His breath carried a mix of stale mint and bile, hovering so close that I could see every bead of sweat glistening on his sun-kissed face. They cascaded down the contours of his sharp jawline, like a steamy, salty waterslide. Each stubble of his day-old beard was distinct, and I noticed the milky brown lines in his eyes radiating from his pupils, reminiscent of a Mayan sun. Behind him, the Kentucky sun, though less brilliant, still radiated heat as it sank hazily toward the horizon.

It was that time of evening when everything glimmered with a rusty sheen, where a hint of brass kissed every hue. Drill Sergeant Peterson's shadow loomed far behind him, a dark silhouette against the cracked pavement of Fort Knox. He bent down to my level, his lips pursed and trembling, staring into my terrified eyes as if searching for something within my soul.

“Boese!” he spat. My gaze remained fixed on the chaotic sun setting just above his left ear. “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” I replied, mustering all my strength. He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching mine, and with a fierce intensity, he whispered, “Are you really… going to let them…” gesturing at the ragtag group of my fellow cadets waiting behind us, “…walk all over you like that?” My heart sank; this was not the response I had anticipated. I was at a loss for words. Drill Sergeant Peterson, who had spent weeks trying to break us, had finally struck a nerve.

As the overwhelming fear of the Drill Sergeants began to ease (okay, it never fully did, but it did become somewhat more manageable), I soon found their antics amusing, though I would have never admitted it. I began to see them as individuals, mentors even, and I respected them in a way I had never experienced before.

This realization hit hard when Drill Sergeant Peterson criticized me for my inability to assert myself as a female leader among a platoon that had only three other women. I felt as though I had disappointed a parent, failing to meet the expectations of a role model. Yet, the person I truly wanted to impress was not him, but myself.

This became the most valuable lesson I gleaned from the most significant six weeks of my life. It was this lesson that transformed me into a leader.

Let’s rewind a bit.

I began my Basic Training in the summer of 2017, knowing next to nothing about the Army or military life. If you think you’re not well-versed, trust me when I say I was even less informed. It was a total leap into the unknown.

People often ask me why I chose this path. Joining the Army is quite rare, especially for women, and I had never shown any previous interest in the military. I couldn't even finish American Sniper due to its violence. Yet, a persistent voice within me hinted at a deeper purpose, something unique I could contribute to the world. I felt a strong urge to push beyond my perceived limits, both physically and mentally, and I suspected that joining the military was the way to unlock this potential. When I finally committed, the decision felt entirely right, as if the universe had been guiding me all along.

And off I went, a real-life “Private Benjamin.”

Our barracks had four floors: the bottom three for men and the top for women, and there were barely enough of us to fill the entire floor. From the outset, I was a lonely minority, a bewildered woman surrounded by the country’s most rugged men. These were not just any men; they had dreamed of this from childhood, coming from military families, and often participated in war games. I felt like an outsider, unsure of how they perceived me.

My platoon consisted of thirty cadets, with only four of us being female. I cannot adequately express the bond I developed with my platoon members. In just six weeks, thirty strangers became my closest friends, sharing grueling, life-altering experiences daily. These connections are rare and unforgettable.

However, despite my affection for them, the males in my platoon collectively exhibited a power dynamic that marginalized the four of us when it came to decision-making, leadership roles, and being heard. Our attempts to lead were often dismissed before they even began. We were women in an environment that historically disregarded our presence, and this treatment reflected that reality. We were overshadowed by centuries of sexism and stereotypes, and I admit I was comfortable in this passive role, overwhelmed by the whole experience. I believed I could work on my leadership skills later, once I acclimated to Army life.

But Drill Sergeant Peterson had different ideas.

“Boese!” he yelled one morning at 4:30 AM during Week Five, as we lined up outside our barracks in the fog. It was a surreal scene, with the lilac and orange sky contrasting the dark, dew-laden grass.

“Boese!” he called again in a mocking tone, as if calling for a stray dog. Someone behind me teased, “What did you do?” The same question echoed in my mind. “Shut up,” I shot back, feigning nonchalance. My stomach knotted as I wished to vanish into the Kentucky dawn.

“Front leaning rest position!” he commanded as he approached. We dropped into pushup position, but instead of counting, he called me to the front and announced that I would be the Platoon Leader for the week. He was frustrated that a female had yet to take on this role and declared it unacceptable. He released us from our positions and walked away, leaving me stunned in front of a group of capable, strong, and opinionated men.

I stumbled through those first days. Everything felt chaotic. I trembled with nerves while giving orders. My lack of confidence was palpable, and the guys quickly picked up on it, undermining my authority. No one took me seriously; they were unwilling to listen to a girl, especially one who didn’t see herself as a leader.

I doubted my decisions and often second-guessed myself, relying on the more assertive men in the front row for guidance. When they realized they could influence decisions, the platoon devolved into a chaotic mix of conflicting suggestions—none of which came from me. The dominant personalities began to form their own followings, prompting me to retreat even further.

As the days dragged on, I began to feel more at ease in my role, yet I grew increasingly frustrated that no one was willing to listen. The perception of me as a weak female leader was entrenched from day one, and I struggled to alter that image. The more I let others dictate actions, the more I relinquished my power. I had unwittingly become a follower in a leader's position.

I made several attempts to address the situation, but they quickly turned into jokes among us, even on my part. At night, as I lay on my bunk in the barracks, I held back tears of frustration and embarrassment. I had never felt so incapable.

Fast forward to Drill Sergeant Peterson, who had been watching my struggle all week. He bent down to meet my eyes, intimidating me on an unbelievable level, and spoke softly yet powerfully.

“Are you really going to let them walk all over you like that?”

I understood he meant the male cadets who refused to acknowledge me as an authority figure. The same guys who made immature jokes and displayed a strong sense of bravado. His words implied he believed in my capability to rise to their level. He saw that they were no better than me, and he recognized that I had yet to realize my own worth. Thirteen simple words unlocked the confidence I had been desperately seeking.

“No, Drill Sergeant,” I replied, blinking back tears of shame. I would no longer allow them to overshadow me. I understood I had to work twice as hard to prove myself, and that unfair reality awakened me to the incredible strength of female ambition.

I walked back to my platoon, and the questions began immediately: “What did he say?” “What did Drill Sergeant want?” “What happened, Boese?” I called them to attention and surprised myself with my declaration: “Drill Sergeant Peterson made me Platoon Leader for a reason. From now on, no suggestions. I can make my own decisions, just like you did with previous leaders.”

For once, silence reigned. “We’re here to learn how to be leaders, and you are not letting me do that. I love you guys, but this ends now.”

Of course, this didn’t magically transform the situation. As soon as I finished speaking, snickers and jokes resumed. But it became clear that it was no longer about them; it was about how I carried myself. I realized I had choices. I didn’t have to heed their input. I was their superior as long as I was Platoon Leader.

From that moment, I adopted a facade of confidence, and others began to take notice. I issued clear orders and stopped doubting myself. Even if my commands were initially ignored, I persisted. I ignored those who felt the need to interject, and gradually, they ceased trying to influence me.

Ultimately, I stopped surrendering my power to fear and doubt. I realized I had possessed the skill all along; I just had to believe in myself. I did not instantly become a great leader, but for the first time in my life, I was indeed a leader. That realization remained paramount.

Thanks to Drill Sergeant Peterson, I discovered my true potential that fateful evening in Fort Knox, a place I never imagined I would find myself. This newfound understanding has helped me overcome every challenge and insecurity since. I proved to myself that I could lead in even the most challenging circumstances, and I have embraced that identity ever since—because a leader must first believe in themselves. The rest is history.