Death first appeared in my life when I yelled, “Take cover!”

Sirens wailing in the distance, flak vest slipping off my shoulder, I ran for the nearest bunker in the darkness.

Barely 18 hours in-country.

I hadn’t fully unpacked, but
I knew the location of every bullet in my magazine, felt them digging into my chest.

I double-checked now.

The two soldiers’ stride didn’t break. Their gaze slid over me—expressionless,
unseeing—as if only I heard the siren’s wail.
Steps unhurried, as if the base weren’t under attack.
They disappeared into the night.

Kneeling on the bunker floor, flak vest fastened, other soldiers half-dressed and wide-eyed, panic thundered in my chest.
Why didn’t they run?

Dirt grinding into my knees, head nearly touching the cement top, I was transported back to another small space, when I was also small.
Her voice, siren-like, drove me to a dead-end room.
A small bench—my only hope—I crawled underneath.
I hoped it would hide me, shield me, protect me.
It did not.

My body remembered.
Same space, same position, same waiting.
Different war.

This time, I was armed.
Armor came in many forms—uniforms, weapons, knowledge, training.
I took advantage of them all, believing they would protect me.
But I was vulnerable in ways I couldn’t defend.

Army to Air Force, I changed branches to ensure my small children wouldn’t be orphaned.
Desk over action; I had chosen safety for their future.
Yet here I was again, hiding from shrapnel and fear.

Two weeks and multiple attacks later, I stopped running.
Flak vest flung over my chest in the rat-infested plywood B-hut.
I closed my eyes to the sirens singing me to sleep.

I didn’t tell the children; they didn’t need to know.
I would be the bunker that shielded them, my reassurances their armor.
With a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, I told them, “I love you. I’m OK. But I have to go now.”
Silent tears slipped into my pillow.

A month and more attacks later, I finally learned what the two soldiers had known.
I no longer reached for the flak vest or bunker, both illusions of control.
The sirens were too late.

I would die or I wouldn’t.
Someone had decided if my B-hut, my Humvee, or my group was targeted.
I was ready or I wasn’t.
Death was already here.

“Shirt!” they called me, the first sergeant, every airman’s advocate and confessor.
I showed up for everyone but myself.
There was no time.

Smile pasted on as I counseled my airmen.
Chest burning during morning runs, coughing up fine dust.
Watching every small finger twitch, sudden movement, or unexpected silence.
My world suddenly small and large, all at the same time.

Midnight notifications for a dying parent.
Family collapse 7,000 miles away.
Set up video calls for a child’s hospital visit.
Pretending I didn’t see the grief they didn’t want to share.

Anger radiated off local workers pouring through the gates each morning.
Suspicion warring with pity at the ragged clothes, bare feet, downcast eyes.

Fear at the unexpected voice suddenly behind me in the instant dark of blackout conditions.
I had thought no one was nearby.
Not laughing at his joke, back pressed up against the wall,
my issued weapon useless at my side.

Adrenaline shooting through my veins would not protect me.
Fear of “what if” served no purpose, dulled my logic, made me timid.
The list was my guide: Training. Preparation. Action. Acceptance.

I carried death’s shroud back with me.
Alcohol dulled my senses, made me forget.
Silence built mountains between loved ones.
Anger became my shield.
My body still braced for impact.
Loneliness was my truest companion.

Finally, the long march ended.
I thanked it for the lessons learned.

My seeking voice broke the barriers between loved ones.
Released my anger. Discovered peace.
Found people all around, waiting for me to see them.
Learned that armor can be made of butterfly wings.

Years later, I traded my uniform for a hospital gown.
A daughter who had insisted on being there.
The air turned heavy as a morose doctor entered the room and said, “I’m so sorry…”

There was no time for a flak vest; no bunker would save me.
I could not shield her.
The sirens were too late.

At his words, my daughter’s head slowly turned.
Eyes locked on mine.
The privacy curtain’s bleached brown chevrons imprinted on my mind, the smell of disinfectant sharp as diesel.
Echoes of the flak vest pressed against my chest.

One thought fired back—No.

People worried at my calm. Asked if I was depressed.
I’d met death before. We’re not friends.
It comes without empathy, love, or fear.
It comes in bunkers, in hospitals, in darkness.
But I do not fear it.

I had learned this hard lesson, both in Afghanistan and under a bench.
If death is here, then it has chosen me.
Until then, I have options.

My armor looks different these days.
No flak vest to fasten.
No bullets on my chest.

Instead, there is wonder, gratitude, mischief.
Sticky hugs from grandchildren.
Late-night phone calls from kids now grown into friends, no longer needing my armor.
Audacity. Passion.

This is my time. Not death’s.

Twelve months and one surgery later, too many tests to count, I am up late at night.
Fear creeps in as I prepare for another invasive test.
I search for death.
Is it here?

I’m reminded of those two soldiers’ eyes in that first attack—eyes meeting mine before continuing on.
No pity. No fear. No shame. Simple acknowledgement.
If death is here, it has already chosen.

The sharp scent of diesel stings my nose.
Grainy sand grinds between my toes.
The crisp, dry air catches in my lungs.
This I understand. This I know.

“Are you OK?” she asked, her warm hand reaching mine.
My eyes adjusted, the hospital chair hard beneath me, astringent biting at my nose.
Different pattern on the curtain.
Different eyes locked on mine.

Another daughter came with me this time.
She wears a uniform similar to the one I wore.
She has learned this hard lesson, too.

Her haunted eyes speak of sleepless nights,
meeting death for the first time on an aircraft carrier.
Nowhere to run, no bunker to hide in.
I could not shield her.
Her emails told me, “I love you. I’m OK. I have to go now.”

Her armor and mine, they are no longer the same.
She has met death. It is not her friend, either.
My list is shorter now. She is still gathering hers.
Action. Acceptance.

We sat there. Shared silence. And waited.

I want to tell her of the beauty after.
Of light discovered when fear loses strength.
That when gathering armor, we often fail to look up
and see how far we’ve come.

The world is filled with wonders.
I will keep moving forward.
Just like death, I have a strategy.
Let it try to keep up.

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.