I grew up in the suburbs of Indianapolis on a dead-end street, split by the construction of Freeway 465, which circled the outskirts of our city. A two-minute drive in any direction revealed fields of corn and a vast blue sky. We never locked our house; I didn’t even have a key to the front door—if one existed at all. Our days were spent riding bikes for hours, and when dusk settled in, we would obediently return home, leaving our bikes in the front yard until morning. Then, one strange day, our bikes were stolen. Despite this, we continued to leave them out, convinced that lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice. We were right; our bikes never vanished again.
It wasn’t until I moved to New York City that I learned how to use keys. It wasn’t as intuitive as I expected; it took years to master the subtle art of unlocking a door—figuring out how far to insert the key and how hard to turn it. My childhood demons were not strangers that had to be locked out, but, sadly, family members I was trapped living with. So, it felt natural to leave home at 18 and venture into the world. I felt safe hitchhiking through Europe for five months and spent four months living in Israel and Egypt. I threw myself at the mercy of the world, surviving on $250 a month.
I expected goodness from the world, and in turn, the world treated me well. My sense of agency blossomed in my early 20s when I spent summers working with a crew to build structures for a women’s music festival that attracted lesbians from around the globe. I challenged myself to do things I never thought possible—swinging a sledgehammer to drive stakes into the ground for large tents, hauling lumber to create three massive stages, and constructing a village for 5,000 women. We were self-sufficient, united by peace, love, and community, operating outside the confines of patriarchy, capitalism, and the military complex, which I viewed as the sources of evil.
This festival experience gave me the confidence to embark on a storytelling project. After my mother’s passing, reconnecting with my estranged father, and the upheaval following 9/11, I decided I wanted a child after all. Six weeks before I turned 40, I gave birth to my son, Magnus. He turned 21 today and is now a Marine serving in Japan—yes, the military complex I once opposed. How do I reconcile this? My beautiful, talented son, who once cried at the age of 13 for hurting a fish during catch-and-release fishing, is now part of the military.
Unlike my carefree childhood, his life has unfolded in the shadow of 9/11, terrorism, school shootings, fake news, Trump, and AI. The world is a frightening place. We’ve learned of Olympic gymnasts and altar boys suffering abuse at the hands of those who should protect them. What is sacred? Where is safety? How can I prepare my child for this harsh reality?
Magnus is an exceptional athlete and quarterback, and we had hoped for a football scholarship to college. But COVID derailed those plans, closing off organized sports. Yet, the Marine Center remained open, and he worked out with recruits three times a week, quickly rising as a leader. One night, after hours of trying to reach him, he finally called in a panic: “Mom, I’m so sorry, the squad leader made us leave our phones in the locker.” In that moment, I sensed the beginning of my loss as he transitioned deeper into this military life. I was terrified. He’s my only child. Could I bear the thought of losing him?
Over the past two years, I watched as he endured boot camp and 18 months of specialized training for an elite Marine team. I listened to his stories of grueling hikes with little food or sleep, learning to survive gas attacks, stints in prison, mild torture, deep-sea combat, helicopter jumps, and parachute dives. Now, he’s training as a sniper.
How do I feel? I’m scared yet relieved. He’s receiving professional training to protect himself and his team, equipping him with necessary skills for today’s world. It’s tragic that such training is required, and I’m horrified that the world demands it. Still, it doesn’t guarantee his safety or the safety of other victims of violence, but it gives him and others a fighting chance.
He remains my caring son. A month ago, he called to share a story about rescuing a crab lost at the barracks, driving it back to the beach so it could return home. “Mom, it thanked me! I felt a connection with that crab!” As my cousin recently told Magnus, “I know you’re a big, tough Marine trying to keep the world safe, but to me, you’re still the sweet, kind-hearted guy who brings joy wherever you go.”
I sent Magnus a care package for his birthday, filled with pickleball gear, cliff bars, paracord, and a rifle scope cover for his upcoming sniper training. I never imagined I would be purchasing items from a company called Armageddon. I hope he does his part to prevent that last battle between good and evil. Please pray for him and all troops striving for peace. And send happy birthday wishes to my 21-year-old son in Japan.