We Are Still Walking: A Personal Reflection
“A Personal Reflection of a Mad Apache Woman “
By N.Sloan
From an early age, I understood that the world wasn’t gentle like in fairy tales or storybooks. Later in life, I would fall asleep to the echoes of gunfire from the naval weapons facility near my home. I lived beside barbed wire and military uniforms, guarded by military police in what was supposed to be the safest place possible but still, there was no certainty. War was always in the air, even if it wasn’t on our soil.
My ex-husband was an expert marksman in the Marines. Weapons, conflict, and sacrifice weren’t distant headlines to me they were my everyday reality. Part of the landscape. Normal.
Somewhere along the way, I became desensitized. Not numb but protected. Armored. Hardened to survive.
I think back now to the Marines I cared for young men and women; I supported and worked with. Now, with older eyes and a mother’s heart, I realize we were just kids. Just kids, wearing boots too heavy and expectations too high.
To the government, we were already adults. Already able-bodied Marines. Already property of the Department of Defense. And even though I’ve seen and heard so much, I still feel. I still care. I still break.
I feel grief when I see an Iranian grandmother in her scarf who reminds me of my own Apache and Navajo grandmothers. I feel rage and sorrow… when I watch the land dry up and the air grow hotter. I feel alone sometimes, carrying awareness that others have the luxury to ignore. I studied the genocide of our people in school. I’ve seen violence in history, media, and even daily life, because of that, I’ve realized, like many of us, I’ve become desensitized. Maybe you have, too. It doesn’t mean we don’t care. It means we’ve seen so much that our hearts learned to protect themselves. Even if we feel numb sometimes, we still have the power to choose action. To care in the way, we serve. To lead with compassion even when it’s hard.
You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to save the world, but you do need to try, to check on the elders, hydrate a family, educate a neighbor. That’s where our power is. So, I’m asking you, as someone who believes in us, let’s wake up a little more each day. Let’s share the load so none of us have to carry it alone. Let’s keep showing up for our community. We’re in this together. Maybe that’s what it means to,
Lead on stolen land.
The journey of survival and resilience as an Apache and Navajo woman is layered with profound challenges and rich cultural depth. The raw, unapologetic voice of a Mad Apache woman paints a vivid picture of living surrounded by military presence and the echoes of war, which shape not only personal experiences but also identity and purpose. Living adjacent to naval weapons facilities and guarded by military police is a stark reality that few endure. It means daily exposure to tension and uncertainty, reminding us that safety is often a fragile illusion. This setting, coupled with personal ties to the Marines, brings to light the nuanced reality behind headlines about conflict and sacrifice. These are not distant stories but deeply personal realities that profoundly affect the mental and emotional landscape of those involved. The sense of becoming desensitized is a protective shield—armor against the harshness of constant struggle. Yet beneath this shield lies an enduring capacity to feel and to care, which drives acts of compassion and community support. The idea that leadership on stolen land requires awakening every day to shared burdens is powerful and calls for collective resilience. This narrative also highlights the importance of cultural identity as a source of strength and healing. Recognizing the pain of historical genocide and environmental degradation, while embracing the heritage of Apache and Navajo grandmothers, illustrates a connection that transcends time. It reminds readers that grief and rage can coexist with hope and action. Community care emerges as a central theme—simple acts like checking on elders, hydrating families, and educating neighbors become meaningful ways to serve and heal. This perspective encourages readers to find power in everyday kindness and collective effort rather than waiting for perfection or grand heroics. The Mad Apache Woman’s reflection not only unpacks the complexity of lived experiences amidst conflict and cultural loss but also offers a heartfelt call to lead with compassion. It teaches us about resilience, shared humanity, and the ongoing journey of healing on land that bears the weight of history. This story is a vital contribution to conversations about identity, survival, and the strength found in communal support and gentle leadership.
