Living in the In-Between : PTSD Update 2025

2025 felt like a year of holding our breath. From the outside, not much may have seemed to change. But behind the scenes, this year quietly reshaped our path forward in ways we’re still learning to understand.

Early in the year, we learned that Tom’s psychologist had submitted a report to Veterans Affairs Canada (VAC) and PCVRS (Partners in Canadian Rehabilitation Services) stating that, despite ongoing treatment, Tom’s PTSD symptoms were not improving. In his professional opinion, a return to work was unlikely — and if it ever did happen, it would likely be years away.

Hearing that out loud was sobering. My heart bled. Discouraging. Not because I haven’t accepted Tom’s PTSD or the severity, or because I was blind to his sturggles or lack of improvement — but because it made the uncertainty real. It crushed the small part of me that still held hope that he would simply get better.

Because a year had passed without significant improvement, PCVRS began the process of transitioning Tom out of rehabilitation and into maintenance. Before that could happen, he was required to complete vocational (VOC) assessments. These assessments determine whether a veteran can return to work in some capacity, retrain through education programs, or be designated DEC (Diminished Earning Capacity). In simple terms, DEC means a veteran is unable to earn at least 66% of their pre-release income, and that designation determines whether Income Replacement Benefits (IRB) continue long-term.

The VOC assessment Tom completed felt misaligned from the start. Much of it focused on returning to military-style roles, despite Tom already being retired. The results were deemed inconclusive, and PCVRS requested further assessments — more vocational testing, outside psychologists, even psychiatry. Knowing how destabilizing extensive testing can be for someone with PTSD, my worry and stress became overwhelming.

Thankfully, Tom’s VAC case manager (CM) pushed back, requiring PCVRS to narrow their scope and sparing Tom some of that strain. Still, we braced ourselves. And my heart broke watching him prepare for yet another round of proving what he already lives every day. I watched him struggle with himself. Tom wants to work. He wants to contribute, to be part of a team. Without work, he feels disconnected from a sense of purpose, feels like he’s letting people down. That “work until you drop” mentality from his military years still lives in him. He’s frustrated that his mind and body won’t let him do what his heart wants.

All I can do is walk beside him. Hold his hand. Be his anchor when he needs one.

He pushed through two full 12-week rounds of occupational therapy (OT). By the third, it was clear OT wasn’t helping in the way it should, and Tom chose to step away. Psychology sessions gradually spaced out, not because they weren’t valuable, but because he was managing as well as he could between them. If it feels this heavy for me at times, I can only imagine how heavy it is for him.

A few months in, Long Term Disability (LTD) checked in. Their calls were infrequent; they were satisfied allowing PCVRS to manage Tom’s care without overlapping treatment plans. VAC, PCVRS, and LTD were communicating well. LTD extended Tom’s coverage from August through December, giving us some breathing room. We feel truly blessed that his care teams worked so well.

Then came a small but meaningful shift: if Tom’s psychologist provided additional supporting information, VAC and PCVRS might accept it without requiring further assessments. A reminder that advocacy matters; and that sometimes, being heard really can change the path forward.

By early summer, another jolt arrived. LTD requested that Tom apply for CPP Disability (CCPD). That opened a whole new layer of financial stress. CPPD, pension bridge benefits, LTD, none of them play nicely together. Backdated approvals mean repayments, tax implications, and endless recalculations. Add in pressure from LTD to sign documents that weren’t in Tom’s best interest, and suddenly we were fielding phone calls that felt more harassing than supportive.

That mental weight followed me through the summer, even when I tried to set it down. I found myself dreaming of a life beyond limbo; one where therapy is supportive rather than mandatory, and where our days are shaped around what brings Tom calm. I’ve watched him struggle for years, and I never want him forced back into a life that nearly broke him. Healing matters more than productivity.

Sailing will always be part of that: even if I draw the line at his newest dream of sailing to Greenland to see the icebergs.

For Tom, sailing isn’t a hobby. It’s self-regulation. It’s therapy. Being on the water brings him a calm that no other treatment has been able to touch. His seasonal highs are directly tied to the sailing season, and when he doesn’t get out enough, he feels it deeply. As much as it broke my heart on the days I needed to return home for relief from the heat, I knew he needed to stay. Finding that balance — supporting him while protecting my own mental health — was incredibly hard.

Boat projects took longer than expected, not from lack of effort, but because PTSD changes how energy is spent. Tasks take more time. Breaks are essential. And sometimes — too often — Tom would forget those breaks, pushing himself until burnout forced him to stop. He’s learning, in real time, how to work with his symptoms instead of against them.

As the year came to a close, CPP Disability was approved and backdated a full year. That meant repaying bridge benefits, recalculating LTD, and sorting out whether IRB owed us — or we owed them. Stressful, but survivable. Mostly, it was exhausting: coordinating between organizations that don’t communicate well, each determined to claim their piece.

We also discovered that Tom may have received IRB top-ups in error. While the responsibility ultimately falls on him, it raised painful questions about safeguards for veterans living with PTSD and cognitive challenges. Facing the possibility of repaying a significant sum — alongside rising costs and lost income — added yet another weight. And yes, it made me angry.

Then, right at the end of the year, something shifted.

While reviewing paperwork, Tom noticed documentation stating that his LTD coverage extends until age 65. I realized that earlier, during a unschedule call with LTD that I hadn’t been able to attend, Tom had misunderstood what was said. His file hadn’t just been moved to long-term — his LTD benefits had been extended long-term.

Relief washed over me. Months of bracing for worst-case scenarios softened in that moment. It was also a reminder of why I attend all his appointments: PTSD affects memory, perception, and how information lands.

We finish the year without a DEC designation — but with more confidence that it will come. CPPD approval, long-term LTD, and additional psychological support finally submitted (that had been delayed months) all point toward a favorable outcome.

For the first time in a very long time, the planner in me is doing a happy dance. I have a five-year plan.

Five years devoted to memories. To sailing. To experiences that might outlast the storms in Tom’s mind. Starting with summer 2026 will take us east. And if I do okay — really okay — maybe we head south after that. Nothing is written in stone, but even being able to imagine it feels like progress.

Tom isn’t getting better.

But he isn’t getting worse.

His quality of life is better than it was two years ago thanks to the help of his care team. The waves between his seasonal highs and lows are gentler now, thanks to support, understanding — and Agra2. We’re learning his triggers. Managing the lows. Navigating the storms together. Cherishing the good days. Offering grace when the clouds roll in.

And somehow, that is enough for now.

Fair winds. ⚓💙

---

Our Own “Notebook” Story — One Year Later

Last year, I wrote about seasons. About winter lows when the sails are tucked away, and spring highs when preparations begin. I wondered if reaching the Caribbean might hold Tom in a kind of perpetual summer — if warmth, water, and wind might soften the edges of his storms.

This year, we learned something important.

Sailing didn’t cure anything. But it changed everything.

Being on the water gives Tom something no therapy ever fully could — regulation, purpose, peace. His highs rise with the sails. His lows ease when the boat is beneath his feet. When he doesn’t get out enough, we both feel it. Sailing has become the rhythm that steadies him, the place where his nervous system finally exhales.

We still don’t know how this story ends.

But we are no longer waiting for “someday.”

We are choosing experiences now.

Choosing moments while we have them.

Collecting memories like treasures in a jar, not because we’re afraid of forgetting, but because remembering matters.

And if the day comes when his memory fails him completely, I know what I’ll do.

I will sit beside him, just like Noah did for Allie.

I will read these words back to him.

I will remind him of thousands of nautical miles of courage.

Of the St. Clair River. Our Great Lakes Adventures. Our calm of the Thousand Islands.

Of summer nights aboard Agra2.

Of the way he held me when I was afraid.

I will read to him until he comes back to me — even if only for a moment.

Sailing is no longer just a dream we’re chasing. ⛵️

It is the life we are choosing. 🧭

It is the lifeline that anchors us to hope. 🩷🌸