The Moment I Discovered the Warrior Within

How one brutal test revealed the grit I’d carry through every challenge after.

In 2010, I was living in Corpus Christi with my then-partner, working what I considered a dream job—driving boats, cutting grass, learning about RVs, and soaking up sunshine at the marina on the Navy base. I worked for MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation), and it didn’t take long to realize this was one of the most soul-filling roles I’d ever had. It was equal parts nature, service, and purpose. I felt free. I felt useful.

And I got to listen—really listen—to the stories of heroes. Men and women who had lived through things that belonged in books or movies. Their presence lit a fire in me that had been quietly flickering since I was a kid.

From a young age, I fantasized about joining the military. I craved structure. I sought purpose. And I believed—maybe naively—that if I was going to experience pain in this life, I wanted it to mean something. I applied to nearly every branch, but one mistake—a tiny tattoo on the back of my neck, inked during a wild spring break—shut the door on each attempt. Back then, tattoos weren’t as acceptable as they are now.

But the door didn’t stay closed for long. A visit to a National Guard recruiter, a man who saw my potential, opened it again. He told me about a new Deep Sea Dive unit. My tattoo was still a problem, but he believed in me. And he wasn’t alone—Sgt. Dagley became my advocate. He saw something in me and began training me himself.

What followed was some of the most intense physical and mental training of my life. Before dawn swims. Gut-wrenching workouts. After-work sessions with my partner, who became my personal trainer and cheerleader. I was getting into the best shape of my life—because I had to. The requirements for SEAR school (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) were brutal, and I had to prove I could hold my own, tattoo or not.

Eventually, I began training with the all-male unit. I didn’t mind being the only woman—I had grown up around boys and always preferred the camaraderie. But the Captain made it clear I wasn’t welcome. He said I’d be a distraction. That I’d “slow the team down.” That I would require locker room accommodations and make the men change their behavior. He wanted me gone.

I won’t pretend his words didn’t rattle me. But I was too stubborn—and too supported—to quit.

I kept showing up.

I trained with them on weekends. My times and reps improved day by day. Slowly, the guys began to accept me. And then came the ultimate test: an open-water bay swim around an aircraft carrier. I had to swim the length of the ship on my back (think flutter kicks), around a buoy, back to a boat, then climb a swinging rope ladder to the second deck of the ship.

It was the kind of test that separated the capable from the committed.

When the air horn blew, I plunged into the freezing water. My grandmother’s words echoed in my mind: “You can endure anything for a short period of time.” I kicked harder than I ever had. The waves were relentless. I passed a few guys. I made it to the boat in the middle of the pack. I was exhausted—but not done yet.

Then came the rope ladder.

The ocean slapped my face as I reached for the first rung. It was narrow. Slippery. Suspended above the water. My arms ached. My grip faltered. I saw guys stronger than me fail and fall. But I kept going—hooking my arms through the rope when my hands gave out. My entire body burned.

I heard the Sergeant shouting encouragement from shore. I looked up to the deck and saw the Captain watching, arms crossed, waiting for me to fail.

But I didn’t.

I made it to the top.

I collapsed onto the platform, breathless, frozen, and elated. A few guys helped hoist me over the railing. Their cheers felt like gold. And even though the Captain tried to hide it, I saw a flicker of respect in his eyes.

That day, I earned my place on the team. And more importantly, I earned something I never expected: my own respect.

Soon after, family issues pulled me back to Louisiana. I never officially enlisted. I gave up the dream of becoming the first female deep-sea diver in that National Guard unit. And for a long time, that decision haunted me. But I know now—I made the right call. Family comes first.

Still, that chapter lives in me. I discovered a strength I didn’t know I had. I learned what I was capable of. And I walked away knowing I was a warrior, with or without the uniform.

Today, life is testing me in new ways. I’ve been placed on leave from my job as a pilot—grounded not by choice, but by circumstance. It’s painful to step away from the skies I’ve loved, the pilots I’ve been mentoring, and a role that has defined me for so long.

And I’m scared.

Scared of not knowing if I’ll be able to continue supporting my family. Scared of what comes next. But that same warrior—the one who clawed her way up a rope ladder with shaking arms and a burning heart—is still here.

I’m learning that in order to become who we are meant to be—and to follow our true purpose—we sometimes have to let go of everything that no longer fits. That shedding can be painful. Uncomfortable. Even terrifying.

But it’s necessary.

So I keep shedding. Keep rising. Keep becoming.

Even when I’m scared.

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.”
— Eleanor Roosevelt

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