It was, of course, Joe who convinced me to pick up my pen and start writing again. After the Marine Corps Gazette scuttled my article on training women at boot camp, the New York Times picked it up as part of a piece Chris Chivers wrote about my firing.15 I was relieved that the facts about how women are recruited and trained by the Marine Corps would see the light of day, but knew that I couldn't just let it go at that. So I started writing about the issues affecting women in the military, like gender bias, sexual harassment and assault, and how benevolent sexist tendencies by senior male leaders hold women Marines back from achieving equality. The more I wrote, the more feedback I received from women—and men—who felt the same way. I also received a lot of negative comments from readers, many of whom were current or former Marines, but their remarks only reinforced the points I made about the need to reform the culture of the Marine Corps to level the playing field for women.
To me, equal opportunity for women in the military was a moral imperative, and I was determined to fight like a girl to achieve it.
For my birthday in March 2015, Joe got me a bottle of champagne from Pol Roger. Winston Churchill used to drink it every day. Have you read The Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill, Defender of the Realm, 1940–1965, by historian William Manchester? Churchill fascinates me because every time he'd fall down politically, he'd fight his way back to the top.
When I was on recruiting duty, Joe got me a framed black-and-white picture of Winston Churchill making the victory sign. Joe has been there for me—every step of the way, that guy. When my mom died, to save me and my dad the agony of having to identify her at the funeral home, he went in our place. He's a good man. When he gave me the bottle of Pol Roger champagne, I just cried and cried and cried. It was so thoughtful of him. We have fights, just like any couple, but he's my best friend.
He's there for me through everything. When he invited me to climb the Grand Teton with him in August 2015, that was the first time in four months that I hadn't thought about being relieved. My thought process was hand, foot, hand, foot placement. On the mountain, you can't focus on anything else. It was cathartic, and he knew it was exactly what I needed.
Since 2015, I have continued to work on my mental health. As I've mentioned, my time at Parris Island, dealing with mobbing, gender bias, and everything else, took a toll on me, physically and mentally. Faced with all of that stress and paranoia about whom I could trust, I started to question both who I was and what was happening to me. There were many days when I was so overcome by the humiliation of it all that I didn't want to be here anymore. It has taken time to believe in myself again, and I have learned that when things seem unbearable, as the memories of those events often do, I need to focus on the things that make me feel happy—like my dad and Kathy; Joe; and, of course, our furry and feathered friends.
I have two cats besides Mr. Fitzwizzle, and they're a pain in the butt. I left them at home with Joe, along with our chickens, when I went to Parris Island.
Poor Joe.
They lay eggs. The chickens, not the cats. And, yes, we keep the chickens and cats separate. Our hens, Sylvia, Maude, and Big Bertha (and now the recent addition of a baby rooster for which Big Bertha was a surrogate layer) are so nice, and they lay the most beautiful blue-green eggs. They also eat all of the bugs in our garden. It's therapeutic to come home and watch them strut around the garden, looking for things to nibble. Because their brains are only the size of a pea, you wouldn't think this were possible—but they each have such a distinct personality that they're hilarious, and they bring my blood pressure down.
We spoil them. For instance, Joe built them a penthouse coop with one-and-a-half times the space they need. This is a mistake, because then there's no incentive for them to go outside. They won't lay eggs without getting vitamin D from the sun. As soon as the temperature hits fifty degrees, they decide it's time to camp out in their condominium. This means we don't get eggs after September.
Like I said: they're spoiled.
We make fun of their “fowl” language.
But even with the animals to take my mind off things, I find myself thinking about Parris Island. I poured my heart into that place, and I worry that things will go back to the status quo. Of course, I'm curious about what has happened at Fourth Battalion since I left, but I haven't checked in. I do stay in touch with many of the Marines—I don't contact them, but if they reach out to me because they need help or advice, or simply want to talk, I am always here for them. I try to avoid talking about Fourth Battalion, because things needed to settle after my relief. But I'd love to know what has changed, if anything.
I continue to receive emails from people saying they believe that what I did at Parris Island was right. Those messages—from men and women—have helped me rebuild my self-confidence. I know that many of these people read the two investigations online, which are still available today, and they understand that what I said about why I was relieved is true.
I keep all of the messages I receive—whether it's from my Marines, people I worked with then and before, or people
