A Day in the Life of a Transgender American Terrorist
- 14 hours ago
- 3 min read
Cassandra Williamson
14 September 2025, Sunday
Hardy, Pike County, Kentucky
07:00 Eastern Standard Time.
My mission commences not with a bang, but with the sharp click of a glucose meter. In the quiet of our little holler in Eastern Kentucky, this is the first shot fired in the day's campaign. I am a terrorist, you see. My weapons of choice are sterile lancets and a well-organized pill minder.
The first objective is Mom. Her blood sugar reading dictates the morning's entire strategy. I draw a bead of blood, wait for the number, and calculate the insulin dosage with practiced precision. She takes the shot without flinching, a seasoned veteran in this war against her own body. Most mornings she knows
exactly who I am. Those are the good mornings. My sister gets her own volley of medications next, a complex cocktail to keep her body's betrayals at bay. Breakfast is the next tactical move—toast, eggs, and coffee deployed to three different fronts in the house.
Then there are the other cells. My brother, a complicated asset, can handle his own affairs, but the effort leaves him breathless. His lungs, ravaged by COPD, are hostile territory. His oxygen tube is a constant tether, yet he's always pushing himself, waging a one-man war against entropy in his workshop out back. My sister, the co-conspirator in our domestic plot, maneuvers her wheelchair like a chariot, marshalling dirty dishes by the sink for me to wash. She is a force to be reckoned with. I am the quartermaster of their survival, the commander of a tiny, fragile army headquartered in the house I swore I’d never return to. They’d asked me to come home. A summons from a life of service to another. How could I refuse?
10:00 Eastern Standard Time.
The daily logistics begin. Laundry is a relentless foe; it must be met with overwhelming force every single day. Housework is a constant series of skirmishes. In between, I coordinate transportation for upcoming operations: multiple doctor's appointments for Mom and my sister that require careful planning to navigate.
My phone buzzes, a dispatch from the front lines of the diaspora. It’s the family group chat, a chaotic stream of intelligence from outposts across the country. A picture from Kansas: my amazing ex-wife and our daughter with their four kids at a soccer game. A message from Alabama: one of my sons is bragging about his daughter's report card. A text from my son in Tucson, an Air Force veteran himself, checking in. His own daughters are scattered, one in Texas, one in Wisconsin. Two of my sons-in-law are Army and National Guard. The screen glows with the faces of the sprawling, loving, military-forged family I fought for. They are the nation I swore to protect.
14:00 Eastern Standard Time.
A lull in the action. I sit on the porch swing and look out at the mountains, the same ones that watched me grow up, that watched me graduate from the Naval Academy, that watched me serve in the Navy and then the Marines. They were silent witnesses as I left, and silent witnesses when I returned. Coming back here, to this place of memory and pain and fierce, stubborn love, was the most radical act of my life. Being here, being this person—a daughter, a sister, a grandmother, a veteran, a woman—feels more revolutionary than any headline.
19:00 Eastern Standard Time.
The evening campaign begins. It’s a mirror of the morning: Mom's blood sugar is checked, the insulin dosage administered. The evening medications are dispensed to her and my sister. Supper is served and the kitchen is secured for the night. All operatives are safe.
The house settles into a quiet rhythm, punctuated by the hum of the oxygen machine. I sit on the porch again, the day’s battles finally over.
They call people like me a threat. They imagine us plotting to unravel the fabric of society. They don’t see the truth. They don't see the laundry, the prescriptions, the blood sugar logs. They don’t see a veteran of the United States Navy and Marine Corps holding a family together. They see a caricature, a monster of their own making. My terrorism isn't about destruction. It’s about the stubborn, defiant act of building a world of care in the face of it all. It’s about showing up. Every single day.
This is my final duty station. Mission accomplished, for today. Time to rest and prepare for tomorrow's campaign.
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