Progress.
Maybe.
Nico called fifteen minutes before release.
“You checking?”
“Yes.”
“I am shocked.”
“Therapy.”
“Expensive miracle.”
I laughed.
The list loaded.
I scrolled.
R.
ROMANO, ELENA M.
Selected.
I stared.
Lieutenant colonel had once felt like proof.
Colonel felt different.
Weight.
Command possibility at higher level.
Staff authority.
People listening before I had earned agreement in the room.
That scared me more than it thrilled me.
Good.
Probably.
I told my squadron.
Applause.
Reeves said:
“Ma'am, congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Then:
“You look worried.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
I stared.
“Everyone has become very comfortable saying that to me.”
“You trained us.”
Unfortunately true.
That evening Nico called again.
“Colonel Romano.”
“Not yet.”
“Colonel Sticky Six.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Bird Colonel eventually?”
“Maybe someday.”
“General Cupcake?”
I hung up.
He called back laughing.
After the jokes, he became serious.
“What scares you?”
I could have said responsibility.
Too easy.
“Being believed too quickly.”
Silence.
“What does that mean?”
“When you're junior, people challenge.”
“When you're senior, sometimes they stop.”
“So?”
“I have a history of confidence.”
“That is one way to say it.”
“Exactly.”
“If people assume I'm right because of rank, I may not notice when I'm becoming wrong.”
Nico paused.
Then:
“Build people around you who enjoy telling you you're wrong.”
“I already have you.”
“No charge.”
I thought of Owens.
Reeves.
Blake.
Whitcomb.
Dr. Wells.
Nico.
Barrett.
Rachel.
People who had challenged different versions of me.
Maybe leadership at higher rank was less about becoming more capable.
Maybe it was about becoming more deliberate in creating friction around your own certainty.
When I met Colonel Whitcomb later, she asked what kind of colonel I wanted to be.
I said:
“One who still gets interrupted.”
She smiled.
“Good luck.”
“Why?”
“People become polite.”
That was the danger.
We built a habit before I left command.
At major decisions, one staff member was assigned to argue the strongest case against the preferred option.
Not because dissent must always win.
Because silence can imitate agreement.
The first few times were awkward.
Then useful.
One exercise plan changed significantly.
Another stayed exactly the same after challenge.
Both outcomes were success.
The point was not opposition.
The point was examination.
At my farewell from squadron command, Marcus Hall—now captain—spoke briefly.
He reminded everyone of the day he froze.
I wanted to crawl under the table.
He said:
“Colonel-select Romano taught me that one bad moment should be investigated before it becomes an identity.”
Then Captain Blake added:
“She also taught us that colonels can be wrong.”
Everyone laughed.
I did too.
Good.
That was the culture I wanted to leave.
Not admiration.
Permission.
Reeves gave me a small framed card.
On it:
WHEN YOU START SPEAKING IN FULL PARAGRAPHS, ASK ANOTHER QUESTION.
I stared.
“You're immortalizing my worst habit?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I hate this.”
“That's why it's useful.”
I put it in the box later.
Of course.
Before my final day, I walked through the empty operations floor after everyone left.
Screens dark.
Headsets stored.
Chairs pushed in.
For a moment I remembered Sangin.
Another operations room.
Another version of me.
Thirty.
Certain.
Afraid.
Useful.
Damaged.
Brave sometimes.
Wrong sometimes.
I no longer needed to choose one adjective.
That felt like freedom.
The next morning I handed command to another officer.
The guidon moved out of my hands.
This time letting go did not feel like loss.
It felt like completion.
I had spent decades becoming Sticky Six.
Then years learning I did not have to stay attached to every problem simply because I could.
Colonel would bring new problems.
Higher stakes.
More distance.
More temptation to believe my own experience.
I could not guarantee I would avoid every mistake.
No leader can.
But now I knew what to fear.
Not being wrong.
Being too powerful for people to tell me.
That was the lesson I carried into the next rank.
And for once, it felt more important than the rank itself.
My first year as a colonel taught me that higher rank does not remove mistakes.
It simply gives mistakes a larger radius.
I learned that during a joint readiness review at Langley.
Three wings.
Multiple support units.
A complicated exercise plan designed to test air-ground coordination under degraded communications.
The scenario looked strong.
I liked it.
That should have worried me.
When senior officers like a plan too quickly, people often stop asking whether liking it is becoming part of the evidence.
The lead planner, Lieutenant Colonel James Keller, briefed me.
Professional.
Detailed.
Confident.
At the end I said:
“Approved.”
Then a major near the back raised her hand.
Major Leah Morgan.
Operations analyst.
Quiet.
I knew her reputation.
Brilliant.
Not socially aggressive.
The kind of officer who often waits until she has something worth saying.
“Ma'am, I have a concern.”
The room changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
I felt it.
People looked toward me first.
Not Leah.
That was rank.
They were checking whether disagreement was safe before deciding whether to listen.
I hated that.
So I said:
“Go ahead.”
Leah stood.
“The exercise assumes backup communications fail in sequence.”
“Yes.”
“In reality, the systems share two dependencies.”
I frowned.