Fight Like a Girl

but Joe also gave me reasons to stay the course and see it through. He called constantly to cheer me up or to help me work through how to deal with all of this. I had met Joe when we were both young lieutenants at Twentynine Palms. He had grown up in Ohio, but, by the time he got to college, he was obsessed with climbing. And he climbed with women—learned from them, admired them, understood that some were better climbers, and respected that. Actually, he didn't just respect that women were sometimes better climbers; he enjoyed their strengths and didn't think about gender. By the time he met me, he already knew he wanted a partner in the truest sense of the word. We went on one date, and, man, we were together from then on. He makes me laugh like no one else can—tears-running-down-my-face laugh. We've always supported each other, as well as called each other on our crap. He's my best friend, and he's gotten me through a lot. Everything. He's kept me alive.

That night, we talked about an escape plan. Our conversations were no longer about how to work with a difficult boss; they were about how to leave Parris Island with my career, my reputation, and my sanity intact.

Somehow, I still had hope that someone higher up the chain of command would both recognize what was happening, and acknowledge the progress the Marines and the recruits were making.

In the meantime, Joe was working his contacts at the Pentagon, and he started hearing some of the background noise on my situation. Joe had just retired from the Marine Corps and was friendly with a number of senior folks on the commandant's staff. As I was dealing with what felt like local issues with my boss, they were telling Joe about all the meetings and briefings about my situation that were taking place all the way up to the commandant level. He was told that people were even asking about my medical status in these meetings because they were looking for ways to get rid of me if they couldn't relieve me for misconduct. From what he learned, it was clear that they were playing out all of these options.

I thought, “What the hell? They're already talking about how they can get rid of me, and they haven't even investigated whether I've done anything wrong?”

Here I was, thinking I was just a battalion commander fighting with her boss down in South Carolina. Why on Earth would the bigwigs at the Pentagon care? I mean, I can't even get a replacement drill instructor, but a pissing match over whether I roll my eyes too much is now a matter of national security? It didn't make sense.

Until it did.

When I took command of Fourth Battalion, the Marine Corps began its gender-integration study. While they were working to show that women are incapable of working with men in combat situations because they don't have the strength or skills, I was showing that we could improve women's strength and skills simply by having higher expectations for them.

For political reasons that had nothing to do with my performance—at least, not for my “bad” performance—they were going to sacrifice me.

It started to sink in that I was going to be relieved, and that all of the work we had done would be swept under that giant rug—the good with the bad. On the third of June, a year after I had arrived at Parris Island, I drafted a letter to my Marines telling them how sorry I was to go, and that I was responsible for everything that had happened in the battalion, including the things that had gone wrong. I told them how proud I was of what they had accomplished. I told them, “Demand your seat at the table, because no one is ever going to give it to you, and you've done more than anyone ever thought you could—certainly more than headquarters Marine Corps thought you could.” I begged my sergeant major to get it to my Marines if I were relieved.

As I prepared for what I knew was coming, I agonized about the end of my career. I am so proud to be a Marine, and I love the institution. I love the people I served with. I love what I learned about myself. I loved the challenges I faced and accomplished. And I hated that I was doing my best—and succeeding—but was being treated as a failure. Even as I understood and hated the bureaucracy and the opposition to change, I still bought into the motto Semper Fidelis. Always faithful.

On June 29, 2015, I got a call from my boss, telling me I needed to be at the commanding general's office at 7:30 the next morning. At that point, I knew they were going to fire me. The commanding general would not have had my colonel call me if he was going to hold the colonel accountable. I tried not to hear the glee in his voice.

Still, I felt prepared. That night, I copied all of my files from my desktop. I packed up my office.

This was two weeks before my boss was scheduled to change command of the regiment and leave for his next duty station. I hadn't been able to “wait him out.”

When I walked into the commanding general's office, my boss was there, and the inspector general who had investigated me was there. Both the commanding general and the inspector general had told me to keep doing what I was doing—that I was doing good work. Now they were both there to lead me to the hangman's tower.

And I had removed the fainting chairs.

The general asked me to sit down. My boss was behind me, so I couldn't see him. The general started reading to me from a script. I thought that was cowardly. Please just tell it to me straight while you look me in the eye.

Five minutes into the script, he stopped. He