December 19th: The Day That Tried to End Me — and What I’ve Learned Since

Trigger Warning: Suicide, Sexual Assault

I’m writing this exactly three days before the anniversary of one of the darkest days of my life. Even four years later, it isn’t easy to put words to an experience that changed everything. Some memories never truly leave us—they soften around the edges, perhaps, but they remain. What I can say with certainty is this: I am still here. I survived that moment, and I continue to survive everything that has followed.

There are events that alter the way you move through the world, even when no one else can see the weight you carry. This is one of those stories.

Before continuing, I want to pause and acknowledge what sexual assault can look like, because it is not always the violent scenario people imagine. It can be overt, but it can also be quiet and coercive. It can live in power imbalances, blurred boundaries, pressure, fear, and in moments where saying no does not feel possible. It is not simply about sex—it is about control, compliance, and the erosion of safety, mentally, emotionally, and physically.

That summer, I attended a month-long Army school. One night off base, during what was supposed to be an ordinary evening, I witnessed a man being shot. Instinct took over and I attempted to resuscitate him. I failed. That moment has stayed with me long after the night ended.

At the same time, my marriage was already fragile. Distrust and jealousy existed long before I ever left, and while I was still processing trauma, I confided in someone from that environment who was not my husband—someone who felt safe at the time. Vulnerability has a way of blurring lines when you are desperate to feel understood. What others perceived later took on a life of its own, and perception quickly became its own truth.

By early fall, rumors had grown louder. I wanted to address everything honestly and responsibly, even suggesting counseling so the truth could be shared in a safe space. That effort was not met with the same willingness. Despite trying to repair what was breaking, I discovered behavior on his part that confirmed our marriage was already ending.

In October, I mobilized to the Southwest Border. I told myself the mission would keep me focused—that work, routine, and camaraderie would carry me through a divorce and a complete life transition. I believed staying busy would keep me grounded.

I was wrong.

One of my lifelong struggles has been how deeply I connect with people. As a leader, I blurred boundaries under the belief that closeness equaled trust. In hindsight, I can see how that created vulnerability—especially in an environment built on hierarchy and power.

One individual I supervised began crossing lines I did not yet have the strength or clarity to fully define or enforce. Over time, admiration shifted into entitlement. What followed was not one isolated moment, but a gradual loss of agency—choices shaped by fear rather than consent.

One night, after drinking more than I should have at my birthday dinner, everything became fragmented. The details are not something I wish to relive or explain fully. What matters is what came after: confusion, fear, and the realization that speaking up could cost me everything I had worked for. I distanced myself, hoping space would restore safety. Instead, the pressure increased.

My boundaries were ignored. My silence was used against me. Threats—spoken and unspoken—hovered constantly. I learned how quickly power can shift when reputation, rank, and perception are weaponized. Eventually, survival meant compliance to this man—not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had no other option.

And still, it was not enough.

By December, I was exhausted in every sense of the word. I had formed a genuine friendship with someone who would later become my husband—someone who knew nothing of what I was carrying. That friendship, innocent in intention, became another source of conflict after my privacy was violated.

December 19 marked my breaking point.

I remember retreating inward, desperate for the noise to stop and the pain to end. In that moment, I believed disappearing was the only way out. It took the intervention of someone who refused to leave me alone to pull me back. I am alive because he acted when I could not.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to escape physically and emotionally, but the situation followed me. An investigation began. Shame took root. I isolated myself and questioned everything I thought I knew about myself.

When the process finally ended, the outcome was devastating. My career was permanently altered. The full truth of what happened could not be proven within the system, and I paid the price anyway. It felt like losing everything at once—my identity, my future, and my sense of justice.

Therapy became my lifeline. Through it, I began to understand how my childhood shaped my need for connection, approval, and belonging. I learned how those patterns made me vulnerable—and how to rebuild myself without shame. I slowly found my way back to myself. Not the version I projected, or the one others expected—but the real one. The relationship I once tried to keep at arm’s length became something steady, patient, and healing. Against our own resistance, we chose one another.

I’ve been out of the Army for almost two years now. What remains are the memories—and the lessons. My life looks nothing like it once did, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

I share this not for sympathy, but for understanding. Survival is rarely loud or heroic. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it looks like simply staying.

And sometimes, staying is everything.