Written by Earl Lingasin
When people find out I served in Canada’s Special Operations Forces Command they always want to hear about the missions. They want the action. They want the cool stories about what it’s like to operate in an elite unit at the edge of the world.
I could tell them those stories. But the truth? My real story the hardest battle I ever fought didn't begin until the uniform came off.
It started with a broken back. For nearly six months, I was bedridden, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I would ever regain the function to walk properly again. It took a full year of grueling, agonizing training just to walk and move like myself. But the physical pain was only half the battle.
The military offered me a choice: be posted to an isolated location up north, or voluntarily release. I looked at my family, and the choice was made. I walked away.
But leaving the military means leaving a piece of your soul behind. Overnight, I lost my identity. I lost the brotherhood. We moved out of Ottawa to Winnipeg, trying to save up enough money to eventually make it to Toronto. I was rehabbing my own body, working random private-sector contracting jobs, and drowning in the transition. I didn’t know who I was anymore, and the financial weight of trying to support my family was crushing.
Six months later, we finally made it to Toronto. I landed a job on the security management team at the Sheraton Toronto Hotel. Almost immediately, something clicked. The camaraderie, the high stakes, the trust for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was back with my unit.
And then, the war followed me home.
During the 2019 Toronto Raptors Championship parade, the city was electric. Then the gunfire started. An active shooter event erupted right outside our doors. Four people were hit. My team and I scrambled, pulling a man who had been shot multiple times into the hotel for cover.
Outside, a crowd of hundreds of thousands of terrified people surged. They were pressing against the glass, screaming, trying to get inside. I had a split second to make a decision: keep the doors locked and watch innocent people get trampled and crushed against the barricades, or open the floodgates.
With thirty contracted close-protection personnel at my back, I gave the order to shelter in place. We opened the doors. The lobby instantly transformed into a warzone of panic and triage. It was chaos, but it was chaos we managed.
That wasn't the first time the civilian world mirrored a combat zone. Before that, while working in the Intelligence and Remote Operations department for Harry Winston, I monitored high-level threats on CCTV. I remember the gut-wrenching helplessness of watching a man walk into one of our facilities with a grenade. When you are the eye in the sky, unable to physically put yourself between the threat and your people, it changes how you see the world.
Through all of this, a different kind of purpose was quietly taking shape. I had the opportunity to write and produce a short legacy film for one of the organizations I worked for a massive production involving over 200 people, simulating an active shooter response in one of North America’s largest malls.
Being behind the camera felt like holding a different kind of weapon. One that could tell the truth. I was hooked. I wanted more. But that chapter ended shortly after.
Then came the day that changed everything. The day the bottom fell out.
Imagine waking up and losing someone you love deeply. Imagine, hours later, finding out you lost your job. Imagine the darkness closing in so tight that you stand on the absolute edge, ready to do something permanent, selfish, and final because the weight is just too heavy to carry anymore.
And then, right on that precipice in 2023, the phone rings.
It was the hospital. My son had been severely injured and was fighting for his life.
Everything I thought I knew, everything I was struggling with, evaporated in that single second. My entire world turned completely upside down, condensing into one singular truth: he needed me. That day was the death of who I used to be. But it was also a rebirth.
One moment can change a life. The war that follows is the one we carry within us. Surviving that day, and surviving the aftermath of the uniform, forged a new mission. It became the genesis of The Silent Soldier Initiative.
I am a filmmaker now. I tell the raw, unfiltered stories of veterans, survivors, and protectors who are fighting their own silent battles. I couldn't save everyone in my past, but through this lens, I can make sure the world remembers the moments that broke us and the resilience it takes to survive the life that follows.