I still remember the sounds of shattered glass and angry voices echoing through the thin walls of my childhood home. The memory feels like a dark storm cloud perpetually hovering in the back of my mind. Even as a little boy, I knew something was wrong. I sensed it in the way the adults in my life would snarl more than they would smile, in the way fists were used more often than gentle embraces. There was no talk of love, no bedtime stories, no safety. Instead, there was turbulence—sudden outbursts, the crashing of plates, the sickening thud of someone’s body hitting a wall. I was just a kid, but I learned to survive by expecting violence before it erupted. Survival became my language. Fear was my lullaby. Some kids have birthdays and holidays filled with balloons, bright candles, and kind laughter. My birthdays and holidays came and went, often forgotten or overshadowed by another barrage of chaos. Sometimes I would quietly sneak away from the house and sit on the curb, hugging my knees, watching other families do normal things—taking groceries inside, calling one another in for dinner. I’d wonder: What would it be like to live there? Safe inside that house, free from fists and fury. Daydreaming about that simple kindness became a form of escape, even if just for a few minutes at a time.   
           By the time I reached my teenage years, I was convinced I’d never amount to anything. The messages around me told me so; teachers called me “troubled,” neighbors crossed the street when they saw me coming, and I carried the stigma of being that kid from that house. I developed a hardened exterior because it was easier to let people assume I was tough than to let them see how wounded and afraid I really was. It wasn’t that I sought out trouble, but trouble always seemed to find me. My self-worth was in tatters, and sometimes I believed all I deserved was a future behind bars. It felt like prison was the only predictable outcome for someone with my history. Yet there was this small, persistent spark within me—some might call it pride, and others might call it sheer stubbornness. I didn’t want to be like the men who’d beaten me down, whether they were relatives, neighbors, or the shadows that lurked in my nightmares. I wanted a reason to live that didn’t revolve around hate or fear. That stubborn spark eventually guided me to the military recruiter’s office. If I couldn’t escape my violent environment at home, at least maybe I could harness my anger and turn it into discipline. Maybe I could find a sense of honor, of belonging. Maybe I could finally be part of something bigger. Stepping off the bus at basic training felt like entering a different world. It was loud and disorienting, but it was also strangely thrilling. I’d never had a consistent authority figure before—someone who would p