It’s taken me a bit to get this out. Sometimes the words just spill, and sometimes…they just don’t.
Forewarning – this is personal, raw and long. So buckle up if you’d like to read any further.
A little over ten years ago, I was in desperate need of a mentor. I didn’t know that – I simply thought I needed some advice and direction. After some research, I reached out to a stranger I had zero connection to, but appeared to have what I was looking for – totally expecting silence in response, and to simply keep trying.
I do believe in divine intervention. And apparently silence was not on the agenda that day.
It’s never been lost on me that I first spoke to Sarah Plummer on September 11th. It would be another month before I met her in person, at the inaugural Miss Veteran America pageant in Washington, DC, in which she was a judge. A few months after that, I received a scholarship to attend a military health-and-wellness event she was hosting in San Diego.
It was here that I met Kate. Sarah’s best friend, warrior sister and colleague.
And it was here, where – seeing them work, speak and coach in tandem for their common goal (which was slowly becoming mine) – I had a thought I still remember to this day. Vividly.
“I want to carry myself and speak like them one day.”
Kate spoke on topics that hit home to me, as I was dealing with a few of them at that very time. I was still quite shy then, but Sarah had already been providing me with tools to gain confidence.
So, with shaky breath and my heart pounding, I walked up to Kate at the VIP dinner that night and asked if I could share a situation with her and get her feedback. She promptly said yes, sat down in such a manner that clearly informed me this was happening right now, and looked me in the eye.
Warm. Welcoming. Slightly intimidating, but welcoming nonetheless. It put me in yet another position where the door was already open…I just had to walk through it.
She proceeded to listen to me, for how long I don’t recall, processed the information, and then clearly and articulately shared not only her feedback, but also her encouragement. This shouldn’t have surprised me at this point, as it was the same reception I’d received from Sarah.
I’m not sure exactly what I did expect at that time, from two female Marine Corps Captains. But it wasn’t this. After all, that had been exactly what I’d Googled when I first found Sarah – “Female Marine Officer.” I needed some grit in my life.
I knew what I was looking for, but at the same time, I didn’t. I simply knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was missing something and I hated the mediocre life I was living within the bounds of what other people thought I should be doing and how I should be doing it. I hated…HATED…and still do…people who live within a mindset of limits, negativity, and “this is how it’s always been done.”
I was looking for glass ceiling shatterers. I was looking for someone who could validate what I felt in my core to be true – I had no one around me who believed it as vehemently as I did – and not just speak it to my face, but show it to me in their every day actions and character.
I felt strongly that I had already found that in Sarah. I was floored at not only what she was able to teach me, but HOW she taught me. She led by example and was as passionate as I was…I was just lost. She took it upon herself to be my guide, professionally and personally, gave me room to make mistakes and ask questions without judgment, and encouraged me to keep going.
Not surprisingly, Kate shared those same sentiments with me.
The impact of seeing two best friends work together (and being a small recipient of that very partnership) in such a way didn’t hit me until fairly recently, when it was forced upon me in a way I wish it wasn’t.
Four years ago, vibrant, charismatic and hard-charging Kate was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive type of breast cancer – a cancer that was only discovered after a mammogram she almost didn’t go to, because she had zero symptoms.
Zero. And it wasn’t just one type of cancer. It was three.
By the time it was discovered, it had already metastasized to every bone in her body. A byproduct of living next to and inhaling the burn pits of Iraq. The Agent Orange of our current wars.
No one knows how this story would be different if it’d been caught earlier. But Kate didn’t dwell on that information. Instead, she took the tools she had since getting out of the military – her life experience and PhD in Public Health – and took to the podiums. She researched, learned, and began aggressively advocating for the health and wellness of female veterans – all while undergoing treatment. Her own experience in navigating cancer as a female veteran proved to be as harmful as the cancer itself – the “system” didn’t care. Her benefits claims and appeals were denied.
Kate continued to advocate, nationally, from the stand as she lost her hair and her privacy. She welcomed news crews to document her daily life as it began to include the horrific realities of cancer. A cancer the “system” vehemently denied was their problem.
At 38 years old, Kate armored up and went back to war. It was a different kind of war, but one that only befell her as a result of the first one, in which she’d happily chosen to serve. She didn’t choose the second – but it far from stopped her. While the disease continued to rear its ugly tactics, she only leaned in further and kept plowing through. It wasn’t just about her anymore – this was about all female veterans.
And her husband. And her young son she’d had three years earlier.
John Stewart became her advocate, among thousands of others who learned of her story and masterful levels of resilience and belief in a better way. As a result, the world now knows. Because of Kate, thousands upon thousands of people know what it takes – and what it will continue to take – to make a thriving life possible for female service members.
She made change happen. It is only because of Kate, that a bill is now in place that allows female service members of any age to get a mammogram at any time. It is only because of Kate that this continues to be a topic of change and reform.
On May 18, 2022, the Dr. Kate Hendricks Thomas SERVICE Act passed in the House, 418-0.
She did it. She made it all happen. But not before she left this world on April 5, 2022.
When I first learned she was entering hospice a few weeks prior, my heart sunk deeper than it had in a very long time. I hadn’t seen Kate in person in several years, but we’d stayed connected via Facebook and I’d kept a strong eye on her journey. I read every article she wrote. Watched every interview. Watched every well-spoken, articulated speech. The last comment she made on my Facebook page was last summer, and as silly as it was, (just as the photo she commented on) it made my day. Simply because it was from her.
Some of us always hold on to that twinge of faith – that tiny little puzzle piece in the back of our mind that if it could somehow fit into this heartbreaking puzzle just right – this could be figured out. She’d get better. She was too monumental of a human to just…not get better. This world needed her.
The day I learned she went into hospice, I felt lost all over again. I struggled with feeling as though I didn’t deserve to feel that way, but those thoughts were quickly foiled – as Sarah had taught me many years ago during my deepest grief.
After hours of simply sitting alone with that information, I did something I never do. I called the only person whom I knew would understand the magnitude of this. I called my mother.
Mind you, I call my mother frequently. But as she’s a worrier, I make it a point to not call during late hours or when I am on the verge of tears. Or both. This time it was both.
When she answered, I couldn’t speak – and she knew immediately that I wasn’t ok. But I didn’t know where to begin. I did choke the words out eventually, and finally landed on the piece that hurt my heart the most.
“I don’t know how you handled this with your brother.”
Her older brother. My uncle I never got to meet, because his story mirrored Kate’s – he passed a few short years after returning from Vietnam from an aggressive cancer due to Agent Orange.
We cried together at the unfairness of it all. Two unfathomably honorable warriors from different wars, losing a different battle here at home, because of a system that didn’t care once they returned from the war they’d signed up for, that that very system had sent them to.
Fast forward, and I am trying to work out the finances to make it to Kate’s funeral before a date had been announced. Being at funerals is extremely important to me, and despite trying every which way to make it happen, it became evident that it was just not in my cards – and I was devastated. I wanted to be there more than anything. I wanted to say goodbye to Kate. I wanted to hug Sarah.
When the date was finally announced, my breath hung heavy on my chest. May 7th. The day of the Humvee Challenge. The event that we at Claymore Operations spend a year planning. The event that means so much to me personally and professionally.
Only a couple weeks prior to May 7th, I was asked to speak at the event. I’d said no, as any of my middle school, high school or college friends could probably understand why – public speaking had essentially rested as my one worst fear for the entirety of my academic career. Cue vomit-inducing anxiety.
But, I started to see what was lining up in front of me. The date wasn’t lost on me, and neither was the door that was already open…
I just had to be willing to walk through.
And then it dawned on me. I was being asked to speak on the benefits of providing mentorship to young service members and why it is so unbelievably important to do so earlier vs. later, and just how tremendously it can impact their careers and personal lives both in and out of uniform.
Mentorship. Speak on why mentorship is so important…
This is the heart of what Claymore Operations is all about. But before the organization was ever born and I was asked to be a part of it in its infancy, I’d reached out to two people for their insight and feedback.
Sarah and Kate.
Two people I carry in such high regard, and I was saying no to this because I was simply afraid? Afraid of what?
I didn’t have an answer for that anymore, so I went back and said, “I changed my mind…yes. I’ll do it.”
I was initially just going to post this photo and exclaim why I’m proud of it. Because I am. But that would completely and utterly negate two specific people – and the entire last decade and change – that made this photo a reality.
My pastor recently shared a story that resonated deeply with me, but one piece in particular made my heart skip a beat. He was using the metaphor of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, but the butterfly keeps crawling around in the mud.
He shared, “You wouldn’t yell to the butterfly, ‘Stop crawling in the mud!’”
“You would say, ‘HEY! Did you know you have WINGS?”
“Did you know you can FLY?”
Instantly, I was transported back ten years. I saw Sarah and Kate on stage.
“I want to carry myself and speak like them one day.”
The morning of May 7th, I prayed a simple prayer.
“Kate, please be on my shoulder today. I know Sarah will be on the other. Between the two of you, I know I can do this, and do it well, and honor both of your contributions to my life. I will speak strongly and articulately, and should I shake or stammer, I will continue carrying myself as you both have carried yourselves. I know this is not a TED Talk or on national television, but it’s a door I’ve been afraid to walk through. I’m pretty sure you opened this one, so fear be damned…I’m walking through. Amen.”
This speech was not nearly as important to anyone as it was to me, nor did I have an audience that filled a stadium. But amidst the applause following my conclusion and the wonderful feedback I received thereafter, I heard only one thoughtful response.
“HEY! I knew you could fly.”
Well, I’m still learning. But if there is anything I have learned in ten years of following in the flight paths of two of the most prominent leaders and scholars I’ve ever known, it’s this:
Every time a mission is established and a goal is accomplished, it is met with a sentiment of, “I’m just getting started.”
The finish line is nonexistent. There is always work to be done. Somehow, by the grace of God, Sarah and Kate saw me in the mud following their transitions out of uniform and not only included me in their mission, but began teaching, guiding and paving a way for me to continue that mission in my own way, while still – and always – learning how to fly.
I’ve been on a mission ever since. And I’m just getting started.
Kate and Sarah…you are the reasons I’m here today, the reasons I kept going, and the reasons why I’ll never stop.
Thank you.
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