Military Sexual Trauma — I Was Told to Get Over It
Guest Post: Rhea Nocturne shares the experience of being a woman in the Air Force.
In this guest post, a former Airman shares how years of ignored warnings, harassment, and retaliation broke her spirit long before she ever left the service. Her story exposes how leadership weaponized indifference and called it discipline.
To some, it may come as a surprise, but I didn’t join the military out of patriotic duty. Like many others, I joined to escape — from hardship, from abuse — and to use it as a stepping stone toward a better life.
To my dismay, I was thrown into another cycle of abuse — this time at the hands of multiple people, within a system that too often protects the wrong ones.
I entered the military like everyone else: greeted by the yelling of MTIs. But I wasn’t fazed. My father had been a wannabe MTI himself, so to me, it felt like just another game of survival. During that time, I discovered something genuine: a sense of sisterhood. We were determined to prove — not just to leadership but to ourselves — that we were more than capable. The female MTIs were by far the toughest, and we had to be tougher. We had to outperform the men in every aspect.
I was even told by some of my fellow Airmen that I came across as “intimidating.” I took that as a compliment — a reflection of the discipline and strength BMT instilled in me.
At my first duty station, I met some incredible people who I still consider family to this day. But I also came face-to-face with the darker realities of military culture. And while I now understand the importance of holding on to the good, I can’t deny the damage the bad left behind.
When Harassment Became Normal
There was a male airman on our dorm floor who would stand at his door and watch every time a woman walked by. The moment he heard female voices — or even heels — he would run to his peephole, then crack his door open to stare. It was unsettling. A reminder that, even in uniform, we weren’t safe from predatory behavior.
Another time, a male roommate — a friend of my boyfriend at the time — slashed my tires on multiple occasions. I reported it to leadership, but was told that because it happened off-base, there was nothing they could do. It wasn’t until the third incident — which included slashing my boyfriend’s tires — that they finally stepped in. Even then, they did the bare minimum: he was ordered to pay restitution and attend anger management.
Years later, that same man was arrested for stealing from a commander’s office. This was after already being caught breaking into the BX while deployed and mailing stolen Xboxes home. And yet, he was allowed to continue his career far longer than he ever should have.
I once had an airfield manager tell me point-blank that women shouldn’t be allowed to deploy. His reasoning? That when women “hang out” with men downrange, it sends the wrong message, and it’s the men who get in trouble. He even told me about his own situation — claiming he was wrongly accused and that it was the woman’s fault for being around him.
Not long after that, I was sent on a last-minute deployment. To say I was scared would be an understatement.
The conditions were harsh — hot, chaotic, and foul-smelling. During the in-brief, the women were pulled aside and told to walk in groups due to a rise in sexual assaults. We were warned that many of the men on base had just returned from traumatic areas and “weren’t right in the head.” The message was clear: for our safety, stay together. Don’t walk alone.
That was the military’s version of protection — placing the responsibility on women to prevent being assaulted, instead of addressing the problem at its source.
Later during that deployment, my new airfield manager — a good man — informed me that he had to request special permission from the Qatari airfield leadership for me to be there. They approved it, but under strict guidelines: I could attend inspections, but only if I sat in the back, didn’t drive, and avoided eye contact or conversation with them.
One moment sticks with me. The Qatari team came by to ask for a radio. I placed it on the counter in front of them, and one of the men looked at me with disgust — as if to say, “How dare you?” He then turned to my male coworker, who picked up the radio and handed it to him directly. Only then did the man accept it.
“I didn’t speak up — out of fear that I would be dismissed, mocked, or labeled dramatic.”
I trusted my airfield manager, but there was nothing he could do to stop how I was being treated. And I didn’t speak up — out of fear that I would be dismissed, mocked, or labeled dramatic.
Two men from the weather unit were also openly hostile. One told me he wanted to “hypnotize” me — a comment that deeply unsettled me, and asked on more than one occasion. The other would interrupt me in casual conversations and say loudly, “Did I ask you? No. Go make me a sandwich.” It was a very isolating six months. I fell into depression.
Retaliation in Uniform
My next duty station at the Air Force Academy made the previous two feel like a cakewalk. Both supervisors wrote me up multiple times — for not smiling. One even introduced me to the acronym HALT: “When you come into work, ask yourself — are you Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired?”
And yes — I was angry. And rightfully so.
Still, I tried to push through. I knew my value. I was a 5-star Airman. My performance, my awards, my record — all of it reflected someone committed to service. If I had the right leadership, I could’ve stayed the full 20 and made Chief. I know that in my heart.
But I didn’t have the right leadership. I had people who broke me down.
At the Air Force Academy, it got worse. I don’t speak to anyone from that shop now — maybe one or two. I can’t even drive by the airfield or the South Gate without a pit forming in my stomach.
At one point, I disclosed to leadership that I was receiving mental health support. I wasn’t ready to share the full story, but I needed space. Instead of support, I was met with anger. My first airfield manager at USAFA took it personally, accused me of not trusting him, verbally berated me, and even threw a pen across the room during the conversation.
Later, I was marked non-deployable due to a dog attack. A male coworker had to deploy in my place. He lashed out at me — publicly — yelling in front of the entire office. He made the workplace hostile and unsafe.
I raised concerns, but leadership told me to “let him feel his feelings” and to “stay out of his way.”
Pin it: A story of betrayal, survival, and finding strength after Military Sexual Trauma
This same man had access to my home address through the recall roster. I lived in fear he might show up — especially because he had previously been arrested for physically assaulting a woman, charges that were only dropped because the victim couldn’t remember the night. One of my male coworkers even expressed concern for my safety in private, telling me he was worried about the level of anger this man showed, and continued to show, toward me.
When a new airfield manager took over, he ignored everything and told us to “just get over it.” He forced me to work shifts alone with the same man I feared. He disregarded my safety completely. This hostility lasted for about a year. Meanwhile, after coming back from the deployment, that same man was awarded a medal for “sacrificing” to go in my place — and then received orders to England as a reward.
That same airfield manager even questioned why the women in our unit — including young female Airmen and a civilian — were hesitant to enter the fire department at our auxiliary airfield alone. That airfield was isolated — over an hour away from our main unit, with spotty cell service and bullet holes in the stop sign at the entrance. It didn’t feel safe. The women explained that walking into that building — a space clearly designed for and occupied by men — felt more like entering someone’s private dorm room than a shared workspace. But instead of listening or trying to understand, he brushed it off, saying, “Well, you just need to get over whatever you need to get over.”
That moment broke me — not because of what it meant for me, but because I knew firsthand what it feels like when a man in a leadership position dismisses a woman’s concerns about safety. I remembered what it did to me the first time it happened as a young Airman. I couldn’t stand by and watch my young female Airmen go through the same thing. So, I sent him an email — not to accuse anyone — but to explain why women take precautions in isolated environments. It wasn’t about blame. It was about awareness.
Later that night, I found out he’d read my email aloud, laughed, tore it up, and said, “I don’t care.” A week passed before I had to address him, because he would not address it himself. When I finally brought it up, he said, “Thanks for your contribution, but it’s not enough for me to fight for our own space out there.” He asked if anything had happened, and I said no. He replied, “You’re wrong for making assumptions about two men in the fire department.”
I was told about his behavior after the email by my young female troop, a month later. I reacted. I went to my mental health counselor and demanded to be removed from the office. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had reached my breaking point.
My commander got involved. The airfield manager was ordered to complete a month of Sexual Assault Awareness training. He requested to apologize to me, and I agreed — on the condition that my commander attend the meeting.
Good thing he did. There was no apology. Instead, the airfield manager used that moment to berate me again — in front of our commander. When the meeting ended, my commander apologized to me privately, out in the hallway.
But that was never the point.
The point is that women in uniform are forced to live in a constant state of risk assessment. Because when something does happen, we’re blamed. We’re doubted. We’re told to get over it.
And this doesn’t even begin to cover the sexual assaults and harassment I endured — experiences I never reported, because I saw how leadership had handled everything else.
My Breaking Point
After six months of retaliation from that airfield manager for standing up — and maybe I didn’t react in the “perfect” way — I broke. I had spent years trying to keep it together in a system that refused to protect or believe me.
That summer, I voluntarily admitted myself to outpatient treatment at a local mental health hospital. I needed help. I wanted to be better. I started trauma-focused therapy for MST, and I started writing Bootstrap Girl. Because writing it down was the only way I could begin to speak.
When I returned to work, the shop had moved on without me. Even the women I had tried to advocate for now avoided me and even talked openly about their disgust for me.
And all of this — everything I’ve shared — still doesn’t include the three sexual assaults I survived while in uniform.
How I Found My Voice
I don’t share this story for sympathy. I share it because there are countless others like me — still in the military, still in silence. I found my voice through writing. Bootstrap Girl became my outlet, my healing, and my way of reclaiming what was taken from me. I’m no longer afraid to be honest about what happened. If my story helps even one person feel less alone or more empowered to speak — then it was worth every word.
© 2025 Rhea Nocturne. Bootstrap Girl and all related content are part of an original work in progress. All rights reserved. This piece was written under the pen name Rhea Nocturne to protect the author’s privacy. The copyright is held under the author's legal name.