Strength in Stillness: Becoming a Leader as a Lesbian Woman in the Army and Fire Service

When I joined the Army at 19 years old, I didn’t know exactly who I was yet—but I knew who I wasn’t. I wasn’t soft. I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t going to be another statistic of a woman who couldn’t handle the pressure of a male-dominated environment. I was determined to be strong, to keep up, to fit in. What I didn’t know at the time was that my understanding of “strength” would be challenged, reshaped, and redefined over the next two decades. And most importantly, that my strength wouldn’t come from suppressing who I was—it would come from embracing it.

I was a young lesbian woman in the Army from ages 19 to 22, serving during the time of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” I quickly learned the art of code-switching—of saying just enough to be part of the group but never too much to risk exposing myself. There was always a balancing act: be one of the guys, but never flirtatious; be tough, but never too emotional; be a soldier, but not too “different.” I walked that line daily.

But what I began to realize was that living half-truths in order to belong came at a cost. I was dimming parts of myself to be accepted. I thought strength meant silence. I thought leadership meant conformity. And I thought survival meant keeping my true identity tucked away.

Now, at 35, I serve as a fire engineer and paramedic—a proud, openly gay woman, a wife, a mom, and a leader. I’ve carried the lessons of my younger years into the firehouse, but I’ve also unlearned many of them. Because the truth is, real strength isn’t about silence. It’s about presence. And real leadership isn’t about being the loudest voice—it’s about making space for every voice, including your own.

Learning to Communicate with Those Who Don’t Understand

One of the hardest lessons I had to learn, both in the Army and in the fire service, was how to communicate with people who don’t share my experience—and sometimes don’t even want to try to understand it. There have been moments of tension, ignorance, and even outright disrespect. But I’ve learned to treat those moments not with defensiveness, but with clarity.

I don’t expect everyone to understand what it’s like to be a gay woman in a male-dominated field. But I do expect a baseline of respect. And I lead those conversations with calm, direct language that doesn’t shame, but educates. I’ve found that curiosity opens more doors than confrontation—though I’m not afraid of the latter if it’s necessary.

One conversation at a time, I’ve helped shift mindsets. It doesn’t always happen immediately, and it certainly isn’t always easy. But I’ve learned that people are more likely to listen when you speak from your truth rather than from your anger. Not because the anger isn’t valid—but because vulnerability disarms defensiveness.

Leadership Through Compassion, Not Control

When you’re in a minority—whether by gender, sexuality, race, or belief—there’s a temptation to harden yourself. To lead with a chip on your shoulder. I’ve done it. I’ve tried to lead by being the most squared away, the strongest physically, the most locked-in emotionally. But people don’t follow perfection—they follow authenticity.

As I grew into leadership roles, I began to understand that my compassion was not a liability. It was a superpower. Listening to the newer recruits when they were struggling. Checking in on the guy who always played it too cool. Taking time to coach the ones who weren’t picking things up as quickly.

Compassion doesn’t mean coddling. It means seeing people for who they are, meeting them where they’re at, and helping them rise. It’s not about making things easier—it’s about making people better. I learned how to balance accountability with empathy, standards with support. And in doing so, I became someone others could trust—not just as a firefighter or a paramedic, but as a leader.

The Strength in Conversation

There is a stigma in many traditionally masculine environments that talking about feelings, about discomfort, about anything remotely “soft,” is a sign of weakness. But I’ve found that some of the strongest moments I’ve had—both in the Army and in the firehouse—have started with a conversation.

Conversations about fairness. About identity. About respect. About change.

Being willing to speak up—not in anger, but in truth—is one of the most courageous things you can do. It requires self-awareness, emotional intelligence, and the bravery to risk being misunderstood. I’ve had moments where I’ve had to call someone out for a comment that crossed a line. I’ve had moments where I’ve had to educate someone on what inclusion actually means. And I’ve had moments where I’ve had to say, “That’s not okay.”

And yes, some will view that as weak. But I’ve stopped living my life to earn the approval of those who mistake silence for strength. Because strength, I’ve learned, is being rooted in who you are—even if it makes others uncomfortable.

A Life Lesson in Becoming Whole

What I’ve learned, from my first days in uniform to my current ones in bunker gear, is that strength isn’t about being invulnerable—it’s about being whole. It’s about standing in your truth even when your voice shakes. It’s about extending grace to others while holding the line for yourself. And it’s about knowing that leadership isn’t something you demand—it’s something you earn through consistency, compassion, and courage.

To any young woman out there—especially queer women—wondering if you have what it takes to thrive in spaces where you’re not the norm: you do. Not because you can become someone else to fit in. But because you can become fully yourself and still lead with excellence.

And that, more than anything, is what I hope others see when they look at me now. Not just a lesbian woman. Not just a firefighter or a veteran. But a leader—strong, compassionate, and whole.

Rachel Gregory-Llanes is a dedicated veteran and public servant who thrives on balancing a fulfilling professional and personal life. While serving in the U.S. Army from 2010 to 2013, she deployed to Afghanistan in 2012 with the 782nd Battalion, 4th Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division. Rachel was also selected to play for the All-Army Softball team in 2013. She was honorably discharged as a Specialist and transitioned her commitment to service into a career with the Contra Costa County Fire Protection District, where she now works as an Engineer/Paramedic.  A passionate advocate for women in public service, Rachel strives to be a role model and mentor for younger women aspiring to join the fire service, inspiring the next generation to pursue their goals with courage and determination. At home, Rachel shares a vibrant life with her wife, their 1.5-year-old son, and three dogs. The family eagerly awaits the arrival of their daughter in late May. She cherishes time spent with her loved ones, values staying active through workouts, and embraces the beautiful chaos that comes with raising a young family and managing a dynamic career.