War on trans people is ending my U.S. Army career after 18 years

Since childhood, there were two things I knew for certain: I wanted to be a soldier in the U.S. military, and I was a girl trapped in a boy’s body. But by all appearances, I played the part of the all-American boy growing up.

I played football. I was a wrestler. And I followed the example set by my conservative military family – Marines, police, nurses – who instilled in me a sense of patriotic pride. I believed in the “American dream” that had given so many opportunities to my Irish and Polish and German ancestors, and was driven to defend it. 

I chose to join the military because I wanted to lead. During the Afghan war, where I served two terms, the Taliban used our remote outpost for target practice. I was ambushed, and shot at daily. But I fought on and continued to climb the ladder – becoming a master parachutist, an infantry officer, a platoon leader and a company commander. My service earned me the rank of Army Major and a carousel of commendations, and I gave back to the country I loved by training hundreds of soldiers. 

All of this was only to be told in a closed-door hearing that while I was more than fit to fight and command in the United States military, I can’t do it as a trans woman. My entire dream and nearly 18-year career has turned into a nightmare under the Trump administration, and some colonel who just determined I should be kicked out of the Army is shaking my hand and telling me “thank you for your service.”  

It feels more like “fuck you for your service” to me.

A real-life catch-22 in the U.S. military

As I drove last May to Fort Leavenworth, the historic U.S. military base in Kansas where a board of inquiry awaited, I found myself thinking how cruel the timing was. My appearance was taking place just five days before I reached 18 years in the military – a major milestone that would make me eligible for full retirement and health benefits. Now, a decision for “separation” from the military due to my gender identity could cost me everything I worked for over 18 years. 

But here I am, finally able to wear my uniform for the first time in 11 months, heading in to plead my case.

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Much of my career was spent moving to different bases across the country, across the world, but that car ride felt like one of the longest journeys I had taken. 

When I arrived at the gates, a guard immediately recognized me from my stint living at the base a few years ago. 

“How’s it going? Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said. 

I explained I was there for my separation hearing, which would center entirely around the gender dysphoria diagnosis I received during Trump’s first term. [Eds note: Trump had tried to introduce a blanket ban on trans soldiers serving in the military in 2018, but then his administration issued a revised order that provided a loophole that allowed some trans soldiers to continue to serve if they had been diagnosed with gender dysphoria before the order took effect]. Trump’s policies had actually provided the window that catapulted my coming out publicly as trans.

I had already come out to my wife at the time. But we had agreed that I would wait to make it public until after the twins were born. The immediacy of the situation pushed me to visit a military medical facility and obtain the diagnosis as soon as possible. I got it four days before my girls were born and just 10 days before the ban went into effect. 

It was freeing to be able to serve my country while still being true to myself, but I didn’t know I was walking into a catch-22. First I was told I can’t serve unless I have a diagnosis, now I am preparing to face a panel that can tell me my diagnosis can prevent me from serving.

I didn’t have anything to say to the guards except “board of inquiry.” They shook their heads and the one who recognized me just said: “It’s not right. I’m sorry.” 

My military competence was never in question

Everyone in the hearing room was cordial upon my arrival: the recorder, mediator, government representatives, and the three officers tasked with deciding my fate. I told them I was sorry they had to be there, a candor they acknowledged by shaking their heads. It was as if we were all in silent agreement about the absurdity of the whole process. 

Predictably, it was a mess. 

I wasn’t sure if I would even be allowed to enter the room if I looked like the woman I am. Would I have to wear a men’s uniform? What about my long hair? To be sure I would have the chance to be heard, I wore a unisex uniform and had a pair of clippers in my pocket, ready to sacrifice my identity and present myself as my sex assigned at birth. 

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The board didn’t even look at the supporting evidence I had prepared to prove that I was fit to serve, nor did they hear arguments from all the witnesses lined up to vouch for my merits as an officer. They made clear that my competence was not in question; they were there only to determine if I had been diagnosed with gender dysphoria.

My lawyer, who attended virtually due to a medical emergency, argued that I only pursued a gender dysphoria diagnosis because I would have been kicked out of the military without one. All arguments attesting to my exemplary record both before and since I transitioned fell on deaf ears. 

It was a quick hearing, as if they had reached their conclusion before it even began. The panel huddled for two hours and then delivered their decision: “There is no doubt you’re fit to serve; your service is exemplary,” they said. “But the policy is policy.”

They tried to soften the blow by saying they would recommend that I receive retirement benefits, but they checked the box: “separate”

In that moment, I did everything I could to not lose myself. I was paralyzed by anger. 

One board member bolted to the door, never to be seen again. Another, the colonel who thanked me for my service, said it was the “hardest decision” he ever had to make. Even the government representative, whose job was apparently to argue for my ejection, was emotional.

Coming out as trans felt impossible. Now, being in the military is 

At four years old, I remember thinking: being a girl in a boy’s body didn’t make sense. How am I supposed to explain that to my parents? 

Even as I played the role of the school jock, my high school routine involved stealing my mother’s clothes, putting on makeup, and then sprinting to the bathroom when my parents came home so I could take it all off. 

Later, as a soldier, I kept my secret from my wife. I went to work in the morning as a man, but when I knew she was gone I would come home, shave, put on the women’s clothing I kept in a bin in the garage and walk into the night as a woman.

The whole time I listened idly as colleagues blasted the idea of serving alongside a trans soldier – someone I knew I wanted to be. But I was playing the part of the macho soldier – I had a bass boat, a Jeep, dipped tobacco and drank a lot. Coming out felt impossible. 

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But I knew I had to take the chance before I lost my mind. Coming out was one of the most difficult, yet freeing decisions I ever made. It cost me friends, my wife, and even, I thought, my family. They made me get the gender dysphoria diagnosis and now it is being used as cause to kick me out of the army. It was like an intentional chess move.

It is all such bullshit. They are saying we can’t serve because our health care is too expensive, that we aren’t of good character. I can tell you my transition has never diminished my capability to fight, to know that there is a time to turn the switch on and destroy the enemy.

What is going to happen when they get rid of highly-trained officers like me?  I’m built to take a bunch of people, a bunch of resources, align them against the enemy and do it in a way in which I apply science and engineering to destroy them. I just want to do my job.

In the end, fighting for myself and other trans service members has strengthened my passion for this country. I am not a victim, I am not a survivor – I am a fighter and I’m fighting this shit, and we’re going to win in the long run because I am not giving up on America. 

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