institutional choices. Psychedelics are rejected because they are associated with illegality, counterculture, and perceived risk, yet the risk of inaction is far greater. The term Military Sexual Trauma is refused because it challenges the military’s self-image as a cohesive and honourable institution, yet ignoring abuse corrodes that very cohesion. CT and MRI scans are underfunded because they are expensive, yet the cost of untreated brain injury is measured in lives lost. In each case, the reluctance to act stems from an unwillingness to confront uncomfortable truths or to invest in solutions that demand courage and change. For an institution built upon discipline and bravery, this reluctance is paradoxical, even shameful.
The path forward requires more than incremental reform. It requires a cultural shift within the Ministry of Defence toward openness, innovation, and humility. To embrace psychedelic therapies would signal a commitment to evidence-based care and a willingness to lead rather than follow. To adopt the term Military Sexual Trauma would affirm the reality of survivors and provide them with a platform for healing. To invest fully in brain injury diagnostics would demonstrate that every aspect of veteran health is taken seriously, not only those that are visible or convenient. Such steps would not erase the past, but they would begin to rebuild trust between veterans and the institution that shaped their lives.
At the heart of these changes must be an acknowledgment of the unique vulnerabilities faced by veterans. Trauma is not uniform, and the intersection of psychological, sexual, and neurological injuries produces a spectrum of suffering that defies simple categorisation. Institutions must be capable of recognising complexity rather than reducing experiences to one-dimensional diagnoses. They must also accept that vulnerability does not diminish the worth of those who served but underscores the depth of their sacrifice. To disenfranchise vulnerable veterans is to betray the very principles of duty and honour that the military espouses.
Ultimately, the reluctance of the Ministry of Defence to embrace new therapies, acknowledge hidden traumas, and invest in advanced diagnostics has profound human costs. The unexplained rise in suicides among serving personnel and veterans cannot be understood without reference to these failures. Each life lost represents not only an individual tragedy but also an indictment of institutional neglect. If the Ministry wishes to honour the service of veterans, it must move beyond rhetoric and toward substantive action. To do otherwise is to perpetuate a cycle of disenfranchisement and despair, leaving the most vulnerable veterans abandoned by the very system that once commanded their loyalty.
In this sense, the question is not whether the Ministry can afford to embrace change but whether it can afford not to. The costs of inaction, measured in suffering, alienation, and death far exceed the financial or political risks of innovation. To heal the wounds of war, both visible and invisible, requires courage equal to that displayed on the battlefield. It requires the humility to listen, the openness to learn, and the resolve to act. Only then can the debt owed to veterans be meaningfully repaid, and only then can the cycle of disenfranchisement be broken.
Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist
