"All my, my, my, my armor comes from you You make me try, try, try, try harder Oh, that's all I ever do, ever do Oh, no no, my, my, my, my armor comes from you You make me stronger, stronger Now hand me my armor" — Sara Bareilles, Armor This morning on the elliptical, surrounded by purple-and-yellow branding as my guide dog Hannah rested a few feet away, this song came on my headphones. It struck a nerve. One lyric, in particular, stood out: "What you didn't do to bury me But you didn't know I was a goddamn seed" This is how I want women veterans to see themselves: as seeds. Buried, forgotten. Nothing grows if you don't add sunlight and clean water. Try to bury us in bullshit and we'll lay dormant. But eventually, the rain washes everything away and we start to grow. Small at first, then bursting at the seams. Our roots clawing deep, our leaves spreading to soak in the sun, the fresh air. No one looks at an acorn and scoffs, &quo