The Founder’s Journey:

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.

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 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. Bosses 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 one day, I reached a limit.

I hit my first breaking point during a dairy installation in Oklahoma. The culture was toxic, the standards were nonexistent, and I just got tired of the literal nephew of one of the good 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 submitted a conversion package, the command career counselor laughed me out of the room. Not because I lacked experience, but because the process wasn’t designed to recognize it. 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 for conversion.

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 case-by-case situations.

And 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. I always get asked, so this was my favorite job I’ve had in the Navy: training foreign forces in small boat tactics and maritime interdiction across the Pacific as the resident mechanic, as well 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 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.

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, providing 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 such an effective recruiter that I was invited to submit a package to convert and become an Active Duty career recruiter.

I finally had my 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 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.”