About Lana

The first year out was brutal. It’s not just about “finding your rhythm again”, as people like to say. There were personal losses, family stress, and the overwhelming pressure to reinvent yourself. Everyone talks about the perks after the military– go to school, it’s paid for. Buy a home with the VA home loan. File for disability compensation. But no one talks about how isolating and confusing it is to figure all of that out on your own.

Worse still, you have to remind yourself who you are without the uniform. You start using your first name again — not your last name and rank. You ask yourself who you want to be, how you want to act. You try to stop starting every sentence with “when I was in the military…” as if that’s still your whole identity.

The first year was especially hard for me — full of heartbreak and family struggles. I was hit with a double whammy. My two year relationship ended abruptly, and I had just one week to pack everything I could into my tiny 2021 Hyundai Venue and leave Arlington, Washington for good. I hit the road with my cat Puss N’ Boots, and took the longest trip of my life– all the way to Hampton, Virginia.

By winter of 2024, I had sunk so deep into depression that I found myself nearly crawling into the Emergency Room at 2 a.m. I was 24. Burnt out from caretaking for my high school- aged sister, emotionally wrecked from the breakup (he moved on far faster than I did), and completely unmoored from who I thought I was.

But in fall that same year, I saw a glimmer of a new beginning — a chance to take my life back. I got my childhood dream dog — a merle, two-eyed Cocker Spaniel, named Honey– and rented my first loft apartment in the heart of downtown. I finally had something that was mine.

Being back in my hometown felt like coming home. I reconnected with family, coached a YMCA boys’ soccer team, spending days by the river, and longboarded throughout the city like I owned it. For a while, it felt like I was rebuilding something real.

Progress felt real until more family stress hit–and at 25, I experienced my first full- blown manic episode with psychotic features. I was admitted into the VA hospital spent a week in treatment. That’s when I was diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder- type 1.

For the first time, I understood that something was actually wrong– and in a strange way, it brought relief. I had an answer. But it also hurt. I had to face reality that I might live with this feeling of being on edge for the rest of my life. Through all the heartbreak and family strain, I have found clarity. Many psychiatric visits later, I was medicated with the proper medication to treat my illness and things slowly began to shift.

Still, I struggled to find my sense of purpose in life. That’s when I started to write.

When words don’t come out my mouth, they pour on paper. Writing makes me feel alive more than I have ever been before. It helps me feel understood, even if it’s just by myself. I can be honest and raw about my with my struggles and what I’m going through.

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned through this journey, it’s that suppressing your emotions only makes things more heavy and dark. We all need to express ourselves — whether it’s through writing, painting, or other creativity.

For me, writing is how I rediscover who I am. Life after the military, forced me to find my name again, my purpose, my truth.

And I share this not just for myself, but with other veterans and those who struggle with a diagnoses, especially bipolar disorder. It’s possible to turn pain into power.

“It’s not just about the highs and lows; it’s about the wild ride in between.” – Carrie Fisher 

What is Letters from Lana?

Letters from Lana is a space where I try to find myself again– slowly, honestly, and often in pieces– in the midst of everything chaotic around me.

As a U.S. Navy veteran, I know what it feels like to leave one world behind and enter another that doesn’t always make room for who you’ve become. This blog is for anyone navigating that transition– especially veterans who feel unmoored, unheard, or unseen.

I write about mental health, particularly bipolar disorder, and how it shapes the way we live, love, and relate to those around us.

These are stories of survival, small joys, and starting over– not with perfect plan, but presence, grit, and grace.