Who am I no longer willing to be?

The real question screams in my bones: Who can’t I be?

I can’t be the girl who quit. The one who dropped out, who ran from classrooms and drowned in self-doubt. I’ll never again turn my back on a fight—not when I’ve learned to stand tall in combat boots. If I see a shipmate falter, I’ll grab their arm. If I hear a lie, I’ll shout it down. The Navy didn’t just teach me discipline—it taught me fire.

I can’t be the daughter who disgraced their sacrifice. My parents? They scrubbed floors and worked extra job so we could eat. Their parents’ parents were sharecroppers, and their parents were born slaves. 

But let’s gut this honest: I wasn’t born a sailor. I crawled there. I was a high school dropout, a brat, a master of excuses. Then I hit rock bottom—and joined the Navy to escape myself. Boot camp broke me. The drills, the drills, the fucking drills. But they rebuilt me stronger. And when my parents died—when I lost the two souls who’d loved my messy, selfish ass—I finally understood the assignment: I have been fighting the wrong battles.

Their death was my wake-up call. Suddenly, I saw the girl who’d made them cry—the one who rolled her eyes at their sacrifices. Now? I serve with their names etched into my soul. Every dawn I rise, every job I have, and every storm I weather—it’s for them.

So who won’t I be?

Not the quitter who hid from her potential.

Not the ingrate who spit on their love.

Not the child who broke their hearts.

I’m a sailor now—forged in saltwater and second chances. Let the old me sink. What remains will honor them. Always.