Recoil to Rise: The Unexpected Riflewoman

From Shadow to Shine...the Goal is to Be Whole.

I’ve had a few people ask me to share my rifleman journey, so I figured it’s time to reintroduce myself and explain how I ended up here in the first place.

PART 1: When Firearms Find You

I never thought I’d be behind a rifle. Not because I was against firearms politically or culturally, but because, for me, a gun had always meant the end of something. My mom ended her life with one. And when a firearm is the period at the end of someone you love, it marks you. It becomes more than a weapon — it becomes a wound. It carries a sound you don’t forget, a memory that sits in the nervous system like static. So, no, I wasn’t drawn to the gun. It wasn’t a part of my world. It was something I moved around.

When I met Caylen — in an airport of all places — I didn’t know who he was. He told me he was a sniper and a firearms instructor, and my body instantly withdrew. I tried to move away from him no less than three times in that terminal, but each time, he leaned in. Each time, he gently re-engaged. It wasn’t pushy — it was present. There was something about him that confused me. My body was saying “no,” but my curiosity wasn’t ready to leave. I didn’t know his background or how well-known he was in the rifleman community. But I did know presence when I felt it. And Caylen carried it in spades.

He didn’t try to convince me. He didn’t use titles. He didn’t posture. What he carried was something quieter — steadiness. Sovereignty. A calm kind of confidence that didn’t need to announce itself. I didn’t feel manipulated. I felt witnessed. And even if my first reaction was to put distance between us, some part of me recognized the kind of stillness I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Our connection wasn’t about rifles. It was about resonance. I didn’t fall in love with a shooter. I fell in love with a man who held space in a way I hadn’t experienced before. He never pushed me toward firearms. But being around someone who embodied responsibility with power began to change something in me. The rifle started to lose its shape as a monster and settle into something more neutral — something that simply mirrored the energy of the person holding it.

Even still, I stayed behind the scenes. For years. I helped build Modern Day Sniper. I structured things, refined them, supported students and the mission — but I didn’t shoot. I remained focused on building a community. I wasn’t avoiding it. I just wasn’t ready. My body still held too much history. But healing moves at its own pace. And one day, something in me opened.

Caylen looked at me and asked, “Are you ready to come shoot with me?”

And I said yes.

Not because I wanted to be good. Not because I had anything to prove. But because I was curious. I wanted to understand the craft, the students, and the community I’d been supporting all this time. I wanted to know what they knew — what kept them coming back, what made them feel proud, why they trusted us. I wanted to be closer to the pulse of it all, and I knew the only way to do that was to get behind the rifle.

So three years ago, I showed up to my first Modern Day Sniper class. I took the safety brief seriously. I asked questions. I learned about the gear, the language, the why behind the how. And when I finally laid behind the rifle and took that shot — it didn’t feel magical. It felt mechanical. But I stayed.

That’s the part I’m proud of. I stayed. I didn’t love it. I didn’t melt into mastery. But I also didn’t leave. I took another shot. And then another. And eventually, something shifted. Not in the target — but in me. The gun didn’t take from me that day. It gave. It gave me access. It gave me presence. It gave me a deeper understanding of the people I was there to serve.

I didn’t fall in love with shooting in the beginning. Instead, I fell in love with what it revealed in me: curiosity, steadiness, and a willingness to sit with discomfort instead of run from it. That was the beginning of something — not performance, but presence. Not glory, but groundedness.

That’s where my rifleman journey began.

PART 2: The Business, the Betrayal, the Breakdown

Before I ever laid behind a rifle, I was behind a desk. Running my own company. Structuring systems. Scaling services. Solving problems. I was the woman people came to when they needed clarity, order, results. I built something real — until someone I trusted cracked it wide open.

My first business was gutted by someone who knew how to smile to your face while stealing from the inside. It was embezzlement, plain and painful. And while the money hurt, it was the betrayal that buried me. It was the realization that good intentions don’t protect you from bad actors. That being “nice” doesn’t keep you safe.

I fell into the dark. I didn’t run from it — I studied it. I mapped it. Jung, Campbell, shadow work. I became obsessed with understanding how manipulation happens, how trust is exploited, and how power is often taken, not given. That fall ended up being my first layer of armor. It taught me how to read energy, not just contracts.

I found my footing again. Slowly. Quietly. Then came the next storm.

Family court.

And this time, it wasn’t just financial theft — it was the theft of truth. The weaponization of hearsay. The hijacking of narratives. I watched systems I once trusted distort the facts, amplify lies, and punish the innocent. And the worst part? There was no due process. Just a slow bleed of rights, protections, and hope.

Because of unfounded allegations, I lost my Second Amendment rights. Not because I broke the law. But because someone else told an elaborate story. And in that courtroom — the illusionary story won.

Do you know what that does to someone who’s already survived so much? It makes you question everything. It makes you look at government, justice, and protection with new eyes. It makes you feel unsafe in a system that claims to defend safety.

And when you can’t defend yourself — not even with truth, not even with proof — something primal awakens.

While I was hiding out, I was waking up. I started unpacking the deeper layers of what was happening. Coercion. Control. The death of sovereignty disguised as “order.” The more I was silenced, the more I saw. The more I was restrained, the more my convictions clarified.

What that era of my life did — more than anything — was sharpen me. I came out conservative. Not in labels, but in values. In my belief in personal responsibility. In the right to protect and provide. In the need for discernment when systems break down.

And just as we crawled out of that legal pit — another wave hit.

Caylen’s business partnership ended.

I won’t go into the details. That part of the story isn’t mine alone to tell. But what I will say is this: it hurt. It shook everything. Our business. Our community. Our marriage. Our livelihood. It almost tore the whole thing down. And from the outside, no one saw it coming. They didn’t see the behind-the-scenes cleanup either. The heartbreak. The uncertainty. The exhaustion.

But we kept going.

We held the line. Together.

While Caylen kept the front of house going — teaching, showing up, delivering — I kept the backend alive. Building automation, structuring curriculum, mapping brand growth. I stayed in the shadows, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. Because someone had to hold the base while everything else felt like it might collapse.

We were building while bleeding.

Every step forward came with a cost. Every decision had weight. But what got us through wasn’t strategy — it was grit. It was knowing who we are, even when everything else was uncertain. It was trust in each other, in the mission, and in the long game.

That season forged something in me that no retreat, no workshop, no book ever could. It taught me what it means to survive what you don’t deserve — and still rise without bitterness.

That was the breakdown.

But also, the becoming.

Part 3: The Edge of Belonging

Back to shooting.

By this point, I’d taken two Intro to Precision Rifle classes — but I only made it to two out of the four days the second time around. I had also competed in two Guardian matches. My scores? 44.44% and then 52% — not total hits, but percentage of the top shooter’s score. And that first number — 4444 — hit with clarity. It was one of those moments where my angel number showed up and whispered,

Keep going kid. You’re on the path.

Still, I wasn’t fully in. I wasn’t dry firing at home. I wasn’t studying ballistics. I wasn’t even sure if this path was mine. But I kept showing up. Not out of ambition. Not to prove anything. But because I was beginning to feel alive again. Like I wanted to participate — in something. Anything. I was looking for a spark, and precision shooting gave me just enough feedback to stay curious.

It wasn’t about being competitive. It wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about getting to know myself in a new context. In a culture I’d once felt outside of, I started to notice the smallest shifts — a quiet steadiness, a growing respect for the craft, and a recognition of the kind of people who kept showing up beside me. I didn’t feel like I belonged yet, but I wasn’t outside the circle anymore either.

This was a liminal zone. A re-entry. And while I wasn’t ready to call myself a rifleman yet, I wasn’t backing away either.

I was learning to walk the edge. And that edge — it didn’t scare me anymore.

Part 4: The Alchemy

If you had told me the next turning point in my riflewoman journey would come from the secretion of an Amazonian frog, I would’ve laughed. But that’s exactly what happened.

After years of slow steps forward — I found myself standing at the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. I wasn’t all in yet. I was participating, but not present. Showing up, but not fully embodied. I could pull the trigger, but I still wasn’t pulling myself into alignment.

Then came Kambo.

Kambo is the secretion of the Phyllomedusa bicolor, a giant monkey tree frog used by indigenous tribes of the Amazon for centuries. It’s not a psychedelic. It’s a purgative — a fast-acting physiological reset that works on the lymphatic, endocrine, and nervous systems. The peptides in Kambo don’t override your biology — they bind to your body’s own receptors, reminding it how to regulate, repair, and restore. It’s often described as “warrior medicine,” and for good reason. But what it gives back is tenfold.

Kambo stripped me of my fear in a different way than the rifle did. It didn’t ask me to aim — it asked me to surrender. To purge not just physical toxins, but emotional ones: grief, shame, survival mode. It gave me back my breath. It cleared the static. And through that process, I didn’t just heal — I awakened. So much so, I went to school to study it. To understand it. To earn the right to serve it with respect and integrity.

That’s how Modern Day Kambo was born.

At first, it was just my own healing. But soon, I found myself sitting across from other riflemen — brothers (& sisters) in the craft — holding space while they too faced their own edge. I’ve now served Kambo to a half dozen shooters, and counting. And every time, I’m reminded: this work is not separate from the range. It’s part of it.

• When your nervous system is calm, your shot improves.

• When your self-doubt dissolves, your focus sharpens.

• When your past doesn’t hijack your present, your aim becomes true — in life, not just behind the gun.

Modern Day Kambo isn’t a detour. It’s the path beneath the path. It’s for those of us who want to be clean conduits for precision, power, and peace — on and off the range.

This chapter of my journey wasn’t about marksmanship. It was about mastery of self.

And it marked the beginning of everything that came next: a name, a rifle, a whole new rhythm.

Part 5: Charlie Rose Enters the Chat

For my 50th birthday, a gift arrived early.

An Accuracy International AT-XC — sleek, rare, and painted in my favorite color: red. She wasn’t just a rifle. She was a reflection. A mirror of who I was becoming. I named her Charlie Rose — “Charlie” for the integrated masculine I’ve come to honor, and “Rose” for the softness that has always lived inside me. The precision and the petals. The warrior and the woman. Finally, side by side.

By this point, I’d spent a good amount of time behind a rifle — just not my own. I had a few thousand rounds downrange, sure, but always with Caylen’s setup. His rifle. His gear. I was proficient, but something was missing. The connection wasn’t fully mine. I was showing up for our students, for our business, for him. And while I was learning, contributing, and supporting — I hadn’t yet said yes to shooting as mine.

That changed the day Charlie came into my life.

She didn’t just feel good in my hands. She fit. Like a missing puzzle piece I didn’t know I was waiting for. The moment I set her on the line, something inside me clicked — not just the bolt. The decision to belong.

I brought a female friend with me to class that week — another woman stepping into this space. Watching her start reminded me that I wasn’t starting over. I was stepping in. Fully. I paid attention differently. I wasn’t half-in, half-out. I wanted to be there. And I wanted to be better.

I started reloading my own ammo. I caught myself singing in the gun room. Dancing in the garden. Laughing again. Not because life was suddenly easy — but because I felt like myself for the first time in a long time.

At my third Guardian match, I didn’t just shoot well — I felt alive. I was training with one of our Modern Day Riflemen inside Optimal Edge to get my body in the best shape of its life. I wasn’t chasing perfection. I was reclaiming presence. And it showed.

Even the unsupported twisted Creedmoor — an off-the-hip shot I would’ve once avoided at all costs — had me giggling like a little girl. It reminded me of shooting BB guns in my backyard as a kid. Of snakes in the grass and summer mischief. That feeling of play came back, unforced. I wasn’t locked in worry. I was free. 🤙🏼

Back home, our family business is thriving. My adult sons are working with us. I am serving Kambo to the rifleman community — holding space for others to heal in the way I have. And the ones who had walked beside me during the darkest years? They were still there. Still cheering. “We always knew,” they said. “You just had to see it.” (You know who you are.)

This wasn’t just a chapter. It was a homecoming.

Charlie didn’t just mark the moment. She became a symbol. Of sovereignty. Of integration. Of the fire and the flower. Of what it means to come through something and still choose to rise.

And for the first time in years — I didn’t just feel proud.
I felt ready.

Part 6: From DOPE to Destiny

It’s been nine years since that airport. Since I met someone whose presence would crack me open and hand me a life I never saw coming.

A life behind the rifle.
A life inside the fire.
A life forged by purpose I didn’t even know I had.

Back then, I didn’t know the language.
I didn’t know what DOPE meant.
I didn’t know what breathwork or frog medicine or suppressed emotion felt like in my chest.
I just knew I was ready for something more — and terrified of what that might cost.

Fast forward to now, and I’ve collected a lot of DOPE — Data on Previous Engagements. Both the shooting kind and the soul kind.

Every class. Every match. Every miss.
Every breath I took when I wanted to bolt.
Every time I said yes when the old me would’ve shut it down.
That’s all DOPE now. Stored and sacred.

I’ve shot at local club matches like Moxee, and pushed my limits at Lead Farm — a Pro Series competition I had no business entering. Bottom of the list, 33 impacts made, and every single one hard-earned. I walked away proud. Because that wasn’t about ranking. That was about reclaiming.

Reclaiming my space. My confidence. My choice to engage.

This journey has never been about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up. It’s about recalibrating my relationship to discomfort — not running from it, but learning to breathe through it with steady hands and an open heart.

And now, nearly a decade into this journey, I’m not just healed — I’m healing. Actively. Continuously. On and off the range. With and without a rifle.

Because that’s what this path has taught me: The real target isn’t steel.
It’s alignment.
It’s truth.
It’s the kind of strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be lethal.

Modern Day Sniper taught me to trust myself again.
Modern Day Kambo reminded me what’s possible when we find homeostasis.
And this community? It gave me a place to practice both.

So here I am — loaded with lessons, steady in my stance, heart open for what’s next.

And whether there’s a rifle in my hand or not, I know this much:

I am the data.
I am the precision.
I am the engagement.

Let’s go.