Melissa Stockwell - The Power of Choice: My Journey from Wounded Warrior to World Champion

Advance Praise for
The Power of Choice

I have had the chance to meet Melissa and hear her amazing story in person. In this book, Melissa shares insight on how she became a warrior and how she fought back to become the champion she is today. She is a great example of perseverance in the face of what appears to be insurmountable hurdles. Her love of country is strong and carries through her joining the military and representing Team USA in the Paralympic Games. A true champion in many ways.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee, Seven-time Olympic medalist

Melissas story of strength and courage is not only incredibly moving, it is a must-read for anyone facing any challenge. Clearly her passion for country and sport drives every one of her accomplishments. From a young gymnast like I was, to representing the United States in Paratriathlon, Melissa inspires us all with her story of overcoming unimaginable adversity and what it truly means to be unstoppable.

Shannon Miller, Seven-time Olympic medalist

Melissa's life is an unmissable story of hardship and perseverance with a message that is sure to inspire all who read it. She is someone I look up to every dayliterally. I keep a photo of her on my office wall because I'm so inspired by her work ethic, personality, and never-give-up attitude. I'm proud to call her a friend and even prouder to know that our country is represented well by people like her.

Tammy Duckworth, U.S. Senator and wounded veteran

A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

The Power of Choice:

My Journey from Wounded Warrior to World Champion

2020 by Melissa Stockwell

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-64293-521-9

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-522-6

Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect

This is a work of nonfiction. All people, locations, events, and situations are portrayed to the best of the authors memory.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

To my parents, who gave me my own power of choice
to love our country and to serve it.

To all of those who have worn the uniform
and the loved ones who have stood by their side.

And to my family, for their unwavering support
and for giving me a life I could have only dreamed of.

Contents

I got up and put on my desert camouflage uniform, then stepped out of my trailer. As an officer, I had my own, with a single bed, and I had just put up an American flag inside.

It had been three weeks since I arrived in Iraq. I knew, from the moment I woke up that day, what I was going to do: ride along with a convoy into the Green Zone in Central Baghdad. I was a convoy commander, but, this morning, I had no real mission. I was going to take over the route the next day, so my job was to ride and observe.

There was a briefing before all the convoys leftI knew what vehicle I was going to be riding in, and I knew the driver. None of this was new. I had led everything that was going on multiple times.

Looking back, maybe I wasnt as tuned in as I normally would have been. It was a laid-back kind of day. Just learn the route, I was thinking. It was relatively easy. It was 8 a.m. About ten vehicles were lined up for the convoy. I was in a Humvee, typical for an officer, two vehicles back from the front.

The gun truck was right in front of us; their job was to sweep the road and look for any sort of abnormal activity. I would normally sit up front next to the driver, but, this morning, I was behind him in the back. Next to me was another officer, and behind us was a machine gunner, sitting out in the hot open air. We were lined up and ready to go when I saw another soldier running up.

Maam, would you like me to take your door off? he asked. We can put a pedestal mount on.

He was talking about a piece that hooked to the side of the open door; it made it easier to point a weapon outward. Sometimes you think youre invincible. Sure, I said.

I could smell the fuel in the air. We were slow out of the gate. The convoy commander was in the passenger seat on an electronic device watching our route, with walkie-talkie access to the gun truck in front and the vehicles behind as we picked up speed.

The area around Baghdad is just a desolate landscape: barren, some local cars, a hut thats someones home way off in the distance.

We were moving along about ten minutes into the ride. We were all paying close attention to our surroundings. It was all still kind of surreal, but we were trained and professional. Then we came up to a bridge and overpass.

The drivers knew to swerve when they go under a bridgethere could be someone up above wanting to drop something on our vehicle. The enemy knew the smallest vehicles in the convoys are where the officers ride. My vehicle was a big target, and, as the driver swerved, it seemed to work: nothing landed on us.

But then a deafening boom , the loudest sound that Ive ever heard, louder than anything I could ever imagine.

* * *

There was black smoke. The unmistakable smell of metal. We were wearing our seatbelts, but it was chaos, with heavy equipment sliding around the vehicle as the world rocked.

It was an Improvised Explosive Device, I realized. We hit a roadside bomb. Time slowed. The windshield smashed. We ricocheted off a guardrail as the driver tried to right us in the opposite direction. Then we crashed into an Iraqi womans home on the side of the road.

From here on out, things are fuzzy. I can only tell you what I remember.

O n my fourth birthday, my dad presented me with a big gift and a big decision. He brought home two different bikes, each with training wheels, and told me I could choose one of them. I hopped up and down in excitement as he brought two big colorful boxes in from the garage and placed them in front of me.

One was a Barbie bike, pink and girly. The other one was a bit more dramatic, with Sweet Thunder written in electric-looking letters. My dad stepped back and asked me which one I wantedit was my choice.

I hesitated. This was tough. Finally, I pointed to the Barbie bike. My thinking went like this: It was pink, and, though I didnt particularly love pink things, I really wanted the basket that came with it. I could already picture it overflowing with stuffed animals, rocks, and snacks. For starters, there was my stuffed bear Woodles, who I couldnt possibly risk riding withouthe would fit perfectly in there.

But my dad knew me well. While this had been presented as my choice, he gently steered me toward Sweet Thunder. When I let him know how much I cared about the Barbie accessories, he solved the problem for meit wouldnt be hard to add a basket to Sweet Thunder, as well as a bell that would let everyone know that I was headed their way.

I was his youngest daughter, his little girl, and he wanted me to be a tough little girl. He didnt really want me to be the girl who liked Barbies and all those girly things. He saw me as the girl riding Sweet Thunder: determined, moving forward, able to keep up with everybody else.