The Founder’s Journey:
From Collapse to Construction: A Refusal to Disappear
Most people build a business because they see an opportunity. I built one because I hit a wall, and the only way forward was through.
I’ve believed in service for most of my life. Not merely as a profession, but as a calling; the firm conviction that giving yourself to a cause greater than yourself is the highest purpose a person can pursue.
I enlisted in the Navy at 17, before my senior year of high school even began, after spending my entire childhood dreaming of a career in the military. I viewed it through a romanticized lens as most kids do, but as I grew older, it became something more... A patriotic duty. A civic responsibility. Call it what you will, it was my one burning desire.
But I didn’t want to take the average path. I wanted to challenge myself by taking on roles that required skill and adaptability, where I could harness my natural talents for out-of-the-box thinking and problem-solving. I wanted the difficult jobs, the ones where my ingrained work ethic would be an asset. Growing up with a single mom in a low-income home, I had worked with my hands from an early age to keep the house in one piece, which, looking back, provided the foundation for the skills I have today.
So I became a Navy Seabee, specifically a Construction Mechanic trained in both technical expertise within the construction trades and US Marine Corps combat readiness. The US Navy Construction Battalions are a community with a rich heritage and a well-established reputation for performing miracles—just my style.
I vividly remember one specific day of training in Port Hueneme, CA. At one point during a long formation run, we passed through the staging area of a battalion heading to the Middle East. They were out in their desert camo, receiving their gear issue, inspecting, and packing their kit. As we passed by them loudly singing our cadence, I distinctly remember getting chills and thinking to myself that these were my heroes, and I’m actually getting to join their team.” It felt like I was joining the Avengers.
I excelled early, graduating boot camp with honors, earning top marks in my technical training, and securing the coveted “turbo crow” accelerated advancement to Petty Officer. This also meant I had priority selection for the duty station of my choice.
In the post 9/11 world, I wanted to be in the fight, so I volunteered for a deployable battalion. I was sent to a desk job in Europe.
Lessons I Didn't Expect to Learn
That was the first crack in my naivety; bureaucracy doesn’t always reward merit. Over the years that followed, that pattern would repeat endlessly. But in the meantime, I made the most of my circumstances and thoroughly enjoyed Italy.
It wasn’t very long before the illusion shattered completely, though. An obscure enlistment contract nullified my early promotion… then, just 15 months into a 3-year tour, my orders were cut short to force me into the Reserves for the very same reason.
I fought that decision with everything I had. With the help of some serendipitous timing, even the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy—the highest enlisted Sailor in the force—endorsed my request to remain active.
It didn’t matter; I was sent home anyway. Not for misconduct. Not for failure. Just policy.
And in that moment, I learned something that would haunt the next twenty years of my life:
You can do everything right. You can earn it. Bleed for it. Live for it.
And still lose it because the system doesn’t have room for you.
The Navy didn’t just end my orders. It took my dream, sealed it into a file, and let policy do the killing.
But I wasn’t ready to walk away.
“I had given everything, done everything right, and earned my place. But none of it mattered.”
Adapting, Overcoming, and the Cost of Never Giving Up
With no choice but to enter the civilian workforce as a Reservist, I threw myself into any job that would keep me moving forward. I’ve always been good with my hands, so I worked in maintenance, fabrication, restaurant service, and even as a water park inspector. I applied my skills wherever I could, always hoping the next role might offer some sense of direction or belonging.
But I never quite fit in.
By 21, I had already traveled the world, led teams under pressure, and solved complex problems the average person would never face. And yet in these civilian roles, none of that mattered. Experience was a footnote. Work ethic was often seen as a threat and even resented.
I was told to slow down, that I was making others look bad, that I cared too much.
Pride in craftsmanship was rare; I watched corner-cutting become standard practice. Worse, leadership didn’t resemble what I had been taught it should be. Managers liked to flex authority, not lead. Promotions came from politics or proximity, not performance.
Yet I still kept pushing. I had 5 different jobs in 3 years, always searching for a calling, until I reached a limit.
I hit my first breaking point during a conveyor installation in an Oklahoma dairy. The culture was toxic, the standards were nonexistent, and I just got tired of the literal nephew of one of the senior installers constantly lording over me, despite me working circles around him. I walked away, took a Greyhound back to Michigan, and recommitted myself to my childhood dream: getting back on Active Duty.
The system had other plans.
When I tried again to submit a conversion package, the command career counselor laughed me out of the room. Not because I lacked qualifications, but because the process wasn’t designed to recognize them. The formula wasn’t based on skill or readiness. It was based on rank, rate, time in service, and abstract projections around recruiting and retention quotas. There was a very long period where, as a Seabee, I wouldn’t even be considered. And even better… the more senior I got, the more unlikely an active duty conversion became.
It didn’t matter that critical billets were going unfilled.
It didn’t matter that I was qualified, ready, and willing.
The system wasn’t built for merit or common-sense situations.
Moreover, reservists converting to active duty were often seen not as a solution to critical manning shortfalls, but rather as a threat to promotion competition and quotas.
But I wasn’t ready to give up. I adapted.
I volunteered for every relevant augment assignment I could find. I trained constantly. I pursued every school, every deployment, every opportunity the system would allow.
When policy restricted one path, I found another.
I deployed to Afghanistan. I joined the regional Honor Guard and conducted hundreds of funeral services for fallen veterans. I became the Leading Petty Officer of a mobile training team on a counter-narcotics task force. (Since I always get asked, this was my favorite assignment I’ve had in the Navy: training foreign forces in small boat tactics and maritime interdiction across the Pacific as the team’s mission planning and weapons expert.)
In a world where nothing was guaranteed, reputation became my currency.
I had to be exceptional everywhere I went just to ensure the next door would open. I developed a reputation as the guy who could get things done; no excuses, no shortcuts. The more difficult the problem, the more you wanted me working on it.
And with the underlying primary goal of eventually, somehow, converting to active duty… I extended whenever I could. Any job security was preferred to the rat race of applying for a new set of orders and hoping for the best (exactly like applying for jobs in the civilian sector).
But even then, there were limits.
I was promoted out of jobs I loved. Told I was “too valuable” for one role, but “not eligible” for another.
No matter how well I performed, if the policy didn’t allow me to stay, I was gone.
Eventually, I picked up extended orders to Hawaii as a Navy recruiter. This provided three whole years of stability, the longest I had ever been in one place. And despite the toxic environment, I excelled.
My honest approach and candor about my own experiences made me a very effective recruiter. As a result, I was invited to submit a package to convert and become an Active Duty career recruiter.
I finally had a real shot. By this point, I was a Seabee Chief, and this was the only realistic pathway for me to remain on active duty.
My package was rejected.
Not because of my results or lack of qualifications. But because, at the time, the system didn’t have a quota for Chiefs.
That was the core of my doom spiral.
No matter how hard I worked, how well I led, or how much I delivered, it was never enough to beat bad policy.
I spent three years offering people a future I was never allowed to have.
“In a world where my future was always uncertain, reputation became my primary currency.”
The Personal Toll
With every move, every deployment, every job shift, any hope of stability slowly disappeared.
Over time, the cycle of uncertainty, professional rejection, and constant transition wore me down.
I was tired of starting over. Tired of trying to prove myself to a system that never really saw me.
Dating became nearly impossible.
Most women saw me as temporary. And they weren’t wrong, I moved around more frequently than my active duty counterparts. I couldn’t promise where I’d be six months from then, let alone offer enough stability to build a long-term future. My dedication to the Navy dictated where I went, how long I stayed, and how much of myself I had left to give to a relationship. So they didn’t last, and eventually, I stopped trying.
I gradually fell into self-destructive patterns and filled the silence with things that numbed me or provided temporary distractions.
I convinced myself that as long as I kept chasing the next opportunity, the next challenge, the next adrenaline rush… I wouldn’t have to stop and face what was really happening.
I sought adventure as both an outlet and an escape.
Off-roading in Hawaii. Solo vacations. Disappearing into the jungle, camping on isolated beaches, booking flights just to feel a sense of motion.
Moments of freedom gave me room to breathe, but they were fleeting. The silence always caught up with me, and in that silence, the darkness returned.
What was I really building toward? Who was I doing this for?
The deeper struggles never went away; they just waited in the quiet.
“The deeper struggles didn’t go away, they were always waiting in the quiet.”
The Final Test
My final deployment was the culmination of everything I had learned. In many ways, it was the capstone of my career; two years within a battlefield of politics, negotiation, and leadership under relentless pressure.
Thousands of personnel, all with conflicting mission priorities, all competing for the same limited resources.
Units from all military branches rotating in and out, each with its own rules, equipment, missions, and requirements.
Tensions running high, relationships strained, and critical missions on the line.
My job? Balance it all.
I had harness my talent for planning & problem solving to master the art of prediction.
Who was doing what, where, why, and for how long?
Who needed what, when, and at what cost to everyone else?
What resources had to be in place for the next unexpected crisis?
Every decision was a domino effect. I made "recommendations" on who got what, in which area, and when, often without being able to explain to those affected. Planning for contingencies, like a refugee crisis, became second nature.
I was one of the most sought-after and least-liked people on the installation. I could make seemingly impossible things happen, but every “yes” often meant someone else got bad news. Every unforeseen contingency could snowball into mission failure.
My job wasn’t about being popular. It was about ensuring the mission didn’t collapse under its own weight.
I navigated strained relationships, brokered deals that benefited multiple parties, delivered unexpected quality-of-life improvements, and devised solutions that had second- and third-order effects for entire units who would never know they benefited.
It was by far the most demanding and challenging assignment I’d ever had, and outwardly, I excelled.
But internally, I was unraveling.
“I sacrificed everything to a system that regularly discarded me.”
The Breaking Point
By this point, I had sacrificed everything: stability, relationships, and my family barely saw me. Even financial security was out of reach, living on savings and credit between orders made it impossible to get ahead.
I gave it all to an institution that regularly discarded me.
I felt like a guest in my own career. After everything I’d accomplished and overcome, my entire foundation was rocked by a straightforward question:
Why the hell am I fighting for this?
The pressure and frustration that had been building for years finally caught up with me. I was deep in an existential fog.
But I kept doing the work, consistent with my hard-wired work ethic and hard-won reputation. As those orders neared their end, I had endorsements from multiple senior officers to remain on active duty in varying capacities.
Except the quota always wins.
Not even the most substantial endorsements can override bad policy.
The system does not bend for excellence.
The Final Realization
By the time that final deployment ended, I was running on empty. Mentally, emotionally, professionally… I had nothing left to give.
I had spent two decades proving myself to a system that would never let me in. My last periodic evaluation even ranked me as the #1 Chief on base.
Good enough to put on Senior Chief. Never good enough to fulfill the dream.
I was going “home” to no permanent job, no home, no stability. I had never built a life I could actually live in.
Just a string of assignments. A series of restarts. A reputation with no place to take it.
I had no family of my own. No real rest to look forward to. Just the persistent need to stay afloat.
But the hardest part? Feeling like the last twenty years were all for nothing.
Regardless of how many successful missions I led, problems I solved, or sacrifices I made, I would always be at the mercy of policies that didn’t care.
It didn’t matter that I was the best at what I did; the institution to which I had dedicated my life simply didn’t want me.
So finally, I was confronted with the biggest decision of my life, the one I’d been trying to avoid: I could keep chasing approval forever… or I could let it go.
An Unexpected Lifeline
Near the end of my deployment, a friend encouraged me to check out the base’s Seabee Self-Help Shop— a dusty, underused, unfunded workshop tucked into a forgotten corner of the compound.
Ironically, it fell under my department.
But I had never made time for it. There was always something more urgent, more mission-critical, more important than myself.
I stepped into that little shop filled with donated tools and leftover materials, and for the first time in years, I built something with my own hands.
Not because I had to. Not because someone ordered it. But just because I wanted to.
And it changed everything.
It was a simple act that reconnected me to something I hadn’t even realized I’d lost.
There were no quotas. No metrics. No approval chain.
Just the quiet rhythm of creation; measured, grounded, and honest.
For a few stolen hours a day, I wasn’t someone else’s problem-solver.
I was just a guy building something for its own sake.
It didn’t fix the damage. But for the first time in years, I remembered what it felt like to be human again.
And it reminded me that I still had something left.
Yet, even that was temporary.
New Zealand: A Moment of Clarity
I was lost.
Before I left Africa, a trusted advisor suggested something radical: Take a real break, a legitimate sabbatical.
Step away from the Navy. Step away from the grind. Put yourself at the top of the priority list for once.
So I did.
I flew to Australia, took a long cruise to New Zealand, rented a camper van, and spent weeks drifting across the islands alone, surrounded by beauty, silence, and the uncomfortable space to think.
I’d taken solo trips before, but this one was different.
There was no next assignment to prepare for. No orders waiting at home.
Just the open road and the quiet reckoning I’d been avoiding.
One evening, I found myself sitting by Lake Wanaka, staring at the still water and the mountains beyond it, thinking about my life. My future. My worth.
I had given my life to the Navy, and they discarded it like I meant nothing. Every new DD-214 felt like a breakup letter from an institution I loved.
Throughout the years, I have always believed that we are exactly where we’re supposed to be; put there to either give something or get something. That belief sustained me through the darkest times.
And I realized in that moment I had stopped believing it. I had truly broken.
That day in Wanaka was the crossroads.
Behind me: a dead dream.
Ahead of me: a void that was expectantly, hungrily gazing back.
Or… I could build something entirely new.
I didn’t know what the company would be yet. I only knew that the next chapter wouldn’t be handed to me; I had to build, or the void would exact its price.
Later that night, sitting alone at a bar in a quiet lakeside steakhouse, I filed the paperwork online to start Five Pack Studios.
Not as a grand gesture or as some brilliant entrepreneurial epiphany.
It was survival.
If I hadn’t made that choice, I wouldn’t have come back from that trip.
"Behind me was a dead dream. Ahead of me was an option I refused to take. Or—I could build something entirely new from the ground up.”
The First Light After the Storm
Starting Five Pack Studios wasn’t an instant fix. I came back from New Zealand still carrying years of exhaustion, grief, and frustration. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t lost chasing approval or grasping for a place to belong. I had direction.
And then, I started to feel... lighter.
I wasn’t building for someone else’s approval anymore, or hoping someone in a position of power would finally recognize my worth.
I was creating on my own terms.
Each design, each prototype, each sleepless night in the shop returned a piece of myself.
I didn’t need the system’s blessing.
I didn’t need permission.
I had the freedom to build what I believed in. And that freedom began to heal something I hadn’t realized was even broken.
For the first time in decades, I imagined a future that didn’t revolve around being seen. It revolved around building something that mattered, something that would last.
I reconnected with old friends. I made new ones. I found moments of peace in the process, pride in the work, and meaning in my new mission.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough to keep going.
Enough to believe that everything I went through— every setback, every detour— had led me exactly where I was meant to be.
The Evolution of Five Pack Studios: From Survival to Revolution
When I filed the paperwork for this company, I didn’t have a grand, fully formed vision.
I just knew I had to create something or I wouldn’t make it.
At the time, it was simple: I just wanted to make cool things.
But as I started down this path, I quickly discovered that my “simple” vision was bigger than my immediate capability.
Phase 1: The Realization That Pushed Me Further
As I began designing, it became clear that the things I wanted to make couldn’t be produced to the quality I demanded. Compromise is not in my nature, so rather than lowering my standards, I invented the solution.
That’s how the Modular Pressure Vessel came to be, because no existing methods could achieve the results I needed.
With that first breakthrough, the horizon shifted. What began as a necessity became a possibility.
I had unlocked an entirely new way of making, and with it, Aetherwood was born.
Phase 2: Rediscovering Old Ambitions
That breakthrough forced me to re-evaluate everything I thought was out of reach.
If I had already solved a problem like that, what else was possible?
Besides, I’d spent my entire adult life solving complex problems for other people, pouring everything I had into results that made them succeed. I knew I had the ability; this was my chance to pour that energy into myself.
I started revisiting old ideas, pipe dreams I’d shelved years ago because they seemed impractical, out of reach, or simply too ambitious.
But I didn’t care about limitations anymore; I was thinking about how to break past them.
The Flagship Projects were born.
One of those lingering barriers centered around something I’d been thinking a great deal about: What if everyone were empowered to create on their own terms?
I know what it’s like when independent creation is the only thing keeping you vertical. I’ve lived it. I still am. I’ll never forget how much it can mean when the rest of your life is falling apart around you. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, to struggle with an uncertain future, and to find stability in making something from your heart. I also know what it’s like not to have the financial flexibility, or even luxury, to pursue those hobbies.
But I firmly believe that it’s critically essential to pursue a constructive outlet proactively. Otherwise, it’s human nature to default to the destructive.
I remember what that dusty little workshop did for me, and I want to give others the same chance to breathe. That led to the foundation of the Create Something Initiative, a way to provide more people with an opportunity to build, create, compose, and otherwise hone their craft regardless of their financial situation.
And the more I built, the clearer it became:
Financial aid wasn’t enough. If I wanted to truly empower creators, I needed an entire infrastructure. Not just access to resources, but a system that makes it sustainable.
Imagine if Etsy provided financial aid to struggling creators.
That’s how the Creator Ecosystem was born, as the natural evolution of the mission.
At that moment, Five Pack Studios stopped being just a business.
“At that moment, Five Pack Studios stopped being just a business. It became a movement.”
Phase 3: The Movement
It wasn’t enough for me to create high-quality products.
I wanted to prove something bigger: that a business can succeed without exploiting people, without lowering standards, and without following the same corporate playbook.
So, the vision evolved to challenge everything wrong with modern industry:
A sustainable marketplace where craftsmanship and innovation take priority over mass production, and fees are reasonable.
A reinvestment model that funds creators, ensuring financial aid and wellness programs through Solace, and subsidized promotion opportunities through Luster.
A Kickstarter model turning backers into micro-investors, allowing me to repay and benefit people who believe in the vision.
A commitment to fair wages, with a revolutionary payment model, because nobody should have to work two jobs to survive.
A challenge to the industry: if competitors want to keep up, they’ll have to rise to the same ethical standards or be left behind.
Phase 4: Bringing It All Together
Five Pack Studios now exists to prove what most people have stopped believing: that mission success doesn’t have to come at someone else’s expense.
This is why I’m inviting others to be part of it, not just as customers, but as Founders in a movement that redefines what a company can be.
Instead of chasing trends, we create legacies.
Instead of extracting value, we build and reinvest.
Instead of hoarding profits, we empower mutual success.
This isn’t just a business. This is the future I’m building. Something that doesn’t just change the game, it rewrites the rules. And for the first time, I don’t need anyone’s approval to do it.
Which is why Five Pack Studios will not pursue traditional investors. This company was not built to chase capital. It was built to reimagine what a business does, especially for creators, innovators, and everyone committed to a better way. I won’t compromise that mission, nor will I expose it to risk from those who might subvert the values that define us. Instead, I seek collaborators and partners who respect this vision and want to build with us.
If you see the world as a place where quality craftsmanship, individual empowerment, and ethical business are essential, then this is your invitation: join me in redefining what a company can be.
Join Me & Shape the Future
“This isn’t just a business. This is the future I’m building. And for the first time, I don’t need anyone’s approval to do it.”
Five Pack Studios isn’t just another startup; it’s a challenge to everything broken in the world today.
It did not begin as a business plan. It began as an act of defiance.
A refusal to disappear quietly into systems that consume more than they create.
A refusal to surrender craftsmanship to convenience, or people to processes.
A refusal to let the void write the ending.
What exists now is not a company chasing trends or capital, but a foundry in the oldest sense of the word; a place where raw potential is placed under pressure and emerges as something enduring and beautiful.
Every material we develop, every tool we design, every system we build is guided by a single conviction:
Creation is not a privilege. It’s a responsibility.
If you’re reading this, you might be standing where I once stood… at the edge between inertia and intent. You do not need permission. You do not need to wait for alignment, approval, or perfect conditions.
You only need to choose to build.
This is not a brand.
It is not a product.
It’s not even a company.
It’s a bright line in the dark— and an invitation to step across it.
—V. Aumber Hudson
Why a Pseudonym?
I gave up a personal life to chase my first dream. I’m not giving it up again to chase this one.
My real name isn’t a secret—it’s just not the point. Those who need to know, do. And anyone who wants to verify the story can.
Five Pack Studios was never about one person.
The name on the door doesn’t matter.
Only the mission does.