Maja Lewicki

The sound of boots hitting the forest floor was constant, like a metronome marking the hours of my days at the camp in Krosno Odrzańskie, Poland. Orders barked through the humid air, and my fingers gripped the unfamiliar texture of a rifle. They trembled at first, but less so with every passing drill. The camp wasn’t just a challenge—it was an initiation into a mindset I hadn’t known before.

I joined because I felt I had to. Poland's proximity to Ukraine made the war impossible to ignore, and I often wondered what I would do if something like that reached us. I didn’t think of myself as particularly brave. At 19, I was just a student from Poznań, studying political science and still figuring out what courage even meant. But the camp seemed like a way to prepare for something bigger than myself.

The mornings were brutal. The alarm at 5:30, the ten minutes to prepare, and the long runs with weighted vests weren’t just exhausting—they stripped away the layers of comfort I didn’t even realize I clung to. The first week, I was on the verge of quitting. On one particularly hard day, under the glare of a lieutenant, I felt the world close in around me. My breath caught, and my vision blurred. A panic attack in front of everyone was the last thing I wanted, but there it was. I expected ridicule, but one of the other trainees—a girl named Marta—helped me up without a word. Later, she told me, “It happens to all of us. You just have to keep moving.”

And so I did.

By the third week, the weight of the rifle felt like an extension of my arm, and running with gear became a rhythm rather than a punishment. I learned not just how to aim and fire but also how to push through fear. The camp taught us about tactics, law, and military history, but the real lesson was resilience.

It’s strange to admit, but those four weeks were transformative. The panic attack didn’t define me; what came after did. Like many of my peers at the camp, I don’t know if I’ll join the military. But I do know this: I’m no longer afraid of being tested. In a country shadowed by the threat of war, that feels like a small but necessary victory.