Drop a pebble into a pond and, after the initial splash, ripples spread across the water. It’s a familiar image, one we know so intuitively that everyone understands immediately what you mean by the phrase “ripple effect.” Yet, even when the pebble is a boulder, and the splash soaks us, we may not fully grasp how far the ripples will spread—or for how long.

On March 20, 2003, the United States invaded Iraq. I crossed the berm two days later as part of the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault), 26 years old and full of equal parts naivete and cynicism. The war already seemed unjustified to me, but I felt deep loyalty to my fellow troops, and some measure of excitement at what was to come. If the waiting place is, as Dr. Seuss says, the worst place to be, I’d rather have been at war than sitting around Camp Udairi.

During my deployment, I went on combat foot patrols with the infantry in Baghdad, got bored out of my mind on Mount Sinjar, endured chronic sexual harassment, and came home feeling like America was a foreign land after a year in the Middle East. In Iraq, I also met the man who became my husband.

In retrospect, my book about his injury and our relationship was an effort to tell myself that the ripples had stopped spreading. We coped with his traumatic brain injury and post-traumatic stress disorder, learned to navigate the Department of Defense and Veterans Affairs, and advocated for improvements to systems and services. I wanted a nice tidy narrative arc. I wanted a happy ending—or at least a hopeful beginning for the rest of our lives. I wanted to box up the war and put it away. We had two children and a bright future. Let the pebble sink as the waters stilled.

But sometimes the ripple becomes a wave that threatens to sink the whole boat. PTSD, I learned, can be chronic and episodic. Brian had good weeks, months, years—but they were never permanent. He drank, sometimes heavily, when times were bad. Eventually, I reached a breaking point. I decided the status quo could not endure.

On Aug. 24, 2018, I took the metro back from work. Walking home from the station, I saw emergency vehicles in front of my house. Heart pounding, I walked inside. Brian sat in a chair by the door, where a paramedic assessed him. My husband was shirtless, covered in sweat, and confused. When I asked where our children were, he replied, “Children?”

I sprinted through the house. Our two children were nowhere to be found. I returned to him and asked, louder, “Where are our kids?!” He looked baffled. From the door, a tiny, nervous voice, our neighbor: “I have your kids.”

“How are you so calm?” she asked me. What else could I do? I wondered to myself. Was there any other choice? Out loud, almost automatically, I told her, “It’s from being in the military.”

My assumption was that Brian had had an anxiety attack, hyperventilated, and passed out. With PTSD, panic attacks were, for him, not uncommon. But the paramedic was concerned about how high his pulse and blood pressure were, as well as his ongoing confusion, so he was transported to the ER by ambulance, while I followed in my car.

After a couple of hours of waiting to be seen in the emergency room, Brian mentioned a pain in his shoulder. Given how long it took for the ache to begin, I guessed it was just bruised from his fall. Still, he asked the doctor for an X-ray. After what seemed like a further interminable wait, we learned he had had a seizure and had broken his collarbone when he fell.

There is a part of me that wants to distance myself from all of this by reverting to the safety of clinical terms. I want to revise these paragraphs and tell you I came home that day and my husband was diaphoretic and postictal. These words—dense, precise, diagnostic—come easier than remembering the specifics of my daughter retelling the story of daddy screaming and falling down in front of her for weeks as she worked through her own trauma. I want to write, of my husband, “He had been struggling for years with comorbid PTSD, major depressive disorder, substance use disorder, and TBI,” rather than ever admit the terror I felt during specific incidents, the embarrassment when the police came, the shame of pretending everything was fine when it definitively was not.

In the warped way that life sometimes unfolds, the horror of this incident ended up saving our marriage. Perhaps the ripples, now waves, had ricocheted off a rock—rather than swamping our tiny boat, they had pushed it away from the rapids. After the civilian ER doctor put Brian on an anticonvulsant known to cause suicidality, his Defense Department neurologist prescribed him a different anticonvulsant that was also a mood stabilizer. Things changed dramatically. What had been wild and frightening swings from sadness to rage settled into normal currents of emotion. When the doctor told him alcohol “reduced his seizure threshold,” Brian quit drinking. Sobriety became its own salve.

Time passed, the ripples spread. Even after 15 years. It had not occurred to me, when I walked into our house in 2018, that Brian could have had a seizure, because it had been 15 years since shrapnel gouged a trough in his brain just below the skull. After it happened, in 2003, providers had warned us about the risk of seizures post-TBI. But it had been 15 years without one.

For years, I had tried to convince myself that the ripples had been contained—that they had not spread beyond his parents, me, the Defense Department, and VA. Then, suddenly, our county had to send paramedics into our home. Our neighbors had to help run errands, since the state (rightly) banned Brian from driving for six months, until a doctor could affirm that his seizures were controlled by medication and it was safe for him to drive again. Our school system needed to provide counselors for our children. My employer had to give me extra time off work to drive him to medical appointments.

There are now more than 1.9 million U.S. veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. More than 50,000 of us were physically injured. Around 15% have experienced PTSD. And perhaps all of us were exposed to burn pits and other toxins, as were an untold number of Iraqis. The long-term impacts of the war on frontline civilians and third-country nationals have barely been considered. I am just telling you our story, my husband’s and mine. Ours is but a tiny ripple, from a single pebble, in an ocean.

My generation has benefited tremendously from Vietnam veterans, who fought like hell to get PTSD recognized. Because of their tenacity, we finally have a language to describe, and evidence-informed treatments to manage, the psychological effects of the trauma of war. And like Iraq veterans, Vietnam veterans also struggled for decades to get recognition of the impacts Agent Orange had on their health, of its risks to their children. After we started coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan, they swore, “Never again,” and fought alongside us for a swifter and better response to our own toxic exposures.

This advocacy recently led to passage of the PACT Act, which adds a dozen different cancers and another dozen illnesses to the list of health conditions VA assumes (or “presumes”) to be caused by exposure to toxic substances for all who deployed to Afghanistan, Iraq, and other qualifying locations after 9/11 or during the first Gulf War—as well as adding new conditions to the list of illnesses assumed to be linked to Agent Orange exposure in Vietnam veterans. VA has already screened more than a million veterans under the new program, hiring 2,000 new disability claims processors and additional health care providers to manage the influx of new patients and claims.

As a veteran and a caregiver, I am profoundly grateful to all who advocated for this expansion—even while, as a taxpayer, I blanch a bit at the projected price tag of $152 billion over the next 10 years for disability compensation alone. And I know the PACT act may still not capture all conditions. Cancers often take decades to develop. The potential epigenetic effects of our exposure, passed on to our children and grandchildren, may take generations to identify.

The ripples may yet become waves: PTSD has been linked to heart disease; TBIs are associated with dementia; caregivers are at increased risk of hypertension, reduced sleep, and mental health problems.

And the ripples from this 20-year-old war will long outlive me, spreading for many decades to come. In 2020, Irene Triplett died, age 90, the last surviving dependent of a Civil War veteran receiving a pension, 155 years after that conflict ended. Life expectancy has only increased since the Civil War ended in 1865, or since she was born, in 1930. Brown University’s Costs of War project estimates $2.2 trillion in federal obligations for post-9/11 veterans’ care over the next 30 years alone—this number does not include costs that cities, counties, and states bear as well.

When we project the costs of war into the future, we must imagine these collective costs, these ripples, that will continue spreading for at least another 155 years. It is daunting to imagine that somewhere among the cohort of Iraq War veterans is likely a man who will father a child well into his old age, who will live for many years, and that there could be another, similar headline to that about Triplett’s passing, in the year 2166 or beyond.

As the anniversary of the Iraq War approached, and of the day I crossed the berm two days later, I have not been looking back to the start of the war, but forward—to where the ripples are likely to go. What I’ve come to realize is this: They’ve only just begun to spread

This War Horse reflection was edited by Kelly Kennedy, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Headlines are by Abbie Bennett.

By Kayla Williams. Kayla Williams served as a sergeant and Arabic linguist in the Army from 2000-2005, including a deployment to Iraq from 2003-2004. She now lives in Virginia with her husband and two children and works as a senior policy researcher at the RAND Corporation. She’s the author of two nonfiction books, Love My Rifle More Than You and Plenty of Time When We Get Home. Williams is a 2018 War Horse Fellow.

Here on the Zugerberg, in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, there is an international boarding school called Institut Montana. It is the alma mater of John Kerry (full disclosure - mine as well) and yours truly, and a host of other scallywags and often mysterious internationals. The school today is a bastion of forward-thinking but mindfully in a sensible, practical way. 

While at the school building the first student-manned international radio station, I was tipped off to a vast bunker system in the adjacent woods. For another story at another time, I’ll tell you how I was able to properly enter the bunker system, sealed for the past 80 years.

It turns out that prior to and during World War II, Switzerland maintained a vast bunker system to protect its population and military infrastructure in case of a foreign invasion. Let’s be clear: Switzerland has a population of about 8.5 million - smaller than LA. 

The Swiss government, with the support of the army, started constructing these bunkers in the 1930s, and by the end of the war, there were approximately 20,000 of them spread throughout the country.

The bunker system was designed to provide protection against a wide range of threats, including air raids, artillery fire, and gas attacks. Some of the bunkers were designed to house military equipment, ammunition, and supplies, while others were built to shelter civilians.

The most significant bunker complex in Switzerland was the National Redoubt, which was a network of bunkers and fortifications located in the Swiss Alps. The Redoubt was designed to be the last line of defense for the country and was equipped with artillery, anti-tank guns, and machine guns.

In addition to the National Redoubt, Switzerland also had a vast network of underground tunnels, many of which were connected to the country's extensive railway system. These tunnels were used to transport troops, supplies, and equipment during the war.

Today, many of Switzerland's World War II bunkers have been decommissioned, while others have been converted into museums, storage facilities, and even hotels. More accurately, tech companies keep their digital data in these bunkers because the walls are up to 6 feet thick of pure concrete. It’s the same protection level as the famous Bahnhofstraße, under which lies much of the world’s gold. Who knows what other kind of loot, booty and treasure traded, laundered, hoodwinked and harvested over the centuries resides there?. 

Nevertheless, the country's extensive bunker system remains a testament to Switzerland's obsession with national defense during one of the most turbulent periods in modern history which is now almost glamorous compared to today's global geopolitics and the imminent threat of multiple nuclear wars.

Let’s Rethink This (LRT) is known for its ability to catch people’s attention. Founder Jerry Ashton had these credentials safely in hand by the time he retired from the day-to-day work involved in co-founding the national charity RIP Medical Debt (RIP) with the intention to perform similar feats for organizations poised to bring about profound social and economic change – but not having a platform from which to attract all-important public notice.

As Jerry can attest to from personal experience in his struggles to raise awareness (and funds) for his charity, “If they don’t know about you, they can’t do anything about you.” Based on RIP’s success to date – abolishing over $8 billion in medical debt for over 5.5 million Americans – he and his team at RIP solved that problem, and then some.

Jerry and the team of co-creators he gathered together at LRT set about to use his hard-earned tools to remedy similar problems for industry “Solution Providers” who had the goods – but not the audience. LRT, through its Searchlight/Spotlight/Ignite process steps in to fill that void. Here’s what LRT had to do to develop that magic since its founding in early 2021.

Step One – print/online journalism

LRT’s first step was to install Our Newspaper at our website to ensure that worthwhile articles about our partners and members would always find a home. That done, and as a former Navy Journalist (JO2), Jerry’s next step was to approach Russell Midori, co-founder of the 700-member Military Veterans in Journalism (MVJ) organization to partner with us to ensure our members and advocates would have access to seasoned reporters.

Step Two – Video interviews and podcasts

Cary Harrison brought the goods and his credentials to his task of experimenting with doing one-off videos and podcasts. It was fledgling, but brought us to where we are in our ability to produce an entire one-hour program on public radio. 

Step Three – graphic novel/cartoon capabilities

Cary introduced RIP to veteran artist Victor Guiza which brought about another novel fit – cartoons and colorful strips that do a better and more compelling job of explaining a complex story than any news article. Using a Harlem entrepreneur and a woman physician patient advocate as proof-of-concept, his renderings drew rave reviews and proved that his subjects could attract new audiences. Check that need off as filled.

Step Four – branding and marketing

Phaedra Poliquin was among the earliest additions to the LRT staff of co-creators, and a find she was. Even while launching LRT, she filled the role of CMO for the Anmol Network and was instrumental in helping raise $1M in investment for them. 

Step Five – technology infrastructure and mentoring capability

That would be me, Joel Stevens – the earliest to join the LRT team to make sure that the organization had well-structured and eye-catching websites that its partners could depend on as well as serve as referent examples of our abilities in branding, marketing and community-creating.

Step Six – an evolutionary leap – Rethinking Heroes 

For the first time we are aware of, a drive-time public radio hour is devoted to veteran issues and the Solution Providers dedicated to reducing veteran suicide, abolishing their medical debt and in so many other ways making their lives easier. Cary Harrison hosts Rethinking Heroes (RH) on famed LA public radio KPFK 90.7 FM every Friday morning from 9-10 a.m PST/noon EST. 

With the help and encouragement of KPFK, we have used the month of February to test the concept and are getting rave reviews – and an uptick in donations to the station. No need anymore to be silent about this important work.

Want to listen to it in streaming audio at those times? Simply click this link. What makes it so special? No woe-is-me and platitudes and stereotypes. These are real veterans and their advocates telling stories and providing solutions you will never hear on MSM. 

The other thing that sets RH apart? At the end of every month, with just a bit of assistance from our listeners and co-producers, we will officially abolish $1 million in medical debt across the USA on behalf of our veterans. Having served, and still serving.

When Jerri Bell first wrote about the Golden Fourteen, their story only took up a sentence. These 14 Black women were the first to serve in the U.S. Navy, and Bell, a former naval officer and historian with the Veteran’s Writing Project, included them in a book about women’s contributions in every American war, co-written with a former Marine. But even after the book was published, Bell couldn’t get their story out of her head.

“It made me kind of mad,” Bell says. “Here are these women, and they were the first! But I think there was also a general attitude at the time that the accomplishments of women were not a big deal. Women were not going to brag.”

Bell was one of a few researchers who have been able to track down documents that acknowledge the lives and work of these Black women. She knew that during World War I, the Fourteen had somehow found employment in the muster roll unit of the U.S. Navy in Washington, D.C., under officer John T. Risher. One was Risher’s sister-in-law and distant cousin, Armelda Hattie Greene.

The Golden Fourteen worked as yeomen and were tasked with handling administrative and clerical work. They had access to official military records, including the work assignments and locations of sailors. At the time, Black men who enlisted in the Navy could only work as messmen, stewards, or in the engine room, shoveling coal into the furnace. They performed menial labor and weren’t given opportunities to rise in rank.

Bell wasn’t surprised to learn about the barriers faced by service members of color. She knew that Josephus Daniels, the Secretary of the Navy at the time, was a documented white supremacist with ties to the Wilmington Massacre, in which a white mob overthrew a local Reconstruction-era government and murdered Black residents. During the First World War, the U.S. Navy maintained the status quo of racism that continued long after. Many Black service members were also targeted by white mobs after the war.

What was surprising was that a legal technicality had paved the way for Black women to work for the Navy more than a century ago. A shortage of clerical workers led then-president Woodrow Wilson to pass the Naval Reserve Act of 1916, which asked for “all persons who may be capable of performing special useful services for coastal defense.” The Golden Fourteen were part of a larger group of over 11,000 women, almost all of them white, who were able to join the navy as yeomanettes, the title given to female yeomen.

Of the few archival records that exist of the Golden Fourteen, one thing is clear: In a period when stepping out of line could have violent repercussions for Black women, they worked without drawing attention to themselves.

“This is quite a novel experiment,” wrote the sociologist Kelly Miller in The History of the World War for Human Rights, published in 1919. “As it is the first time in the history of the navy of the United States that colored women have been employed in any clerical capacity … It was reserved to young colored women to invade successfully the yeoman branch, hereby establishing a precedent.”

Bell’s fascination with the Golden Fourteen only deepened. She is now writing a book about them, and has spent more than four and a half years, as well as thousands of dollars, collecting archival materials. She’s waited patiently to get military and civilian personnel records from the National Archives, which can often take years, and has combed through historical accounts that have not been digitized. She’s looked at photos and spoken with the last living descendant of the Risher family, who says that his aunt, Greene, never spoke of her naval service.

The memory keepers who tell the story of the Golden Fourteen are almost all veterans. Researchers like Bell have the personal connection and the professional knowledge to recover what fragments remain. She feels a powerful responsibility, to the point that she missed the first deadline for her manuscript nine months ago. Because she is telling a story that has been so thoroughly forgotten—and arguably erased—she wants her research to be truly comprehensive. “I just discovered some documents that I need to physically go to another state to get access to,” Bell says. “I couldn’t turn in the manuscript before. I know I owe these women more than that.”

There is one other place where stories of the Golden Fourteen have been passed down: in family histories. When Tracey L. Brown was 10 years old, she looked through her family photo album and saw a light-skinned woman she didn’t recognize. Her grandmother, Nan, told her that the woman with the blonde hair and hazel eyes was Brown’s great-grandmother, Ruth Ann Welborn. Welborn was one of the Golden Fourteen. Though she seemed to pass as white, she, like Brown, was African-American.

“I had known that she was one of very few Black women there,” Brown says. “But I didn’t know that there had been 14—I wasn’t expecting that many. I remember hearing about that, as a child, that there was some sort of scheme in how they were even able to enlist. I know it wasn’t simple.”

Although Brown grew up understanding who her great-grandmother had been, she didn’t grasp the magnitude of what Welborn and the other women had done until she was much older. Now a practicing attorney in a New York law firm, Brown started to dig deeper after her father, Ronald H. Brown, who had served as Secretary of Commerce under President Bill Clinton, died in 1996. In her grief, she decided to write a memoir about him. “It was sort of the perfect storm,” Brown says. “I had just lost him, so I was really committed to telling his story.”

Brown talked to friends, family, and even President Clinton himself. After interviews with her grandmother, she finally began to unearth more about Ruth Welborn. “It was so exciting to even begin pursuing these stories,” Brown says. “There have been so many stories that have been lost in our community, and it was nice to be able to have a little slice.”

Ruth was the daughter of Walter Welborn, the son of a white merchant, Johnson W. Welborn, and a woman he enslaved at his house in Clinton, Mississippi, whose name and date of birth remain unknown. In 1863, during the chaos of conscription riots that followed the Emancipation Proclamation, Walter and his brother Eugene escaped from the biological father who had enslaved them. According to Brown’s memoir, their mother dressed them in Confederate uniforms, and perhaps thanks to the fair skin they had inherited, they were able to escape onto a train to Washington.

In Washington, Walter Welborn was a free man, and he married Elexine Beckley, who came from a well-educated and affluent Black family. Their five daughters inherited Walter’s fair skin, blonde hair, and hazel eyes. Like their mother, the five daughters graduated from the best schools available to Black children at the time.

In 1918, after graduating from Dunbar High School, Ruth decided to join the Naval Reserve, becoming one of the Golden Fourteen. “Ruth seemed very stern,” Brown says. “She was a stoic person: In every picture, her posture is perfect. She looks very commanding, and I can’t imagine playing with her like I had with my great-grandmother on my mother’s side.” She and Brown’s father were both buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

Although Brown is one of the few to write about the Golden Fourteen, she is not alone. The Washington Post columnist Courtland Milloy wrote about Sara Davis Taylor, another yeomanette, in 1992. Taylor reportedly tried to join the Navy even before 1917. She and other Black women were turned away by military doctors, Milloy writes, because “they all allegedly had flat feet.” Only after President Wilson’s 1916 law were they assigned to Risher’s muster roll unit.

Relatively few of these stories have been passed on. Brown’s memoir is now out of print, and, according to Milloy’s column, Taylor and her husband did not have children. Richard E. Miller, a naval veteran and historian, laments in an article that many details may remain a mystery. “It is believed that all of the Black Navy women from the First World War have now passed away,” Miller writes. “Regrettably, the ‘golden’ place they deserved as pioneers in the annals of Afro-American, as well as naval and women’s history, was never accorded them during their lifetimes; except perhaps within their immediate family circles.”

No one is quite sure how the Golden Fourteen convinced a segregated military to hire them, years before women could vote and half a century before the end of Jim Crow. Some historians theorize that all 14 worked in the same office, where white supervisors could monitor and protect them. Others suggest that most of the Golden Fourteen had light enough complexions to pass for white—though photographs suggest that this was not the case for all of them.

These questions have bothered Regina Akers, a historian with the Naval History and Heritage Command, for years. Akers, who is Black, has made a name for herself by centering Black women in military history. “To learn of these women was exciting, and also frustrating,” Akers says. “There are some sources out there that mention them, but it’s always done in such a tangential way.”

The historical backdrop makes the achievements of the Golden Fourteen all the more surprising. “Lynchings were a popular occurrence; they were carried out with little threat of reprisal,” Akers says. “ If a black person approached a white person, they either moved aside, or they understood that you didn’t look them in the face, and just called them ma’am or sir.”

The U.S. military remains a site of systemic racism. This summer, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force released a video describing the racism he’s experienced during his career. When the Military Times surveyed hundreds of its readers in 2018, more than half of respondents of color said that they had witnessed white nationalism or racism from their peers.

Such stories have led Bell, who is white, to reflect on her own career as a naval officer. “I would ask Black colleagues, some working under me, about their experience as Black sailors in the Navy,” she says. “I realize that whatever my intentions may have been, they did not trust me to tell me what was really going on. People say that once you’re in uniform, no one looks at the color of your skin—but that’s crap.”

For Akers, the Golden Fourteen are compelling not because they are unique, but because they shared the struggles of so many Black Americans who have fought for equality. “I think it’s important to remember that the efforts to bring about equal opportunity are part of the larger civil rights movement of that time period,” Akers says. “There has always been a civil rights movement in the U.S., because there have always been people advocating for change and fighting for their rights.”

Originally published Atlas Obscura by Giulia Heyward.

Have you ever noticed (I have) that journalists and media folk seem to be stories in themselves…oftentimes having lives and having a personal history more interesting than the stories about others that they are busy getting “out there?”

Proving my observation is Caron LeNoir whose own adventures include (to list only a few) a 14 year military history of service (1994-2008) in both the U.S. Navy and U.S. Army, being confirmed as being a fully disabled veteran only after suing the VA to attain that deserved status, being a self-taught computer programmer, performing a public service announcement for the FTC warning about veteran charity scams, surviving five years of homelessness to create a successful path towards entrepreneurial journalism including owning her own radio station, etc., etc.

But her present efforts, built on this foundation which includes her membership in the National Association of Black Journalists (NABJ) and more recently in Military Veterans in Journalism (MVJ) deserve a look. 

Caron attracted LRT’s notice when she and several other veteran journalist members of MVJ participated in the launch of LRT’s new Rethinking Heroes (RH) public radio broadcast series on famed KPFK 90.7 FM in Los Angeles, CA which hits the air every Friday morning drivetime from 9-10 a.m. PST (noon EST).  (Want to listen in at those times? Here’s the direct internet link: https://www.kpfk.org/player/)

VMJ is placing its members at the top of the hour to read the news – this time items about and for the veteran audience while; a unique way to provide broadcast exposure for their members while supporting a national campaign called Veteran Mission Possible and its mission to bring greater awareness to suicide and medical debt in that community and celebrating the “Solution Providers” that come up with remedies.

Naturally, Ms. LeNoir was among those selected.

“It was a rush,” Caron said of this opportunity to deliver veteran-centric news to KPFK’s listeners locally and nationally through public radio affiliates. “It reconfirmed my own determination to see that veterans like myself get greater experience and exposure within the media world. I personally felt revitalized.”

Entrepreneurial Journalism?

In bygone days, journalism and entrepreneur would never be included in the same sentence. Entrepreneurs “did” it, and journo’s “reported” it. No longer. The days of a secure position in any sector of media, whether print, broadcast or otherwise, is no longer assured or even possible.

U.S. newsroom employment has fallen 26% since 2008. Major media outlets are announcing major layoffs, print cuts and hiring freezes. That’s a strong hit against veterans attempting to work in those industries, considering only 2% of media employees are veteran in spite of vets being 8% of the U.S. population. This requires a new breed of creatives. Many organizations such as NABJ and MVJ are training its members to be more business-minded as they become guns-for-hire. (We at Let’s Rethink This took note of this new environment and created Our Newspaper to ensure that its writers and contributors would have an assured outlet for their stories.)

This where Caron steps up. By way of podcasts, speaking engagements and cultivating a clientele of businesses clamoring to be noticed but unaware of how to present themselves as a news story, she serves as savant and consultant…and reaps the rewards.

“Profit is great for my complexion,” she cooes. “That I help my clients bring in more work and have greater success for themselves make it glow all the more.” 

Impact Journalism and ROI is the today’s journo’s new-new thing! Pay attention.