By: Vertalya (Vee) Reddick

In the military, at every rank, we are constantly taught how to identify indicators in our wingmen or troops if someone is not acting like themselves, withdrawing, or showing signs they may be in a dark place. One of the biggest indicators is isolation. But how many of us Airmen can recognize when we ourselves start isolating, withdrawing, or going down a dark path?

After 16 and a half years in the Air Force, I can honestly say I threw every training and tool I had out the window. When it comes to yourself, and you are going through a traumatic event, everything starts to spiral.

In July 2025, I was diagnosed with stage 4 mucoepidermoid carcinoma in my parotid gland on the left side of my face. When I received the diagnosis, I was numb. I could not believe I had cancer. My mind immediately started scrambling because I only had about three weeks to prepare for the biggest surgery of my life.

At first, I tried to be strong. I wanted my family to believe I was not scared or worried. I prepared the only way I knew how: like a deployment checklist.

“Run your checklist, Vee,” is what I kept telling myself.

It was almost like I put on all my heavy military gear and hit the ground running. In military terms, that usually means you land and immediately get to work.

I tried coordinating appointments and referrals between four doctors’ offices, two hospitals, and my military Primary Care Manager (PCM) while still trying to work because I had not told my team what was happening. At the same time, I was trying to coordinate for my family to be by my side during surgery and treatment.

To say it was chaotic would be an understatement. Honestly, me “hitting the ground running” felt more like hitting the ground and falling flat on my face. I started missing appointments. I started forgetting work tasks. I became overwhelmed, frustrated, and mentally exhausted. Doctors were calling me, asking questions that needed to be answered by my military PCM, but it was difficult getting in contact with anyone. Everything started piling on top of me all at once.

That was when I finally asked my PCM for help, who introduced me to the Air Force Wounded Warrior Program (AFW2). I was also introduced to my Recovery Care Coordinator, Don, and my medical case manager, Shariti.

Don sat me down and explained what the AFW2 program was. At its core, it is a program designed to support seriously wounded, ill, or injured military members by providing resources and helping guide them through recovery and, when possible, returning them to duty.

Don became my rock. He kept me grounded. We sat down together and built a road-to-recovery plan. We had difficult conversations about wills, finances, and the reality of what could happen, all while still trying not to lose hope. He also asked about my caregiver, my mom, and whether she needed resources too. She did.

That meant everything to me. Knowing someone was thinking about her and making sure she was supported lifted a weight off my chest that I did not even realize I was carrying.

Shariti took over coordinating my medical appointments and referrals. She told me not to worry about the medical documentation because she had it handled. All she needed me to do was keep her updated if anything changed or if I needed something I was not receiving.

Having Don and Shariti in my corner brought a sense of relief I struggle to fully describe. The closest comparison I can make is hearing the words “ENDEX, ENDEX, ENDEX” during a summer military exercise and finally being able to take off all your gear.

If you have ever been in a summer exercise, then you know exactly the feeling I am talking about—that sudden release of pressure, the weight lifting off your chest and shoulders, and finally being able to breathe again.

In August 2025, I underwent surgery to remove the tumor. Fortunately, the doctors were able to remove all of the cancer. Unfortunately, the tumor had wrapped around my facial nerve, and the surgeons had to sacrifice the nerve to remove the tumor completely.

As a result, I was left with permanent facial paralysis on the left side of my face. I can no longer make facial expressions on that side or show emotion the way I used to. I could not close my eye, which later required another surgery to partially correct. I also endured hearing loss, constant ringing in my left ear, and other side effects.

You would think my natural response would be to worry about my appearance, but my immediate concern was my career. Instantly, I knew my side effects could make me non-deployable, which normally drives the process to start a Medical Evaluation Board (MEB) to determine if someone is still fit for duty.

At that moment, I felt like I already knew the answer. I instantly went to the worst-case scenario. I was going to be medically separated. That possibility hit me hard because retirement was finally within reach. The anxiety started building immediately.

I expressed my concerns to Don, and he recommended I enroll in the AFW2 mentor program, where I would be connected with someone who had gone through something similar. Maybe not my exact condition, but someone who could understand where I was coming from.

I connected with my mentor, and she was a breath of fresh air. She shared her experiences with treatment as a cancer survivor herself. I texted her throughout my surgery recovery, and it felt comforting to talk to someone who had walked a similar path.

In September 2025, I started radiation treatments—seven and a half weeks, Monday through Friday, at the University of Pennsylvania Medicine (Penn Med). Penn Med became my safe space. It became the one place where I always felt protected.

The staff felt like home. They celebrated my good days and understood my bad ones. Then, almost two weeks into treatment, I received the worst email I could have read. The Air Force was going to start the preliminary process for an MEB. My heart sank. My stomach twisted into knots. I could not believe they would start the process while I was still actively in treatment.

I remember feeling angry. I remember yelling, “How could they do this to me?” and “Why now?”

I felt defeated. To me, it felt like they had already decided I would never make it through this on top. Sixteen and a half years. Five deployments. All the sacrifices.

And then BOOM.

I felt like I was no longer a person—just a number that was no longer useful. That was honestly how I felt. I immediately texted Don and expressed my frustration, but he reassured me that this was part of the process.

But I kept asking myself: Why does the process have to start now?

I texted my mentor, and she told me the same thing. “Don’t worry about that right now. Focus on finishing treatment.” Even my mom asked me if I still wanted to stay in the military after everything I had gone through.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, I do,” I told her. 

“At least give me the chance to try.”

But despite what I told everyone else, anger slowly started consuming me. I began shutting people out. I shut out Don. I shut out my mentor. Even my mom and other family members. I isolated myself and went into survival mode.

Survival to beat cancer. Survival to prove I could still wear the uniform.

I became focused on only two things: Ringing that bell. And putting the uniform back on.

I rang the bell in November 2025. I remember ringing it over and over with energy. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Other patients cheered. My mom cheered. I yelled out, “We did it!”

I threw my arms in the air like Rocky running up the stairs. Then it was time to say goodbye to my safe space. As grateful as I was for Penn Med and everyone there, I never wanted to see any of them again in that capacity.

Then reality hit. For the first time, I truly noticed how the world reacted to my new face. During treatment, the outside world had felt blurry because I was so focused on surviving.

But now the stares started. People would stare at my face. Some people struggled to make eye contact while talking to me. Others would smile at me, but when I tried to smile back, and only half my face responded, their expressions changed instantly. At least to me, it felt like disgust.

I started walking with my head down. I wore hoodies and hats to hide my face. I slowly started losing confidence in myself. To protect myself emotionally, I stopped wanting to leave the house. If I did leave, I wanted someone from my family by my side because I felt safer that way.

I stopped wanting visitors. Close friends wanted to come see me, but I always said no. For nearly two months, I barely left my house. I became depressed. My anxiety worsened.

I felt lonely, but not lonely in the sense of being physically alone. I felt lonely because nobody around me truly understood what I was going through.  Self-doubt started creeping in. 

That second goal I wanted so badly—putting the uniform back on—became something I no longer wanted. I reached a point where I no longer wanted to stay in the military at all and even contemplated asking not to be retained in the Air Force. I went into a dark space where I did not recognize myself. Eating my favorite food or watching my favorite basketball team suddenly felt meaningless.

Everything just felt... blah.

I remember talking to Shariti during one of our regular check-ins and finally explaining how I was really feeling. She recommended I see a mental health professional and submitted a referral for me.

In January 2026, it was time for me to slowly transition back to work. Mentally, I was nowhere near ready. It almost felt like Don sensed exactly what I was going through because he asked if I wanted to attend an AFW2 CARE event where I would be surrounded by other seriously wounded, ill, or injured military members.

He told me it would be a good opportunity to connect with people who understood.

Honestly? I did not want to go. 

I did not want to be around a large group of people. But Don convinced me to at least sign up to secure a spot and reminded me I could always cancel later. The week before the trip, I even developed an ear infection that caused imbalance issues and slight tremors. I thought maybe that would finally give me an excuse not to go. Of course, Don encouraged me to ask my doctors if I was still cleared to travel. Of course, they said yes. They all believed it would be good for me. So before I knew it, I was on a flight to San Antonio.

I never would have imagined that one event could completely change my outlook on life. At the event, I participated in adaptive sports like wheelchair basketball, wheelchair rugby, cycling, archery, rowing, and several other activities. This was the first time I had worked out since my surgery in August. I was rusty. But I had so much fun. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a kid again. I also started realizing that I was still capable of doing hard physical things.

Even though the sports were fun, they were not the reason I fell in love with AFW2. It was the connections. It was being around other people with visible and invisible wounds who understood exactly how I felt. It was the bus rides between events where we shared our stories. It was shedding tears because we finally found people who understood the emotions that come with traumatic experiences.

People who understand what it feels like to always try to be strong for their family because they do not want to disappoint them. People who understand the fear that creeps in every time you discover a new bump or pain and immediately wonder if the cancer is back.

People who reminded one another to give ourselves grace. To allow ourselves time to grieve. Most importantly, I started learning how to recognize the new version of myself. After going through a traumatic event, you lose a part of yourself. The old version of you. And for a long time, you spend your energy searching for that old person again. But recognizing and learning the new you is where healing truly begins.

If you or someone you know is seriously wounded, ill, or injured, please consider reaching out to your branch’s Wounded Warrior Program or support services listed below. Speaking with a Recovery Care or Resident Coordinator can help you determine whether the program is right for you and connect you with additional resources tailored to your needs. You do not have to navigate recovery alone. Here are some other resources:

• Air Force Wounded Warrior Program (AFW2) – www.woundedwarrior.af.mil
• Army Recovery Care Program (ARCP) – www.arcp.army.mil
• Navy Wounded Warrior – www.navywoundedwarrior.com
• Marine Corps Wounded Warrior Regiment – www.woundedwarrior.marines.mil
• SOCOM Care Coalition – www.socom.mil/care-coalition/
• Military OneSource – www.militaryonesource.mil