Communication is merely an exchange of information, but connection is an exchange of our humanity."

— Sean Stephenson

My story begins in 1990, which makes me 29, obviously.

I was born in Marianao, Cuba, to two loving parents. Parents who were never married and resided on separate continents. A Cuban-born, little red-curly-haired bag of joy who immediately entered the world with dual nationality and, although I didn't know it yet, more than one place I would spend my life trying to call home.

Most who know the Cuban diaspora know it is a strong one. We are proud of our little island, our vibrant culture, our delicious food, our lively music, and our people's ability to see the sunrise as a beautiful reminder of life and hope. There is something about being Cuban that follows you wherever you go. It lives in the food, the music, the volume of the room, the stories our families tell, and the fierce pride we carry for a place many of us no longer live.

This island, however, has a long history of political tension, revolution, and strong ideology that has torn its people from the very place they deeply love. There is a strange kind of grief that exists in loving a homeland that so many have had to leave. Cuba can simultaneously represent home, loss, pride, anger, nostalgia, and hope. I think that complexity becomes part of you, even when you're too young to understand it.

On the other side of me, my Spanish roots are just as bottomless.

My father, that mountain of strong-will, hardheadedness, and passion for Andalusia engraved the Spanish spirit into my heart and soul at a very young age. Not that anyone can resist being proud of those colorful Sevillian streets, our world-class food, and those dreamy Mediterranean beaches.

Every day in Spain smells like azahar and the nutty olive oil aroma that wafts from the tapas bars. It is accompanied by the sound of laughter, the dense wood of flamenco guitars, and the shouts of children kicking a soccer ball with their friends, or at least, that is Spain to me.

Spain has always felt familiar in a way that is difficult to explain. It is a place where my father’s pieces still exist everywhere I look. In the stubbornness, the passion, the humor, the late dinners, the crowded tables, and the way life seems to be lived loudly in the streets. Even after leaving, some part of me never really left.

When I was four, my father, on his very own and very little consulting with my mother, made the decision to take me with him to Spain. This left my mother, powerless in a communist country and filled with the inexperience of her youth, to wonder if she would ever see me again.

Her little girl, one of the peas in her two-daughter pod, gone.

As a mother now, I understand the weight of that sentence differently.

It must have been that deep, immediate feeling of impotence that led to her incredible journey. The kind of desperation that can make a person move mountains because the alternative and acceptance that your child is simply gone is impossible to bear.

But that is a story for another time.

It wasn't until I was eight that I moved, really, was brought to the United States and introduced to the idea of the American Dream.

Now that Cuban and Spanish little girl had yet another place to call home.

The feeling of being an outsider is uncomfortable for adults, but deeply impactful for an eight-year-old. You become aware very quickly of the things that make you different. The way you speak. The things you don't understand. The jokes you don't get. The traditions everyone else seems to know instinctively. You learn to adapt because children are remarkably good at figuring out how to survive in the rooms they are placed in.

I lived a, mostly, normal life. Yes, there were limited resources and a lot of moves. We didn't have vacations or lavish Christmas gifts, but we had each other, and that was enough.

We figured things out.

And still, that ache of not knowing where I truly belong hadfollowed me into so many corners of my life.

Being Cuban-American is complicated enough, but being Cuban-Spanish-American felt like something even the people closest to me didn't quite know how to recognize. I could belong everywhere and somehow still feel like I belonged nowhere completely. Every place I belonged had an explanation attached.

For a long time, I thought belonging meant choosing.

Choosing which place was home. Which identity deserved to come first. Which flag I was supposed to feel the strongest connection to.

I understand now that maybe belonging was never supposed to require me to divide myself into pieces.

It wasn't until I joined the U.S. Navy in 2009 that I finally felt American enough.

It wasn't the shiny piece of paper I acquired after almost a year of military service, with its bold "Naturalized Citizen" header, that did it either.

It was the sense of purpose. The feeling of accomplishment. The immediate acceptance from those who saw me as one of them that truly allowed me to also take in some of those cowboy boots, football Sundays, and George Strait tunes as a piece of me, too.

There was something powerful about putting on that uniform and realizing nobody needed the long explanation of where I came from before deciding whether I belonged beside them. Men sometimes did, but that is because a “girl” fixing helicopter was uncomprehensible to them, they learned quick I belonged there too. We were there for the same reason. We wore the same uniform. We had a shared mission.

For someone who had spent so much of her life trying to figure out where she fit, that mattered more than I realized at the time.

The military showed me there were challenges in every corner of this big nation. That even being born here has its ups and downs. That some families were as dysfunctional as mine. That everyone carries something.

It was a long road to my own acceptance, and it continues to be one I dwell in often.

Belonging to something greater than yourself is part of the core human experience. It gives us a feeling of connection and community. Shared values, shared goals, these are the things that give us the feeling of being whole.

This feeling isn't always found at home or in whichever country you call your own. Some don't find it in the military either. But it is something we consistently chase, whether we know it or not.

We look for it in our careers. In relationships. In motherhood. In friendships. In teams. In places of worship. In gyms. In communities. In causes. Sometimes we even spend years trying to earn belonging in places that were never meant for us.

Because it breathes life into our souls to know we have a community and a purpose.

We will chase that feeling our entire lives if we are not placed in the right spaces.

I could carry on with my military journey, but I won't, not this time, at least.

I will share that leaving that chapter of my life was tough, even when I didn't recognize it.

There is an identity that comes with military service that is difficult to explain to someone who hasn't experienced it. Your days have structure. Your people have a shared language. Your work has a mission. Even when you complain about it – and trust me we do. That life gives you purpose.

And then one day, you leave.

Life until that point had taught me to stay strong, to keep moving, to not break character. Handle the problem. Complete the mission. Take care of everyone else. Get it done.

But what I was feeling wasn't weakness.

It was my human instinct reminding me there is more to life than work, stress, responsibility, and getting things done. It was the part of me I had quieted for years, finally being loud enough that I couldn't ignore her anymore.

And maybe somewhere along the way, I had become so good at surviving, achieving, producing, and moving forward that I had forgotten how important it was to simply feel connected.

I am happy that, for the first time in a long time, I listened. My human instinct was simply screaming from within me that with purpose and community, we are better partners, better parents, better friends, and even better humans.

I am overjoyed that I came across that LinkedIn post and felt urged to complete that application. I don't know what the selection process looked like for the women who came together at Patrol BaseAbbate, or what made someone look at my application and decide there was a place for me there.

But I am incredibly grateful they did.

What The Athena Foundation and Cairn Leadership did for me,in those four days, is something I will carry with me forever.

We bonded around the fire and along those quiet trails, laughed together in that cot-filled room, and carried our conversations long past taps.

We shared parts of us and our stories that had been left unsaid for years. Maybe it was the blanket of comfort provided by the imposing mountains of Montana, but we were able to feel, share, and form the sort of connections you can lean on for a lifetime. We fiercely challenged each other to dig deeper under those vast and smoky skies. We dug into our strengths, our values, and let go of the heavy parts of our journeys we had been carrying.

The discomfort of reaching into the cold and sometimes-lonelyvaults of what we had unknowingly tucked away slowly gave way to something warmer in the form of love, support, and the quiet joy of stepping into the adventure together.

We arrived as strangers. On paper, there were probably more things separating us than connecting us.

And yet, almost immediately, there was recognition.

There was no need to explain every piece of us before being understood. For four days, there was space to simply be.

And somewhere in those four days, I felt something incredibly familiar.

Belonging.

Not because we were all the same. We weren't. But because there was room for every version of us.

The Veteran. The woman. The mother. The leader. The professional. The immigrant. The person who is still figuring things out. The strong one. The tired one. The adventurous one. The one who needed permission to put everything down for a minute.

All of her was welcome.

For me, it was a true reawakening of the person I want to be, even if I don't know exactly when she fell asleep.

Maybe she didn't disappear at all.

Maybe she was simply buried underneath years of responsibility, expectations, survival, achievement, motherhood, work, and the constant pressure to keep moving forward.

Maybe she was just waiting for the right people, the right place, and the right moment to remind her that she was still there.

That little Cuban girl.

That little Spanish girl.

That American Sailor.

That American Airman.

That Veteran.

That Mother.

That Woman.

For most of my life, I have tried to figure out which one of them was the truest version of me.

Obviously, at 29, I think I am finally beginning to understand the answer.

All of them.

Be balanced.
Be steady.
Find the alignment
that keeps them all from falling…

Make the time.
Find the space.
Just keep going.

Don’t let them drop.
Answer the call.
What should that email say?
Where do I need to go next?

Moving forward.
Don’t look back.
Keep the plates up.

Then I’m looking, searching
for moments away…

Read more

It is that time of year where I reflect the most and think about those that died far too soon. I’ve also made a habit of doing something physically hard in honor of them. In honor of the hard they would do if they were still here.

This year, I took to my mountain bike and some gorgeous Idaho trails. There is something about mountain biking that reminds you to live fully. To live confidentiality. To remember what it feels like to be out of breath with your heart exploding from your chest. To feel alive. And to lean into those sharp turns without hesitation before the turn owns you.

There is that moment on every mountain bike trail where hesitation becomes dangerous.

You come flying down a descent. Loose gravel. Sharp turn ahead. Trees too close for comfort. Your heart rate spikes, your hands tighten on the handlebars, and your brain whispers the same thing it whispers in life:

Slow down. Pull back. Avoid the risk.

But if you don’t commit to the turn, the turn owns you.

Mountain biking punishes indecision.

Half-braking into a corner usually ends worse than leaning in with confidence. The bike follows your eyes. If you stare at the obstacle, you hit the obstacle. If you focus on the trail, your body and bike instinctively begin finding a path through.

Life works the same way.

We all encounter turns we never expected: loss, failure, illness, betrayal, career collapse, grief, reinvention, uncertainty.

Some turns arrive gradually. Others appear out of nowhere at full speed.

And in those moments, most people instinctively retreat. We resist change. We cling to the straightaway because it felt safe. We mourn the version of life we thought we were guaranteed.

But life does not reward rigidity.
It rewards courage.

The people who grow are not the ones who avoided difficult turns. They are the ones leaned into them. The ones who owed the turns.

Not recklessly.
Not fearlessly.
But courageously.

There is a difference.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It is moving anyway in the face of it.

Every meaningful life chapter requires this. Parenthood. Leadership. Love. Service. Starting over. Forgiveness. Building something that may fail. Becoming someone new after life breaks you apart.

The trail teaches you: you cannot control every root, rock, rut, or switchback.

You can only decide whether you will ride timidly or ride fully alive.

And maybe that is why the lesson feels especially important when we think about those who gave everything serving this country.

Some never got the chance to grow old.
Never got the second career.
Never got the quiet mornings.
Never got to raise children, build businesses, travel, retire, or reinvent themselves after failure.

Their trail ended early.

Which means we dishonor sacrifice when we live cautiously, endlessly waiting for permission to begin living.

Too many people spend life emotionally braking through every corner:
waiting for certainty,
waiting for confidence,
waiting for perfect timing,
waiting until they feel “ready.”

But the truth is that nobody feels ready for the hard turns.

The men and women who gave their lives in service to this country did not sacrifice so the rest of us could live small, fearful, half-lived lives. They gave up future chapters entirely.

The least we can do is fully live the chapters we still have.

Do the hard things.

Ride the mountain.

Own the turn.

Because at the end of every trail, every career, every life, the question is not whether the path was smooth.

It is whether you rode it fully. And that’s what those we lost would have wanted. For us still here to own every turn unapologetically. For them. For this country.

Indeed, 20 years ago, after watching someone else manage my portfolio with mediocre to low returns—safe returns, I decided to take control of my brokerage accounts and do it myself. As with anything in life, timing is everything. Of course, this brave move coincided with the rise of tech stocks, and I caught the tech bug. For 20 years, I bought and sold tech stocks like Apple, Tesla, Microsoft, Netflix, and then NVIDIA. I started small. Two shares. Ten shares. I learned how stock splits doubled or even quadrupled my shares overnight. I learned to reinvest dividends and to just keep adding. Even if it was just a couple shares at a time.

Most importantly, I learned to bet on me and take risks. Like when I sold my entire portfolio and went all in on NVIDIA a few years ago. People said I was crazy. To include my broker that now just dubbed me a “day trader.” I would say my nearly 200% returns suggests otherwise.

Like any investor, I endured the highest of highs and lowest of lows, but I knew long-term holds in tech would likely always stay in the green. And that green has given me the firepower to reach this milestone—my very own day trading brokerage account.

Scary. Yes.

Empowering. Definitely.

Answer to anyone? Nope.

But what I did not expect is how much swing trading is reconnecting me with my leadership journey. While I am still in my infancy as a swing trader (and losing), it has given me the platform to tune-up leadership qualities that matter in my every day profession, too, like: ferociously learning to be proficient, active listening, being

Read more

The gold medal match between the USA and Canada wasn’t just a hockey game; it was a 60-minute exercise in collective American hypertension. For three periods, I watched the clock dwindle as I prayed and bargained with all my might for our team to score. Our players were buzzing, the effort was there, but it was as though an unknown force was repelling the puck from the Canadian net.

The Agony of Near-Defeat

I was already resigning myself to the possibility of of an agonizing loss. As the third period ticked toward the end, the US pulled its goal tender to have one extra attacker on the ice. And then, with only two minutes-four seconds left, with the cosmic timing of a Hollywood script, the USA found the equalizer—Hilary Knight tied the game!

Overtime and a Shocking Victory

My heart was pounding and I was shaking. There was still hope! Suddenly, we were headed to 3v3 sudden-death overtime. I readied myself for another long twenty minutes of adrenaline induced tachycardia. Fortunately for my heart, I didn’t have to withstand the suffering for too long. At minute 4:07 of the extra period, Megan Keller got the puck across the goal line and to the back of the net. When that winning goal finally hit the twine, I wasn’t just happy; I was in a state of shock that required a few minutes of 4x4 breathing to get myself under control.

The Medal Ceremony: An Emotional Process

Then came the medal ceremony.

If you’ve never watched one, they are… comprehensive. It’s a slow-motion processional where every single player is individually bestowed with their hardware. First Bronze, then Silver, then finally the Gold. It’s a lot of standing. A lot of waiting. And, in the case of the Canadian team this year, a lot of what I can only describe as “Stinky Sock Face.”

As the Canadian players stepped up to receive their silver medals, you would have thought the officials were handing them a wet bag of garbage or a tax audit. Their expressions ranged from “active disgust” to “I’d rather be anywhere else on this planet.”

The Weight of Expectations

Now, look—I get it. Canada doesn’t just play hockey; they are hockey. In their minds, anything less than Gold isn’t a second-place victory; it’s a national tragedy. To them, the Silver medal is just a shiny, circular reminder of the one game they didn’t win.

But as I sat there watching these world-class athletes treat a prestigious Olympic medal like a participation trophy from a 4th-grade chess tournament, I went from empathetic to annoyed.

Respecting Achievement

Here is a team that is, objectively, one of the three best squads on Earth. They dismantled five other teams of the most elite athletes alive just to get to this podium. They held off the US onslaught for 58 minutes of grueling, bone-crushing play. It was a stellar performance. It was a masterclass in the sport.

The Paradox of “Stinky Sock Face”

And yet, that iconic “Stinky Sock Face” is, paradoxically, part of what makes Olympic hockey so compelling. The visible anguish of the Canadian players is a testament to how much this sport means—not just to them, but to their entire country. There is a raw honesty in their disappointment that speaks to the power of competition: for them, silver isn’t second best, it’s a painful reminder of falling just short of their own impossibly high standards. In a world where athletes are often coached to hide emotion, the Canadians wore their heartbreak openly, and in doing so, reminded viewers that greatness is measured not only by victory, but also by the depth of passion with which you pursue it.

The Soul of the Olympics

However in my humble opinion, by refusing to acknowledge the achievement, they miss the very soul of the Olympics. The Games are supposed to be the pinnacle of sportsmanship—a place where we celebrate the outer limits of human capability. When you treat Silver like a failure, you’re telling every kid watching at home that if you aren’t the absolute best, your effort was worthless.

Even the announcer—a former Silver medalist herself—noted that she now cherishes her “second place” prize more than almost anything else. It represents the lessons learned in the shadows of defeat, the grit required to get back up, and the perspective that only comes when you don’t get exactly what you wanted.

Embracing The Journey

There is a profound dignity in being the second-best in the entire world. I just wish the Canadians would realize that a Silver medal around your neck looks a lot better than a stinky sock on your face. After all, the Olympics isn’t just about who stands on the highest step; it’s about having the discipline to train to that level, the courage to face world class opponents, and the grace to celebrate the achievement of all those who tried.

For years, my husband and I have flirted with the idea of cross-country skiing. Since downhill skiing and I have a “it’s not you, it’s me” relationship, cross-country felt like the mature, safe alternative. So, this past Christmas, he gifted me a shiny new set of skis and enough gear to look like a pro.

In the first week of the year, despite the fact that my husband’s hadn’t arrived yet, we decided to go out and try out my new skis. While my family—all downhill fanatics—chased adrenaline on the slopes, I set off on my solo “safe” expedition. I’d done the homework. I watched the YouTube tutorials, I practiced in the basement, and I felt ready to unleash my inner champion on the pristine trails.

I started slow on the flat tracks. After a few loops, I decided I was ready to go!

The Three-Act Fall

I ventured onto the real trails. The solitude was golden. I was pondering life, setting 2026 goals, and feeling like a winter goddess. Everything was going smoothly… until suddenly, it wasn’t.

Fall #1: In a blink, I went from gliding to starring in a slapstick video. I was flat on my back, staring at the sky, wondering if anyone would pay for trail cam footage of my “graceful” wipeout. My head bounced off the packed snow. I shook it off. Resolve tested? Check.

Fall #2: Thirty seconds later, I was flat on my back again. Same head-to-ground contact. My inner voice whispered, “Uh oh.” With no shortcut back to the lodge, I had no choice but to channel my steely perseverance and press on.

Fall #3: Gravity had the final laugh. This time I landed on my side, head meeting the snow for the third time.

The Aftermath

By the time I crawled back to the car, the signs of a concussion were hard to ignore. While my family celebrated their exhilarating day, I spent my “vacation” on an unscheduled rest-and-recover tour of the lodge. My head spun for two days, and for the next two weeks, “rest” was the only activity on my schedule.

Not exactly the roaring start I’d envisioned for the year. Sometimes, life hands you a face full of snow to remind you to slow down.

The 2026 Takeaway or PSA, you decide…

I’m finally vertical again. I missed a month of the new year, but I gained a story and a newfound respect for protective headgear.

From now on, if you see me on the cross-country trails, I’ll be the one rocking a helmet. Here’s to picking ourselves up, dusting off the snow, and being willing to look a little silly in the name of safety.

During my early days at The Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, I fell firmly into the latter camp. For the uninitiated, TBS is where the Marine Corps takes newly commissioned Second Lieutenants and attempts to teach them how to be “provisional rifle platoon commanders.” One of the first hurdles is the legendary Night Land Navigation exercise.

The premise is simple: you are dropped into the Virginia woods with a compass, a map, a protractor, and a prayer. It is pitch black. You are forbidden from talking. You are forbidden from using white light; you may only use the dim, soul-crushing glow of a red-lens flashlight that illuminates all of one square inch.

Read more

The morning after my nineteen-year-old daughter returned home for the holidays, I was contentedly bundled in a blanket, sipping my coffee, and listening to her talk about her life. She discussed her friends’ anxiety about exams, shared dating updates and a bit of drama, and recounted friend misunderstandings. Through it all, my heart filled with joy at the incredibly insightful and compassionate human sitting next to me. I couldn’t help but be impressed by her emotional intelligence and maturity as she described her conversations and what she had said.

Frankly, I was beaming with joy.

Joy not Pride

Most people—including myself—are quick to say how “proud” we are of our children. However, I have come to understand that this simple phrase can sometimes have unintended consequences. Over time, I realized how closely my sense of self-worth and self-esteem was tied to performance and achievement. The expectations set by others, along with the ones I placed on myself, created a persistent pressure. This pressure, coupled with a fear of falling short, shaped a perfectionist version of myself that was always striving to meet every standard, often at the expense of genuine contentment and self-acceptance.

Read more

We live in a world obsessed with nostalgia, where yesterday always seems to outshine today. The “good old days” are, in truth, a psychological construct—a greatest-hits album curated by selective memory. We smooth out the rough tracks: the mistakes our parents made, the times someone made us feel unworthy, the effects of financial instability, not to mention dial-up internet, lead paint, silent suffering, the plague... the list goes on. In our minds, the past is filtered and polished, as if we’re viewing it through Instagram’s softest lens. We edit out the discomfort, the uncertainty, and the mess, clinging instead to scenes of cleaner air and better music, to late summer nights spent outdoors until the streetlights flickered on.

But nostalgia isn’t just sentimental—it’s a defense mechanism. When life feels unpredictable, we retreat into familiar stories, rituals, and possessions. The world outside changes, but inside we clutch at the past, hoping it will shield us from the anxiety of what’s next.

It’s Just Stuff

Read more

Let’s be honest: doing things we’re not good at, is never our preference. I love trying new things. I love taking on challenges. But that love flees as quickly as a fighter jet the moment I realize I’m not that good at it. Most of us prefer to stick to what we know, residing comfortably in our little bubbles of competence. Recently, however, I heard a quote that really struck a nerve.

Read more

Kristin Hannah’s The Women is a powerful and moving novel that delves into the often-overlooked experiences of women who served in the Vietnam War. Through the eyes of Frances ‘Frankie’ McGrath, a young nurse who enlists in the Army Nurse Corps, Hannah paints a vivid picture of the war’s brutal realities and the challenges these women faced both on the front lines and upon their return home.

Frankie’s journey is one of self-discovery and resilience. Initially naive and sheltered, she is thrust into the chaos of war, where she witnesses unimaginable suffering and forms unbreakable bonds with her fellow nurses. The novel explores the psychological toll of war, not only on the soldiers but also on the medical personnel who tended to their wounds.

The Women also sheds light on the societal prejudices faced by women in the military. Upon returning home, Frankie and her fellow nurses find themselves ignored and dismissed, their sacrifices minimized or forgotten. They struggle to readjust to civilian life, grappling with PTSD and the feeling that they are not understood or appreciated.

Key Themes:

• War and Trauma

• Female Friendship

• The Struggle for Recognition

• Post-Traumatic Stress

• Social injustice

Personal Reflections

One of the many themes that hit me hardest was the revelation that people in the U.S. at that time fully believed that there were NO women at all serving in Vietnam! Until I read this book, I didn’t know that was the case. I simply cannot imagine a veteran coming home only to be told “You’re mistaken, you couldn’t have been.”

The other resonating theme is how difficult it is to talk to civilians about your service or about life in general when you transition out. Perspective is different when you get out... most people don’t get that. That is why you need a connection to other veterans.

For me, The Women was a captivating read. Overall, I would absolutely recommend this book to anyone interested in historical fiction, war stories, or stories about female resilience.

Final Thoughts

The Women is a must-read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of societal misconceptions during the Vietnam War and the experiences of the women who served. It is a testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit and a powerful reminder of the importance of honoring the sacrifices of all veterans and of finding other veterans who understand what it all means.

Emotions, who needs them!?

Yet, they just happen to be a universal part of the human experience, go figure. For many of us they are a constant struggle—to understand, process, or even allow ourselves to feel them fully. In a recent episode of the “We Can Do Hard Things” podcast, the hosts kinda blew my mind a few times as they discussed the concept of the “90-second rule”—a simple but powerful idea that can transform the way we approach our feelings, our relationships, and our own self-awareness.

Hmmm, a 90-Second Rule?

Read more

1. Just show up

2. Enjoy some conversation around the book The Women by Kristin Hannah, and wherever the conversation goes, really.

3. Laugh

Register here: https://zoom.us/meeting/register/MePiW35ZSMGQcohyp4OcUg

The Spear.

For me, this is my direction, purpose, and goals.

Read more

I was a 2nd Lieutenant in the Marine Corps—standing tall at a whole five feet (if you count the boots) and tipping the scales at a whopping one hundred pounds, wet gear and all. At the start of Officer Candidates School, finishing the Obstacle Course (O-Course) felt like climbing Mount Everest, but by the end I had learned a few tricks. Confidence? Gained a little. Anxiety about what came next? Oh, I had buckets of that—because the infamous Endurance Course (E-Course) at The Basic School (TBS) was lurking on the horizon, plotting my humiliation.

My Nemesis

Every Lieutenant knows the E-Course is designed to break spirits and shatter egos, and in my day, it was Pass or Fail (one shot at a re-do). My first attempt? Let’s just say I contributed to the E-Course’s proud tradition of battered shins and broken dreams. The required pack weighed 45 pounds—basically like hauling an eight-year-old on my back. Add a rifle to the mix, and I looked like an oversized sea-turtle on a covert tactical mission. Woefully, I failed on my first attempt. But, lucky me, I got to go on the remedial run—a chance at redemption (or further embarrassment).

Read more

A need. A solution. A test.

It started as recognizing a need, testing a solution for that need, and that test revealing that the demand for connection with other women, either in uniform or post-service transition, is high and largely unmet.

The immediate solution was bringing a squad-sized element together at Patrol Base Abbate this past fall to participate in its specially curated Return to Base program. The weekend was so impactful that it inspired the creation of the Athena Foundation’s Two Checkpoints to Home program. In this program, a squad-sized element will be brought together over three years of specially designed trips and events to maximize connection and to encourage a lifetime of sisterhood.

The transition does not have to feel empty forever.

For me, leaving active duty in 2016 was harder than I expected. I left on my terms. I wanted to start my private sector career, and I am proud of how that piece of the journey has grown since 2016. But overnight my tribe was gone. No more jokes. No more check-ins. No more team. No more mission. No more purpose. It felt empty despite continuing my Marine reserve journey.

Even today, it still feels empty. So empty that I knew I couldn’t be the only transitioning servicemember that felt this emptiness, so I wanted to transform that negative feeling into a positive shared purpose and post-service calling. That want evolved into the Athena Foundation Inc. that was born in the middle of the Montana mountains.

A shared vision.

After discussing the Athena vision with Knight Campbell, Kevin Fallon, and Tom Schueman, the Athena | Cairn | RTB at Patrol Base Abbate weekend was set on calendar and planned. On a sunny Thursday in September of 2025, Karen Miller and I joined arms at the Missoula airport to pick up the first ever Athena | Cairn | RTB at Patrol Base Abbate Tribe25 squad.

As we collected Tribe25 from the airport, the uncertainty was palatable on everyone’s faces. Cautious optimism. Quiet. Introspective. Maybe even some nerves. Certainly, a lot of nervous laughter. But somehow that 2-plus hour drive deep into the Montana mountains, and up the rocky road to the Patrol Base Abbate’s headquarters, had a way of instilling confidence and a feeling that we were all where we needed to be at that moment.

The connection.

The connection was immediate and, of course, it came full circle in a crowded kitchen preparing Tribe25’s first “family” meal. What I thought was going to be the biggest planning failure of the weekend, the fact that our volunteer chef had to cancel last minute, became our greatest gift.

Without asking, Tribe25 naturally took to various kitchen stations: the stove for the main course, the prep corner, table setters, drink makers, and salad choppers. Surface level conversations could be heard across the various kitchen stations: the kids at home, to jobs, to war stories, to spouses, to that one time at this duty station tale. The chatter took over, soon the laugher, and, what felt like an instant, the team bond started to take shape. Guards dropped. Confidence rose. And the weekend was underway.

The emotional release.

The next morning, to the crisp mountain sunrise, the emotions surfaced as we worked through Tiffany Aguiar’s perfectly curated yoga session. To a group full of women that had spent decades suppressing emotion, to hear the releases and see the tears roll set the tone for the weekend: you are in a safe place. Bring all of you on this journey.

And a journey it was.

As a team, we set camp on top of a mountain, we stepped off on a hike before sunrise so we could summit the moment the sun crawled over the peaks (thanks to Karen Miller’s impeccable planning), we dug deep into our individual and collective purposes and leadership journeys, we detached from the constant noise and pressure from whatever was waiting for us back home. We were present. Present with ourselves and present with each other.

The power of the present.

I could see the present set in over each woman at different points over the weekend. There was a visible bodily response to watching their minds be several places at once to then just submitting to the moment. To the surroundings. To the views. To the fresh air. To the conversations. To the tribe. To, as Kevin Fallon would say, feeling small. It was magical and certainly emphasized that we take such little time to actually be present in our lives.

The purpose comes to life; the Athena Tribe is born.

It was observing that “I am present” moment hit when I knew I needed to do more to build on the experience and bond that was being formed with Tribe25. This had to be more than a weekend, and so Athena Foundation and the Two Checkpoints to Home program authentically came to be.

On Veterans Day, everyone will get to see and feel the impact this first weekend experience had on Tribe25. Peaceful. Moving. Deeply emotional. Inspiring. Tribe-like. When it was over, Tribe25 was the tribe I never knew I needed and it is my goal to bring this experience to others for years to come. Indeed, the Athena Foundation is here to stay. And I hope you are, too.

Subscribe now

1. Just show up

2. Enjoy some conversation

3. Laugh

Last night, we did all three, and even talked about the book we read, listened to, or maybe just looked at—Tribe by Sebastian Junger.

The book reinforced everything we are creating with this Athena Tribe: community, a unified sense of purpose, social resistance, and a shared understanding of working through all the emotions and realities that come with leaving the military.

To me, the book’s description of the self-determination theory hit home the most. As humans, we are most aligned when we (1) feel competent in what we do, (2) have autonomy over our lives, and (2) are part of a community we love. I have suffered a malalignment of these since leaving the military and the book helped put into words what I was feeling. Now, my goal is aligning what I do, how I do it, and with whom I do it with to feel whole again.

Read more

Growth rarely happens in comfort. Growth can be painful and that is okay. When I was a kid, I would cry that “My shins hurt! But I don’t have bruises.” My mom explained to me that it was my body growing and sometimes that meant I was going to feel pain. She is a wise woman and I’m glad I have her in my life to teach me that not all pain is injury.

Pain you can push through toward growth. Injury we must recover from.

Read more

Book: Tribe by Sebastian Junger

Registration: https://zoom.us/meeting/register/P5vSfJDITHWW0wMbiHy1Ug

Book Club Rules:

1. Just show up

2. Enjoy some conversation

3. Laugh

Read more