Ten Years From Now

When I was younger, a coach once asked us to write an essay about where we saw ourselves in ten years. Everyone around me seemed to know exactly what to write — dream jobs, pretty houses, perfect families. And I remember sitting there with a blank page, feeling kind of stupid because… I had no idea.

The only thing I could picture was a grave.

Before you jump to conclusions — no, I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to die. I’m not sitting here making plans to hurt myself. It’s just this gut feeling I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember. That one day, somewhere out there, I won’t make it home. That I’ll die fighting for something bigger than me. And weirdly, I’ve made peace with that.

Most people grow up dreaming about the life they’ll have. The person they’ll marry. The house by the beach. The kids. And for a while, I thought maybe something was wrong with me because I could never see any of that. I tried to picture a future like that and it just… never fit. The idea of kids crossed my mind a few times. I thought about how it might feel to be a mom. To have tiny hands grabbing mine, to hear someone call me Mom. But every time, the image blurred out.

And I told myself maybe it’s because I don’t even like kids. But that was a lie. I’ve got a baby brother I love more than anything, and there’s no one I’d rather be around. So if it’s not that, maybe it’s because deep down, I know I won’t get the chance.

Same thing with a career. Everyone else seemed to find their spark. I never did. Nothing felt right. Until one night, sitting in the kitchen with my mom, she told me something I’ll never forget. She said she was supposed to join the military and become an air traffic control officer, but when she found out she was pregnant with me, she gave it up. I don’t know why that hit me the way it did, but it did.

And from then on, the military wasn’t just some idea in the background. It felt like something I was meant to do. Like something I owed the world. And yeah, I’ve heard the stories. I know how brutal it gets. But instead of scaring me, it almost called to me.

So if you ask me where I see myself in ten years — it’s not in some office with polished nails and a neat little nameplate. It’s not in a house with a picket fence and a diamond ring on my finger. I see myself in a uniform. I see myself in a war zone. I see myself fighting for people who’ll never know my name, for a freedom I might not get to live in. And I see myself falling.

Dying for something bigger than me.

And maybe that sounds dark, but it’s the only future I’ve ever been able to picture. And maybe — just maybe — that’s okay.