The Grenade That Changed Everything: An Oddly Robbie Reflection

Trigger Warning: Mentions of explosions, loud noises, and military training stress.

It began with the grenade—a paradoxical object of destruction cradled like a fragile artifact. In the line of trainees, fear hung as heavy as the explosives in our hands. Speaking was forbidden, but even if it weren’t, the tension stole words from our throats.

I wasn’t built for this. Not for throwing or catching—those childhood games that required a coordination I never mastered. And now? I wasn’t chucking a softball. It was a grenade, demanding precision I doubted I possessed. The infamous tale of the trainee who threw one backward haunted me. My singular goal became painfully clear: throw it forward, just far enough to ensure no one got hurt.

When my turn came, my mind became a cacophony of panic. I stepped up, drew a deep, shaky breath, and threw. My heart sank as the grenade landed too close. Before I could process my mistake, the drill sergeant threw me down, shielding me with his body. The explosion was both an end and a beginning. It was an unnatural force but similar to my lightning strike experience as before it tore through the silence, leaving my ears ringing and my world spinning. When the dust cleared, the sergeant’s voice bellowed, pulling me back into my terrified body. “WHAT HAPPENED?!”

What happened? I froze. I failed. But I survived. Barely.

The Course That Pushed Me to the Brink

Later that night, the assault continued—not from enemy fire, but from the chaos of a war simulation designed to break us. Crawling under barbed wire while phosphorus rounds streaked above, the explosions from speakers sent my mind reeling. It wasn’t the danger that unraveled me; it was the sensory overload, the shrieking sounds that pierced my neurodivergent mind. I wasn’t just crawling through mud—I was battling my brain’s instinct to shut down entirely.

At one point, I found myself curled in a pit, desperate for escape. The same drill sergeant loomed above me, roaring orders. Yet, oddly, his presence steadied me. I don’t know what pushed me out of that pit—perhaps it was him, perhaps it was me. Either way, I low-crawled forward, inch by excruciating inch, and finished the course.

Autism in the Trenches

Looking back, I recognize the resilience it took to survive those moments. At the time, I felt anything but resilient. Terrified? Yes. Out of place? Absolutely. But I kept going. Every time I failed, I tried again, navigating a system that wasn’t built for someone like me—someone whose brain screamed louder than any explosion.

Even now, the echoes of that fear linger. Sudden loud noises still pull me back to that day. My body braces for an impact that won’t come. But I understand the “why” now, and understanding brings peace. That grenade, that chaotic course—they shaped me, but they don’t define me. They are a part of my story, not the whole of it.

Finding Strength in Difference

This experience taught me a fundamental truth: resilience isn’t about feeling invincible. It’s about continuing even when you feel small and shattered. It’s about learning to navigate systems that weren’t made for you and finding your way regardless.

As an autistic person, I’ve faced countless moments of being misunderstood, underestimated, and overwhelmed. But each of those moments has been an opportunity to grow—to survive, adapt, and, in rare instances, thrive.

The Takeaway

That grenade didn’t fly far enough, but I did. I made it through the course, and I’ve made it through so much since. My journey isn’t about perfect throws or flawless performances. It’s about trying, failing, and finding my footing over and over again.

So to anyone reading this who feels like they’re holding their own grenade—terrified of failing, terrified of throwing too short—know this: you are not defined by your worst moments. Keep going, even if it’s inch by inch. You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to do it.

If you or someone you know struggles with trauma or sensory overload, remember: healing happens in community. We’re not meant to face life’s explosions alone. Reach out, find your people, and never stop moving forward.

Stay odd, stay strong,

Oddly Robbie