08/24/2025
To the Warrior Songs Community,
It is with deep love—and a heavy but clear heart—that I share the following:
After fifteen years at the helm of Warrior Songs, I have made the difficult decision to step away following the completion of Warrior Songs Volume 4: BIPOC Veterans. This decision does not come lightly, nor from burnout or loss of passion, but rather from a hard truth I can no longer outrun: my mind, my body, and my soul need to rest.
Warrior Songs has been the honor of my life. From the beginning, I dreamed of something that had never existed before—turning the lived experiences of veterans, especially underrepresented stories and untold truths, into powerful, healing songs. When we released Volume 2, it was the first-ever compilation of songs created directly from the testimonies of women veterans in the history of modern music. That project broke ground—and hearts wide open.
At the time, only one other organization was exploring songwriting as a healing tool for veterans. Now, there are dozens. And for years, Warrior Songs was the only place creating intensive creative arts retreats specifically for women veterans and MST survivors. It was rare. It was needed. And it was sacred.
Yes, I had generous donors, a thoughtful board, and a loyal team. But I was the firestarter. The instigator. The one who held the vision and moved it forward. Every retreat, every album, every grant, every performance—I carried that weight, often alone.
I used to say Warrior Songs had helped prevent 33 su***des—but that was only counting cases where I had direct proof: a letter, a message, a conversation that made it undeniable. As I began reviewing old correspondences while working on my memoir, I started taking a less rigid view. The number is now 121. One hundred and twenty-one lives, still breathing, in part because of this work. I can’t say that without tears. I did that. We did that.
And we did it without me ever taking a salary.
Over these 15 years, I raised more than half a million dollars—grassroots, gig by gig, dollar by dollar. Each retreat? $35,000. Each CD? Around $30,000. I took small stipends here and there when I spoke publicly, and I always gave the rest back to Warrior Songs. This mission was never about profit. It was about purpose.
Because of Warrior Songs, I’ve achieved many of the dreams I held as a young man. I’m about to be featured in my third documentary. I’ve received national and international awards for songwriting and production. I’ve been on local and national media across the country. I’ve performed for more than 250,000 people, and met at least 40,000 in person. That’s not ego—that’s a record of presence, of love, of showing up for people in pain.
I wanted to leave a legacy.
I wanted to live a life worth remembering.
And I believe I have begun to do just that.
But here’s what you may not know:
At the end of Volume 3, my brain started to unravel. I had a cognitive breakdown that was quiet at first—exhaustion, confusion, insomnia. But it grew. Volume 2 had already brought me to the brink with depression and sleep loss. Every retreat, no matter how beautiful, took a massive toll. I was working above my capacity for years. Holding trauma that wasn’t mine alone to hold. Pushing past every signal my body gave me. And I told myself that if I could just finish one more project, I’d be okay.
But I wasn’t.
A few weeks ago, I experienced a full-blown manic, psychotic episode. Not the first—it happened once before, three years ago, but I didn’t understand what it was back then. I thought it was spiritual. I thought it was just stress. Now I know: under pressure, my brain can short-circuit into a dangerous state. This isn’t just PTSD or TBI anymore—this is a new, episodic condition that must be managed with deep care.
And there is one more truth I need to share.
Recently, I’ve begun having vivid, uncontrollable flashbacks of severe childhood trauma—both physical and sexual—that I had never told anyone about until now. This trauma has lived quietly beneath everything I’ve built, and now it’s rising, demanding attention. The emotional cost of confronting it is profound. It intensifies my PTSD, destabilizes my mental health, and makes recovery harder. I share this not for sympathy, but because it is part of the truth. Part of why I must step away. That child—the one who was hurt—deserves my full attention now. I owe him that.
And that means I can’t carry Warrior Songs anymore.
There are still six more albums I wanted to create. Presentations I was planning. Performances I dreamed of that focus not on me but on the beautiful, brave voices of the veterans I’ve written with. We were finally starting to receive grants—still not enough to fund the full vision, but enough to glimpse what was possible. And still, I must step back.
After Volume 4: BIPOC Veterans is complete, I will retire from Warrior Songs.
If you know someone interested in taking over a functioning, respected nonprofit with a powerful mission and a strong foundation, I am open to conversations. The organization has structure. It has heart. And it still has purpose. Just not mine to carry now.
I will forever be grateful to everyone who walked beside me: every veteran, every donor, every artist, every volunteer, every board member, and every soul who said “Yes, I see what you’re doing—and it matters.”
It mattered.
It saved lives.
It saved my life.
But now, I need to save myself.
With love, with tears, and with the deepest respect,
Jason Moon
Founder, Warrior So
