From ‘Why Not?’ to Wings: My Journey into Military Aviation (Part 1)

I didn’t always want to be a pilot.

I was never the kid that begged their parents to take them to an air show, and I didn’t dress up in a flight suit for a single childhood Halloween. In kindergarten, I distinctly remember the teacher asking us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and I responded with some iteration of “I have no idea. I’m only five.”

But both my parents were career Army officers, as were their fathers and grandfathers before them, so it wasn’t a stretch to imagine myself in the military. As I got older and opportunities became readily apparent, it was a simple matter of connecting the metaphorical dots. While in high school I fell in love with Baylor University——its gorgeous campus, its scholastic renown, its “Ivy League goes to Texas” vibes. Conveniently, the school had an ROTC program, and the Air Force offered me a sizable academic scholarship to attend, which was critical given the insane cost of private school tuition.

Baylor gave me the best of both worlds: I got to train to be an officer and simultaneously attended a “normal” college. I majored in International Studies simply because I wanted to; I joined a sorority; I lived off campus with a close girl friend who was notably not in ROTC. I was a full-time student and a part-time Air Force cadet, and I absolutely loved it.

But as graduation loomed, conversations in the ROTC detachment shifted definitively from discussing house parties to the upcoming allocation of Air Force Specialty Codes——what job each of us would have once we commissioned as Second Lieutenants. I had a cursory interest in flying and aviation but I wasn’t entirely sold on the idea; nonetheless——for lack of a compelling alternative——I applied for a pilot slot... “Just to see what happens.”

A few months later, I was at the Baylor track to complete the spring semester’s required physical training test. It was grey, drizzling, and I remember absolutely freezing my butt off; our 90s-style, Air Force issued track suits didn’t stand a chance against the Central Texas cold. After the 1.5-mile run, the other cadets and I were in our customary formation to stretch prior to dismissal, when the cadre’s Colonel called for everyone’s attention. He walked straight to me, shook my hand, passed me an old pair of his pilot wings, and announced my selection as an Air Force pilot candidate.

I think it was then——in that exact moment——that everything shifted for me. I was thrilled to have gotten the accolade, the pat on the head, and to be the only one in my class selected as a rated officer (enneagram 3, right here 🙋). I’m sure I looked like an absolute lunatic after he stepped away from me: open-mouthed grin, glazed eyes, “WTF just happened” written all over my face. But mostly, I understood, firsthand and for the first time, what succeeding as a military aviator could feel like.

It wasn’t the flying itself I was most drawn to initially, rather it was everything that went along with it. The ability to point at something concrete and say (mostly to myself), “Look at what I accomplished. I worked hard. I’m smart. I did this challenging thing, and I succeeded.” I was drawn to the discipline of it, the promise of learning and growth, the room for benevolent ambition.

Like the five-year-old version of me, I still had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. But I knew that flying for the Air Force was “big,” and I liked the idea of doing big things. At the very least, I knew it would offer a handful of memorable adventures, introduce me to interesting people, and open doors in a way few other professions could. I accepted my pilot slot wholeheartedly and was off to Florida for flight school after college graduation.

Simon Sinek talks about knowing your “why,” but, as a young college kid, I didn’t have the slightest clue as to what my “why” was.

Instead, I had more of a “why not?”

And that was as good a place to start as any.