In my final semester of college, I realized for the first time that I did not know what I wanted out of my future. My life up to that point had been determined by the expectations of others, but I decided shortly after graduation that I was going to make a choice that was completely my own. To the shock of my friends and family, I decided to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, which pulled me in by promising a lifestyle entirely unlike my time as a finance student: a constant striving toward service with honor. Whereas other branches’ recruiters promised enlistment bonuses and perks, my Marine recruiter proffered only one incentive: the opportunity to earn the title of United States Marine.

I originally signed up to become a part of the infantry, believing it would provide me the sense of purpose of which I had long been deprived. When, at boot camp, I met my fellow recruits, it dawned on me that nearly all of us had enlisted for the same reason: we were lost in life and had something—though we knew not what—to prove. For the first time, I found myself among comrades. At all hours, we lived under the constant haranguing of our drill instructors, whose mantra was “scream loud and move fast.” The orchestrated chaos of boot camp took its toll on people. In the final weeks, when a shoulder injury I’d sustained weeks earlier worsened, I was dropped back about a month in training as people who had become my brothers and sisters went on to complete boot camp. Insult compounded injury as I lost my infantry contract; my future job was going to be whatever the Marine Corps wanted it to be.

I was devastated, again entirely uncertain about what my future would hold. However, as my training resumed its unrelenting pace, I redoubled my pursuit of purpose, subordinating my self-doubt to the orders of my drill instructors. After three grueling months, I earned the title of United States Marine, soon learning that I was to become a Legal Services Support Specialist. I felt optimistic, as I had developed an intellectual interest in law by studying political theory. I began in legal assistance. As my work ranged from helping a young Marine who had been scammed by a local car dealership to ensuring the legal security of a widow’s estate, I came to appreciate how the law touched diverse aspects of people’s lives. But when my time in legal assistance ended, I was told that I would be moving to the Trial Services Office (the prosecution office, TSO). I was revulsed. I viewed Marine prosecutors with distaste; tasked with judicially cannibalizing their brothers and sisters, they were Marines only in name.

One of the first cases I worked revolved around a person accused of possessing and distributing Child Sexual Assault Material (CSAM, i.e., child pornography). In part, my responsibilities involved reading over and organizing the evidence, which included logs of the accused’s online chats. One thread in particular nauseated me: the accused had messaged another account that he hoped his pregnant girlfriend would have a baby girl, as he could then sexually abuse her. Before the guilty-plea hearing (the “guilty dive”), I felt—for the first time in a long time—visceral rage. Nonetheless, as the guilty dive commenced, I was momentarily disarmed by the accused’s attire: he was wearing neatly pressed Service Charlies. I had the same khaki shirt and green trousers in my closet. He had gone through many of the same trying and meaningful experiences I had. Despite my disgust, I could not help but feel a measure of sympathy for this Marine. I learned during sentencing that he had come to the Corps from a broken home, hoping to better his family’s life. Like me, he had joined because he was lost and had something to prove.

After the guilty dive, when the Marine was sentenced, I sat numbly at my workstation, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile my overwhelming angst with the modicum of sympathy I felt. However, a discussion I had with my boss in the TSO helped me contextualize the contradictions I was feeling. Contravening the heavy-handed prosecutor who had preceded him, he argued that the role of the prosecutor is not to mindlessly seek convictions but to effect justice. Through our conversation, I came to understand a prosecutor’s duty as guided by a humane disposition—one that demands empathy for the accused—and to see that the diametrical forces of empathy and outrage could work in tandem.

Realizing that the sense of solemn purpose imbued in me by the cases I worked was what I had searched for since college, I now harbor the ultimate goal of becoming a prosecutor. Within my office, we had an unofficial motto that I came to internalize: “Who will watch the watchers themselves?” We not only ensured that Marines didn’t fight next to those who could have compromised warfighting efficiency and undermined good order and discipline but also protected and held accountable those who watched over our country. In attending law school and working toward becoming a civilian prosecutor, I hope to broaden the impact I can have on the legal system and act more directly on behalf not only of my country but of its individual civilians, contributing to a system that aspires toward just consideration for all.