By Jammie Smith, Rebel and Eve

📚 STORY TIME 📚

Let’s talk about my first day of basic training.
Or, as I like to call it: the day I peed my pants, sprained my ankle, and still somehow came out stronger than ever.

I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school, and full of exactly the kind of confidence only someone with no idea what’s coming can have. My report date was July 14, 2004. I thought that meant I needed to report to my recruiter on July 14. Nope. That was the day I was supposed to arrive at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

Cue chaos.

I had hours—not days—to pack up my life and say goodbye. At the recruiting station, I learned a hard truth: comfort doesn't exist in basic training. My carefully curated CD case (full of Napster-burned masterpieces those of us born in the 1900's call mixtapes, obviously) didn’t make the cut. I kept it together until that moment. But when they told me I couldn’t bring my music? I cried. Not a little. Ugly newborn baby cries. My Discman wasn’t coming with me on ruck marches—who knew? That was my first taste of what this “new chapter” would be like.

There’s a week of in-processing, where the NCO’s in charge of you make sure to tell you every horror story imaginable. The other thing you do a ton of, especially in South Carolina in July, is drink water. Drink water drill sergeant, check your buddy. You spend more time holding your canteen upside down than anything else that first week.

At the end of in-processing, we suited up in boots a size too big—meant to leave room for swelling—and got on a bus with our duffels in our laps, heads down. We were off to the races.  That’s when we were introduced to the infamous shark attack. Drill sergeants screaming from every direction, and pure chaos as we scrambled into formation.

You’re given one minute—just one—to find your second duffel bag from a giant pile of all the others and get back in line. I nailed it. Found my bag, ran back, felt ready.  I mean, I was CRUSHING it.

That’s when I learned the next lesson: it’s not about you anymore. It’s about the unit. If anyone messes up, everyone pays. Since not everyone found their bags, we dropped for pushups. The beginning of probably a million by the time we graduated.  Was this my first certified million in life?

And while we were down there sweating, they tossed our bags back into a pile. Round two. This time, I wasn’t so lucky.

As I jumped over someone else’s bag to get to mine, my foot caught a strap, and I came down hard—right onto my ankle. The snap heard round the world. Hot liquid spread in my ankle.  Pain shot up my leg. But I was too terrified to speak up. I was determined to stay invisible.

So, I kept moving. Limping. Carrying everything I owned—two massive duffel bags and a rucksack—up the stairs. My ankle throbbed. I could barely breathe. I was exhausted and probably close to a heat stroke.  And, thanks to the drill sergeants' endless hydration policy, I had to pee. Like, real bad.

There was no way I was telling a drill sergeant I needed a bathroom break. Zero chance.  Literally ANYTHING besides that.  So I tried to will it away. Tried to cry the water out my eyes instead. But, my body had other plans. And just like that, whether I liked it or not, I suddenly no longer had the urge to pee.

South Carolina in July is unforgivingly hot, so I tell myself my clothes dried fast. I tell myself nobody noticed. I drank so much water, I tell myself it was really just water so it basically didn't even count. Realistically? I’m sure everyone noticed. But no one said a word. Maybe because they were too busy pretending they didn’t pee their own pants. Who knows.

My ankle never fully healed during basic, or the rest of my life, but that's a story for another scent 🤪 It stayed swollen and bruised the entire time. I didn’t tell my drill sergeant until the day before our final 16-mile ruck march. At that point, we trusted him enough to say something. He handed me an ace bandage. That was it. I wrapped it tight and marched 16 miles.  As I'm writing this, maybe this is why I relate so heavily to Elide in Throne of Glass.  My twin flame.  

I made it. I survived. And that day—the one with the sprained ankle and soaked pants—set the standard for every new chapter that came after.

If I could survive that, I could survive anything.

That’s why I named this scent New Chapter. Because starting something new isn’t always glamorous. It’s scary. It’s messy. It’s usually uncomfortable and sometimes humiliating. But it also shapes us in ways nothing else can.

Whether you’re starting a new job, moving to a new city, leaving something behind, or finding yourself in a whole new season—New Chapter is for you.

Here’s to fresh starts, fierce resilience, and the moments that show us who we really are.