War changes people, my Marines always said. Having spent much of 2004 in western Iraq —a Navy clinical psychologist with a Marine surgical company —I am living proof. I am changed. A piece of me is injured. But another part is now more patient, more empathic, more flexible—and more thankful. Choosing to focus on growth that emerges out of trauma is therapy in itself.

Twelve years after my war, I’ve learned that combat shifted my perspective across facets of my life that still affect me today. As a psychologist , I am more tolerant now of silence during a session. I am also more likely now to actually touch a patient if the situation warrants it. As a mother, I am now capable of watching my children’s sporting events with gratitude, feeling thankful not just for their success and growth, but also (most of the time) for the little mental errors, missed serves, and strikeouts. I struggle not to judge those parents whose frustration with their children’s imperfection is obvious at these games. After all, these people have not lived what I have lived. They have clearly not held the hand of a dying Marine, who used to be a baseball star—and whose mother would give anything to see him strike out, just one more time.

Finally, as a San Diegan, I am infinitely more likely now to laugh at people who think 85 °F is hot. My story picks up there—on a summer day in Iraq, much warmer than 85. The day on which I learned what it means to be a combat psychologist .

The husband of one of our corpsmen sent an old wall thermometer —the kind you see at an outdoor pool. We hung it outside the front hatch at our barracks, for entertainment more than anything. By the middle of August, it had pegged at 132 °F every day for weeks. We identified a tiny window of opportunity to meet up in the morning—while the thermostat needle hovered only in the low 100’s—and briskly walk that three quarters of a mile to the gym. And it was really early. Depending on who had been on duty the night before, a rotating group of us communicated by flashlight signal across the small field that separated the male and female barracks. That friendly flicker of light indicated that our partners were waiting. Together we would race-walk to that old warehouse, filled with older workout equipment that reeked of sweaty men, where we found the drug to which we had become genuinely addicted during deployment: aerobic exercise . At an intense enough level, it magically numbed our pain, flushed our fear, and uncluttered our minds for the day ahead.

This particular August morning was already stifling when I woke at 0440, laced up running shoes, and navigated the passageway by the blue lens flashlight that hung from my dog tags. I saw the blue flash across the field, and jogged across to meet up with Bill, one of our PAs. The predawn air hung heavy and hot in the aftermath of a sandstorm that had howled and screamed like some sort of rabid animal the night before. Before we left, I allowed myself a brief glance at that wall thermometer—108.

Bill and I focused on the ground in front of our flashlights, carefully avoiding the large potholes that littered the path to the gym, the earth literally ripped apart by incoming rockets and mortars. We had been in Iraq five months. Our small group of cherished friends, which had become my lifeline, counted down the days with big red X’s on a wall calendar, and rationed our twice weekly screenings of one episode of THE SOPRANOS . Meticulous planning early on ensured we would watch the season finale the week before we left for home. Home. Such a faraway, foreign place now—not just from this endless tan landscape, surreal sandstorms and brutal casualties of war—but from somewhere deep within me as well.

Feeling energized and renewed after working out, I returned to our barracks showers. I stood under the lame, icy trickle to wash my hair, thankful for running water. There was no makeup in Iraq. I looked the same every day. The good news was twofold: no one cared, and my short hair dried instantaneously upon emerging into the blast furnace we called outside. No need for a hair dryer. Not that I had one—nor that there was functioning electricity most of the time to plug one in even if I did.

After morning rounds with the surgical company staff, I met up with Jason, my partner and our psychiatrist. We walked to breakfast as we did every morning. Along our walk, on which no one ever joined us, we provided each other with supervision, consultation, and the chance to move the stories of trauma, fear and loss we heard from our patients all day, out of our own hearts and into the blast furnace between us. We ate powdered eggs and pancakes most days, sitting alone to debrief. Once in a while, fresh eggs would be hard boiled. Sometimes, the shells came off perfectly in one smooth, rolling piece, leaving an unblemished egg white beneath it. Those were good egg days. Jason and I still wish each other good egg days, 12 years later.

The shell on my hard-boiled egg that morning shattered under my thumbs into countless tiny pieces that embedded in the egg white itself, impossible to free. The egg became littered with tiny shards of shell. I should have known. I moved on to pancakes.

Clinic that morning was a carbon copy of every day in Iraq. Jason and I returned from breakfast and we were briefed on the schedule by our terrific psych techs, who ran our combat stress platoon with skill and professionalism. My first three patients were follow-ups, which was unusual—and a good sign. With the extraordinary operational tempo experienced by most of the units on the base, very few had the luxury of time for maintenance visits to combat stress . And then, before we would break for a delicious lunch of Meals-Ready-To-Eat, Corporal Miller arrived at my door.