Even When I Know I'm Good: Anxiety and the Bend Preview

Today we’re previewing Battlegrounds and Backroads in Bend. It’s not the first time this film has been shown. It’s already received a standing ovation. We’ve heard the words “healing,” “needed,” “powerful.” We know this is the best version we could have made. We know it will help people.

And I still feel anxious.

Not the kind that doubts the work. Not the kind that second-guesses the edit or the pacing or the voiceover. This is the kind that shows up even when you’ve done everything right. The kind that whispers, “What if they don’t see it?” “What if it doesn’t land?” “What if I’m too much—or not enough?”

I’m wired that way. Sean isn’t. He carries a steadiness that grounds the project, the room, and often me. But for me, anxiety doesn’t always mean something’s wrong. Sometimes it means something matters. Sometimes it’s the body’s way of marking a threshold—of saying, “You’re stepping into something real.”

Late sunrise at Smith Rock

This morning, I spent time at Smith Rock with a dear friend—a Vietnam veteran whose presence reminds me why we do this. He is there for me, and I am there for him. We also swung by the Central Oregon Veterans Ranch, where healing isn’t just a concept—it’s soil, sweat, and shared space. That kind of grounding helps. It reminds me that this film isn’t just ours anymore. It belongs to the community it was made for.

This film is real. It’s built from lived experience, from grief and grit and community. It’s not just a product—it’s a process. A way of making space for stories that don’t usually get told. A way of saying: veterans are not a monolith. Healing is not linear. Visibility is not optional.

So yes, I’m anxious. But we’re also proud. We’re also ready. And we’re also grateful—for every person who’s shown up, leaned in, and said, “I see you.”

If you’re in Bend tonight, we hope you feel that too.

—Brad Pietzyk