How a Herd of Cattle Helped an Iraq War Veteran with PTSD Find Healing: 'Animals Gave Me a Second Chance'

Marvin Frink is walking through a field of bright green sorghum grass beneath a scorching North Carolina sun. He turns toward a nearby pasture where his herd of Angus cattle are grazing and lets out a loud whoop in their direction: "Whoo-hoo! Let's go!" he calls.

At the sound of his voice, the cattle erupt in a chorus of moos. Slowly, one animal, then another, and finally the entire herd ambles across the field toward Frink, surrounding him. He points toward a few at the front and rattles off their names: Grace, Mercy, Daisy — the last one named in honor of his grandmother.

"Once I had someone come here who said to me, 'Man that's a lot of beef,'" Frink, 53, tells PEOPLE. "But I don't see them like that. These are my counselors. Cows don't judge us for what we've been through."

It's been nearly two decades since the cattle rancher was a soldier, but what Frink went through during his three deployments in Iraq and 16 years as a civilian anti-terrorism specialist still haunts him through nightmares, migraines and bouts of hypervigilance. Like far too many veterans suffering from PTSD, that pain nearly drove him to suicide.

A recent Wounded Warrior Project survey found that one in four vets say they've experienced suicidal thoughts in the past year.

But Frink discovered what he calls "agritherapy"—working on the land and with animals as a way of healing the psychological wounds left over from combat. In 2018, Frink bought 42 acres of farmland in Red Springs, N.C, and began raising cows and chickens.

"Farming gave me a sense of purpose again," he says. "And animals gave me a second chance."

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Since then, he has shared his story and opened his Briarwood Cattle Farm, located less than an hour south of the sprawling U.S. Army facility at Ft. Bragg, N.C., to hundreds of other veterans struggling with PTSD. He hopes to show them that a second chance is possible for them too.

Frank and his wife, Tanisha, 45, welcome busloads of veterans from the Wounded Warrior Project on visits to the farm (their motto: "We're more than a brand, we're a family") to talk about agriculture—and mental health. This past May, they hosted a dozen vets with PTSD for a "Day of Healing."

"If I'm feeling this way, I know my battle buddies are feeling the same," says the cattle farmer of his desire to help.

Frink grew up in Melbourne, Florida, the son of a Baptist preacher father and a mother who worked for a NASA contractor. He left college early to join the Army in 1990 and when Operation Desert Storm began a few months later, he was sent to Iraq. He would return for two more tours of battle duty, going back for a final time in 2003.

Combat injuries to his knee and back forced him into medical retirement in 2004, while his psychological scars from the atrocities of war were less visible. "It sticks with you," he says. Talking about it, however, was difficult. "I didn't know how to ask for help," Frink says. "I didn't want to be seen as the weak link."

After leaving the service, Frink stayed on with special forces in Ft. Bragg as a civilian anti-terrorism
specialist, a job in which he would "see things, know things, hear things."

"It was like I was still deployed," he says.

He thought often about suicide. "I wanted to go back to deployment. I felt if something did happen, it would look as if it was just all part of war."

In 2011, Marvin confided in his mom, Minnie, but "was too embarrassed to call my dad," he says. 'He was my Superman." Then, his father, Rev. Kirby, called him and told him to come to Florida for the weekend. When he arrived, his dad took him to a cattle ranch owned by a family friend who was also a Vietnam vet.

Late in the afternoon, the farmer told Frink to fill up the troughs in a field with feed. So Frink spread pellets around the base of an oak tree. Then he sat on the grass to watch as the cows lay down and chewed their cud. "They looked like they were talking to me," he recalls. "And that's when the therapy began—I started talking to them, and the next thing you know, I was feeling better."

When Frink returned to his parents that evening and described his day, his father looked at him and declared: "Now, that's my son. I haven't seen you smile in a long time."

Today, Frink sees a therapist and takes medication for his anxiety. He still has daily challenges, but most mornings he rises with a sense of hope. "I peep out the window when the sun's getting ready to rise because I can't wait to get outside," he says.

"I talk to my cattle and tell them how I'm doing—and that helps me come back in the house and talk to my family."

For confidential support, vets and loved ones can contact the Veterans Crisis Line at 800-273-8255 or text 838255

If you or someone you know is considering suicide, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), text "STRENGTH" to the Crisis Text Line at 741-741 or go to suicidepreventionlifeline.org.