The decision to leave or stay was a heavy, tangled knot. I had spent five years as an active-duty Army nurse and four years before that in the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps while attending nursing school. I knew I wouldn’t make the Army a 20-year career, so why was it so hard to leave?
Like any good knot, I couldn’t unravel it until I first got through the web surrounding it. Who was I without the Army? I was haunted by a vision of my post-military self slumped at home on my parents’ couch watching TV. In this nightmare, I felt empty on the inside, devoid of purpose and missing my patients and coworkers.
An even deeper version of me feared losing the immediate recognition on others’ faces when I said, “I’m a nurse in the Army.”
The reliable responses always came: “Oooh, wow!” “Good for you!” “That’s incredible.”
And of course, every soldier’s favorite: “Thank you for your service.”
Truthfully, the identity made things easy. Because I had immediate praise from friends, family, and strangers alike, I was saved from building an inner world and an authentic identity. People assume joining the military is a big risk, but for me, it was safer than choosing my own way and being wrong. I felt safe when the military told me what to wear, where to live, what job I would have, and even what time to show up.
As a child, I was insecure and self-critical. I measured myself against everyone—my older brother with his easy charm, athleticism, and huge friend group; my best friend who always landed the lead in the musical while I played the dog or “Thug #3.” While others went to Friday night parties, I sat at the dinner table with my parents, longing for the kind of effortless belonging everyone else had.
I went to boarding school at age 14, hopeful for a fresh start, but found fitting in there even harder. When a former Navy SEAL spoke at our school, I was captivated by his message of courage and belonging to a team. I already had an interest in medicine based on my dad’s time as a volunteer EMT. A small flutter in my chest: Maybe I could join the military and be a nurse. Before I knew it, my feet were on a conveyor belt, and it would take years to realize what I was walking on.
ROTC was rigid, and nursing majors were cut no slack. Mornings began with mandatory physical training (often in subzero Vermont temperatures) and weekends were spent in the woods practicing war maneuvers, our faces hidden by thick green paint. I had found a group, dysfunctional but still a family.
We shared a military service identity, and because I wanted to serve, I was accepted. I had a genuine desire to serve my country, but it wasn’t only heroism that motivated me. The sense of belonging, external validation, and fleeting feeling of superiority temporarily satisfied an identity-shaped void inside myself.
At the same time, something inside of me whispered: This isn’t me. I don’t even want this. Ropes of anxiety were beginning to knot within my nervous system. Maybe it was the squad leader who screamed at me for forgetting a compass during gear layout. Or the deep unease I felt every time we fired the weapons we had to qualify on.
But worst of all was the merit list. Our cadre evaluated us, and so did our peers. My closest friends—the ones I cliff jumped with, ate questionable dining hall tacos with, and crammed for exams until 2 a.m.—were constantly measuring me.
A few weeks after submitting our peer evaluations, the comments were returned in a jumbled stack of messy handwriting. Anonymous, but not really; after four years together, it was obvious who had written what.
We were ranked, with number one being the top soldier. My stomach dropped as I read how my peers saw me: 15/20, 18/20, 19/20. Panic rose in my throat, tears burned my eyes. I shoved the stack in the trash. How could I read what my friends truly thought of me? For years, I’d feared they secretly disliked me, that I was “bad.” This stack seemed to confirm it. The anxious tangle inside me tightened, twisting deep in my stomach.
Three months later, I was commissioned as an officer in the United States Army.
I steeled myself for active duty. My self-worth and officership were inseparable, both in my eyes and the eyes of the military. The knot inside me pulled tighter with every evaluation, every silent judgment, and every time my personality was shoved down in the name of uniformity.
Despite living under that pressure, there were countless incredible moments. I traveled the world, assigned to five Army bases in five years. I changed dressings on car accident and shooting victims in San Antonio, Texas. While stationed in South Korea, I introduced a Korean army nurse to margaritas and she introduced me to samgyetang (ginseng chicken soup). I helped bring the babies of Pentagon senior officers into the world in Washington, D.C.
I learned grit and determination and how to properly tie my boots. I still believe the Army Nurse Corps produces the best nurses under the sun. I will take some of that century-old pluck into my next chapter, pursuing a graduate-level nursing degree with aspirations to improve primary care by incorporating holistic treatment—mind, body, and soul. The Army may have created a tangle within me, but that doesn’t diminish the honor of military service. I am both humbled and proud to be a veteran, joining the ranks of my grandfathers and countless other men and women who served before me.
When it came time to leave the military, I did what many people do: stacked my leave days and disappeared quietly. When I drove off base in my white Tiguan (still with Texas plates from three assignments ago) for the last time, the relief was so dense and palpable it felt like I had a passenger in the front seat next to me. Hello, freedom. Nice to meet you. I’m not Capt. Pryor, I’m Elsie.
After being a cog in the wheel of ensuring American freedom, I was now reaping the benefits.
On the last day I wore my uniform, I looked in the mirror and felt nothing. I asked myself: You don’t feel even a little sad? I didn’t. The identity I had clung to with a white knuckle grip had already eased.
I felt a deeper tug from somewhere unexpected. Beneath the frayed rope, a warm light peeked through. A girl with low self-esteem, the dog in the school play (who really delivered an excellent “ruff, ruff” that was met with laughter), a girl with a vast imagination, who loved reading and dreamt of being an author. No longer in an Army uniform and patrol cap, she was both softer and stronger, sitting in the driver’s seat, and she was asking me to come home. Yes, home to the house I grew up in. But ultimately home to myself.
It happened somewhere between driving off base that hot June day and arriving in my parents’ outstretched arms. I immediately threw on my swimsuit and headed to the lake down the street, where I jumped in with a huge splash. It was early summer and the icicle fingers of the deep water grabbed at my ankles. When I came up for air, I took a deep breath, floated on my back, and watched the clouds and the tops of the pines. There was no formation, no weigh-in, no WhatsApp message saying I hadn’t completed anti-terrorism training.
The inner relentless critic was suddenly quiet, replaced by a gentle, warm glow. That summer night in my childhood bedroom, I slept deeply for the first time in years, listening to the fan in the corner, the loose blades clicking softly, and the soothing orchestra of crickets in the dark.
I spent the summer making up for the years I had lost when I left home as a girl. Burgers and corn sizzling on the grill, soft rock floating from the radio. Afternoons spent on the front porch, lazily reading novels and writing poetry. Long hikes with my mom ended with a playful squeeze at the top, hugging her just because I could. Plus, with my dad’s knee replacement, I even got to show off my nursing skills.
I felt free for the first time in a decade. I was 14 again, the summer before I left for boarding school. I was 18 again, so self-assured and clueless, determined to join the Army. I was 27, deciding to leave.
I couldn’t be where I am today without every tangled knot and every insecure, brilliant, terrified, reckless version of myself. Carrying these versions close to my heart, I am now strong enough to step onto a new path that is truly mine. I am not scared anymore.
Someone had loosened the knot in my soul.
Now, I just had to find out who she was.
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.
