The Indianapolis 500 always falls around Memorial Day – the celebration of our nation’s military members. Pre-race festivities usually include a big-name concert, an elaborate national anthem and a roaring choreographed flyover of military aircraft. No matter where you sit in the stands, or even if you are still lingering in the pits, the sound above is so powerful that your body practically vibrates with anticipation for that green flag to wave.

Now, as the race-day dust has settled, the piles of booze have been swept away and Memorial Day begins to fade from our memories, I can’t help but feel for those who have lost someone in the military, and also for the service members who have lost their own personal dignity, self-awareness, independence and freedom. I’ve never fought in a war and have no idea what that experience is like, but I do know how it feels to face changes that can’t be undone and to question the rest of your life without ever really gaining a comfortable answer.

I was paralyzed almost two decades ago at age 12. I understand full well how difficult it is to absorb cliché lines like, “Take it one day at time.” For me, slowing time down to a 24-hour period made the process of coming to terms with my paralysis more difficult – not easier. Mentally, the feeling of wanting to be numb paired with confusion over what the future might bring is so daunting. Tomorrow seems too far away and yet it comes too quickly.

Over the long holiday weekend, problems such as the climbing suicide rate reported among service members took a back seat to backyard parties and cookouts. I get it, though. The moment the American flag is raised at a National’s baseball game and the national anthem is performed, there is a strong feeling of collective reflection and respect for the sacrifice our military members willingly make.

But it’s fleeting.

The song ends, the game begins, fans scream and people go home.

Why can’t that enthusiasm translate into action to improve the lives of those who served our country?

After the devastating 9/11 attacks, many of my young peers were sent into battle and came back with blown-off limbs, traumatic brain injuries and horrific flashbacks that looped over and over in their minds. The war they continued to fight and the depression they dealt with daily could not be silenced. Medication may help, but it comes with its own long list of side effects.

Being from the world of auto racing, I find many similarities between those who satisfy their need for speed by choosing Top Gun-like military careers and those who pursue racing, like the many men in my family have.

While their mission may be different, the adrenaline-fueled race car drivers I’ve known share much in common with the wounded soldiers I’ve befriended while attending different disability conferences around the country.

Drawn by a desire to help them heal from one of the most therapeutic activities I have ever tried – scuba diving – I have committed myself to doing just that through my foundation’s Adaptive Scuba Program. Our volunteer dive team, Operation Deep Down, comprising of retired and active duty military members, travels with me across the country and sometimes to international waters to help our nation’s wounded veterans feel the incredible suspension scuba diving offers.

I was 13 years old when I first dove. It was a year after I became paralyzed. Scuba diving was the only thing that gave me peace in a world where all I saw at every turn was NO. Christopher Reeve always said, “Nothing is Impossible.” I never fully understood the power of those words until I surfaced from my first certification dive in Cozumel, Mexico.

As a young girl, I was trying to answer questions about my own existence as a person who is paralyzed and felt not only a strong sense of responsibility, but also a deep connection with these young soldiers.

When I’m with them, we talk about depression and the “what now?” question.

When describing what PTSD feels like, they often say it's sheer panic, in which the mind is absolutely confused as to what is real and what is not.

This feeling of panic can be triggered by anything and can happen out of nowhere. Even a quiet outer environment can flood the mind with the illusion of unforgiving noise and images. It’s a paralyzing experience that interferes with the simplest of life’s tasks and affects families deeply.

With or without the memories of war, experiencing any kind of traumatic bodily change can trigger a new fight for identity. The struggle of losing a limb, for example, and waking up to a new body is a frightening experience.

We often relate who we are to what our bodies allow us to do in life; losing any part of that function and sensation can lead some to want to give up. Isolation is so easy and the thought of suicide becomes one’s best friend.

But I discovered my escape and answer in replacing isolation with shared experiences.

What I have found is this: You can't put the ocean into a pill.

The happiest moments I've ever had are when I'm 100 feet beneath the ocean’s surface, hearing nothing but my own breathing for 40 minutes at a time. It’s amazing to look over and see my family, knowing that even though they are using fins on their feet to propel themselves through the water – and I use webbed gloves – I am no different physically than they are, a distinction that can't be ignored on land. Scuba diving allows the body and mind to be free from the mechanical embrace of a wheelchair.

No pill or session of talk therapy has taught me more about how to pause my demons than the freedom my body has without the demand of gravity. To be able to share this feeling with members of our military who have been injured continues to be a privilege and opens my eyes to the extent that mental wounds, such as PTSD, can hamper a person’s life just as much as physical wounds can.

The moment the world shuts off above, all the worries that puzzle the mind on land disappear. The training required to become scuba certified is intense – it’s an extreme sport, after all – and the fear of something going wrong underwater forces all one's energy and focus on only one thing.

The frustrating part is to witness how scuba diving helps wounded veterans heal, and yet to know that funding for programs like these has been limited. As a graduate student studying public health and learning how to quantify what programs are cost effective, I appreciate the importance of evidence-based research but also understand how painstakingly long it can take to prove a program’s benefit. The fact remains: We are losing those who have protected our country's values at an alarming rate to suicide and we owe them a fighting chance at living a full life.

Thanking members of our military is something I always do, because as I’ve said, I don’t know the experience of war, but I can relate to living with a disability – the frequent consequence of a dangerous occupation – and the demons soldiers must confront when they come back, changed.