One Year Out

... and One Year In

The week before I became a midshipman at the Naval Academy, I cut eleven inches off my hair.

The oath came in Tecumseh Court came later. My parents flew back to Arizona and left me in Bancroft Hall with a roommate I didn’t know and a future that would look very different than what I imagined. But the haircut came first. I sat in a salon chair in Lake Havasu City, watching my childhood hairstylist’s scissors turn me into someone my reflection didn’t recognize. It was the first thing the institution asked me to surrender, and I gave it up without a fight. I was eager to begin.

I thought about that haircut a lot during my first months after the Marine Corps. I had spent a decade believing there was a version of me waiting on the other side of service. The girl from before. More feminine, more creative… more something. I imagined her like a coat I’d hung in a closet, ready to slip back on once I’d finished my time in service.

She wasn’t there.

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I never planned to do twenty years. Some people know that about themselves from the beginning, and I was one of them. I loved the mission and (most of) the people, but I also knew I eventually wanted a life with edges soft enough to hold a family and a future that didn’t require me to be movable property for the U.S. Government.

Some professional restlessness came later. I developed a knack for translating dense strategic documents into visualizations anyone might actually want to read. The National Security Strategy. Marine Corps Force Design 2030. The National Defense Authorization Act. I’d take these daunting texts and find the story buried inside, connecting policy to purpose. None of it was in any kind of official capacity. I did it for the love of the game. I still do. Making complexity legible felt like a form of service no one asked me to perform.

I wanted to do more of it, somewhere that would empower me to do so.

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My last Marine Corps duty station was the honor and privilege of a lifetime. I mean that. It was also a grind. For three years, I memorized funeral and parade sequences. I worked at the White House. I managed press relationships while leading Marines through events broadcast to the nation. The stakes were constant.

I don’t want to say I burned out, because that phrase has been sanded down to meaninglessness. What I’ll say instead is this: three years of constant performance with no off-switch wore me down in ways I didn't fully understand until I stepped away. Especially as someone who thrives under pressure. We’re the ones who don’t notice until we’re already empty!

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When I started my soul search for what came next, I wasn’t seeking an industry or a title. I was chasing a feeling. I wanted three things: a meaningful problem that mattered for the country, a talented team of mission-driven people, and an opportunity to use my skills while continuing to grow.

I didn’t expect to land at a startup. I wasn’t opposed to it, but I wasn’t seeking it either. I interviewed with a handful of great companies, and I want to be honest about something: I don’t think there was necessarily a wrong choice. I believe in the grass being green where you water it and blooming where you’re planted.

But, most importantly, I believe God places me exactly where I’m supposed to be. I learned that years ago, when my dreams of becoming a pilot didn’t survive medical screening. (Damn you, you twice-a-year migraines!) At the time, it felt like a door slamming on my fingers. I know now that God’s redirection was a beautiful blessing for my life. The path it opened was more fulfilling than anything I could have planned for myself.

Rivet is exactly where my transition was meant to take me.

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There’s a saying about the Marine Corps I’ve always loved: “America doesn’t need a Marine Corps. It wants one.”

The distinction matters more than it might seem. Need is transactional. Want is emotional, and it starts and ends with trust. How else do you convince someone to want what you offer, even if they could technically survive without it?

I think about this constantly in my “new” life. The defense tech space is loud and full of companies shouting over each other for attention. The challenge isn’t simply explaining what we do, but making people care. Rising above the noise requires a different kind of discipline than I practiced as a PAO, but the underlying question is the same: How do you become wanted?

The answer, I’ve decided, is trust. It’s always trust. Everything else is just the vehicle.

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Here’s the thing I didn’t expect to learn about myself: I need structure more than I knew.

I spent ten years inside one of the most regimented institutions on the planet, and I couldn’t wait to escape it. I fantasized about owning my calendar, choosing my clothes, wearing my grown-out hair however I pleased, and making decisions without consulting a regulation or a chain of command. Freedom sounded like the whole point.

Then I got it.

I discovered that I’m uncomfortable without structure, routine, and systems to anchor my days. I’ve spent this past year learning how to govern myself. It’s still a work in progress, but I’m closer to a life that feels balanced and focused at the same time.

I used to think discipline was something the Marine Corps imposed on me. Now I understand it’s something I have to choose every day in the absence of anyone demanding it.

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People often ask whether I’ve ever doubted the decision.

The answer is no. It was time.

What I’d say to anyone weighing the same choice is this: listen to your soul. You already know if it’s time. That doesn’t make the decision easier. Sometimes knowing makes it harder, because you can’t pretend anymore or hide behind uncertainty.

There will never be a perfect moment to leave. The mission isn’t going anywhere, and there will always be another reason to stay for one more billet. But here’s what I’ve come to believe: it’s better to give everything you have to every day you serve, and walk away when you’re ready, than to stay with one foot out the door, half-present and divided. That’s not fair to the institution. It’s not fair to you.

Service doesn’t have to end when you take off the uniform. There are a thousand ways to serve your country, your community, and the smallest circles of your neighbors and family. All of it counts. All of it matters.

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I spent my first months as a civilian searching for the girl I was before I raised my right hand. The one with long hair and no rank and a life that hadn’t yet been shaped by formations and duty stations and the weight of leading Marines.

She’s gone. Not dead, exactly, but forever changed. The woman I am now contains her, along with everyone else I’ve been in the decade since. The midshipman with chin-length hair struggling through Chemistry. The Lieutenant learning to lead on a foreign military base above the Arctic Circle (and freezing her ass off). The Captain who stood on the parade deck at 8th & I, proud and ready for whatever came next.

I think the girl with long hair would be proud of who I’ve become. I think she’d recognize me, even if she didn’t expect this version of me.

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Today marks one year out of the Marine Corps and one year in at Rivet.

I wrote this piece mostly for myself, as a way of marking the distance traveled. But if it’s useful to anyone else, whether you’re a veteran weighing your next move or just curious what this transition actually feels like, I’m glad you’re here.

Here’s to year two.