The army became my new family. Ironic, considering how badly the last one had worked out.
I served 4 years, did a tour in Afghanistan, got promoted to specialist.
The structure helped. Following orders meant I didn’t have to make decisions. Being surrounded by people who knew nothing about my past meant I could reinvent myself.
I deployed to Afghanistan when I was 20.
Our unit was at a forward operating base in Kandahar, running convoy security. The first time I came under fire, I thought I’d freeze.
All that anger and pain, I thought it would paralyze me.
But the opposite happened.
Years of being helpless, of having my life torn apart with no way to fight back, had created this reservoir of controlled focus.
When the bullet started flying, I went cold and calm.
My squad leader, Staff Sergeant Williams, noticed.
“Chun, you’re steady under pressure. Good trait to have out here.”
I made friends in Afghanistan. Real friends, maybe for the first time.
Rodriguez, a wiry kid from Texas. Park, quiet, from Seattle, joined for the same reason I did. Nowhere else to go. Jenkins, built like a truck, a college football player whose injury sent him to the army.
We trusted each other in a way I didn’t know was possible.
When your life depends on the person next to you, falls away.
Nobody cared about my past because everyone out there was running from something or towards something. We were all just trying to survive.
One night, pulling guard duty with Rodriguez. 200 a.m. Cold as hell. Distant orders.
“You ever talk to your family?” he asked.
“Don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got somebody.”
“Not me.”
He didn’t push. After a while, he said, “This is my family now. You guys.”
My chest cracked a little.
“Yeah, guess so.”
We lost Jenkins 8 months into the deployment. IED on a supply route.
One second, he was there, cracking jokes about his mom’s care package. The next, gone.
Just like that.
I carried his body to the medevac helicopter. His blood soaked through my uniform.
At the memorial service, I couldn’t cry. Just this dull throb where emotions should have been.
Park found me later.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. None of us are fine.”
“What’s the point?” I said. “What’s the point of caring about anyone when they just leave or turn on you or die?”
“The point,” Park said slowly, “is that Jenkins died knowing we had his back, knowing he mattered to us. That’s more than a lot of people get.”
Maybe he was right.
Maybe not.
Afghanistan changed me. It reinforced what I’d learned at 17.
Life is fragile. People you trust can disappear. And the only person you can truly rely on is yourself.
After my service, I used my GI bill to go to Georgia State. Information technology.
Discovered I had a knack for coding.
I worked my ass off. Graduated with honors. Landed a tech job in Atlanta.
By 26, I was doing okay.
Not great, but okay. Decent apartment, stable job, casual friends.
Didn’t date much.
Trust issues. Go figure.
But I was surviving, which was more than I’d expected years earlier.