The day we went into that village feels like shattered glass—sharp, fragmented, each piece still cutting every time I think about it. Five of us, moving through those narrow alleys, our senses dialed up, like we could feel the air tighten. We slipped into a small building, set up to watch for movement. But they saw us first—fighters on a rooftop across the street where they shouldn’t have been. It all went to hell in seconds, bullets tearing through walls, dust rising thick. The call to pull back was a no-brainer, but every second to get out felt like eternity.
I took up the rear, rifle up, every nerve on edge as the others filed out. Then a flash—a rocket, fired from across the street. It missed me by inches, slammed into the wall behind. I was airborne, slammed down hard, unconscious before I hit the ground. I came to, pinned under rubble, my team already down the road in a ditch, thinking I’d been taken out. But I managed to get my rifle up, squeezing off shots at shadows, half in and out of it.
In the hospital, they told me I’d had a seizure, but none of it felt real. I was still back there, trapped in that village, fighting to stay alive. When they moved me to Texas for recovery, it was supposed to be a chance to heal. But healing doesn’t come in a hospital bed. The memories of that day, of the friends I lost, of the life I almost lost—they were right there with me, clearer than ever.
California was the last stop. They called it “light duty” work, administrative stuff, filing papers, something to keep me busy while I was relearning how to walk. Each step reminded me of everything I was trying to leave behind—except I couldn’t. I’d go through the motions, feeling like a ghost of who I’d been, haunted by the faces of friends who hadn’t made it, by the relentless silence that replaced their laughter.
The therapy sessions started there, too. I sat in those rooms, forced to unpack everything I’d tried to bury. Talking about the guilt, the anger, the numbness. About what it felt like to come that close to the edge and walk away. The therapist asked questions I’d been avoiding, and it cracked open something I hadn’t touched since that firefight. There was this weight pressing on me, the kind that makes you wonder if there’s anything left to fight for. I couldn’t ignore it: I’d thought about ending it more than once, a way to silence the memories, the grief, the sense that I’d come home with nothing left inside me.
But in the middle of it, there was something else. A flicker of something real—something I’d chased before and now felt even more intensely. Moments of closeness, intimacy that went beyond skin-deep. I’d find it with women, the ones who didn’t look at the scars with pity but with understanding. They’d let me take control, let me be the version of myself that was still alive, still fighting. BDSM wasn’t about pain or dominance for the sake of it; it was about reclaiming a part of myself, finding a way to feel again. Those nights grounded me, reminded me of the strength I still had, the trust I could still offer—even if it was just for a few hours.
It was all tied up together: the loss, the anger, the need for control, and the drive to let it go when I found someone who understood. The pain and the healing, the vulnerability, the power, it all bled into one. Therapy taught me that there were no simple answers, no easy fixes, just the choice to keep stepping forward, one day at a time. To carry the weight of my friends, the memories of that day, the echoes of everything I’d lost—and still somehow find a way to live.
In those dark moments, when I wanted to let go, I thought of the connection I’d felt with the women who didn’t flinch, the ones who let me be both strong and broken, who’d let me take the lead while understanding the cost. There was something healing in that, in knowing that control wasn’t about power but trust—trust that I’d earned in firefights and in fragile moments of intimacy. Those moments kept me going, gave me a reason to stay, even when the darkness felt all-consuming.
Every step back to life has been about that balance: the love and the loss, the power and the surrender, the past and whatever future I can create. I carry it all, every piece of it, knowing that maybe that’s what keeps me grounded. I’m here—alive, fighting, one step at a time.
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