He did not ask if I was sure. He did not ask if I knew it could be dangerous. He did not ask whether my parents approved. He simply asked why. It was one of the most respectful questions anyone had ever asked me.
“Because if I’m going to do something hard, I want it to mean something.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded.
“Good reason. A lot of people choose hard things because they mistake pain for purpose. Don’t run from something. Run toward something.”
I carried those words through boot camp. I carried them through every hard thing after.
When I came home on leave for the first time, Grandpa was waiting on his porch. He looked at me in uniform, took in my haircut, my posture, the way training had sharpened me, and asked the only question that actually mattered.
“How are your feet?”
I laughed because it was the most accurate question anyone could have asked.
“Terrible.”
“Good. Means you used them.”
