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—maintenance, fabrication, restaurant service, even 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. Not to make others look bad. That I cared too much.

Leadership didn’t resemble what I had learned. Promotions came from politics or proximity, not performance. I watched corner-cutting become standard practice— pride in craftsmanship was rare.

And still, I kept pushing. Until one day, I stopped.

I hit a breaking point during a dairy installation in Oklahoma. The culture was toxic, and the standards were nonexistent. 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, to quotas, to “the way things are.”

But I wasn’t ready to give up. I adapted.

I volunteered for every augment assignment I could. 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 a funeral honor guard and conducted hundreds of services for fallen veterans. I became the Leading Petty Officer of a mobile training team on a counter-narcotics task force— 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 keep the next door open. I became known as the guy who could get things done—no excuses, no shortcuts.

With the primary goal of somehow converting to active duty, I extended whenever I could.

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.

“In a world where my future was always uncertain, reputation became my primary currency.”

Recruiting—The Hardest Lessons in Leadership

Eventually, I got extended orders to Hawaii as a Navy recruiter—the longest I had ever been in one place.
Three years of stability. But it came at a cost.

Recruiting is one of the most toxic environments in the entire military.

Leadership wasn’t about developing people—it was about hitting numbers. Quotas came first. And when those numbers weren’t met, accountability rarely flowed upward. Good Sailors burned out. Great recruiters were broken down and discarded. People were thrown under the bus to protect the establishment.

It wasn’t about helping people— it was about making the numbers work.

None of it measured real success. It was another system that rewarded compliance over competence.

And yet, there were bright spots. I worked alongside mentors and peers who genuinely cared. I made good friends, people who fought to do the right thing even when the system made it difficult.

But the institution itself?
Rigid. Unforgiving. Resistant to change.

I watched outstanding leaders get passed over in favor of “yes-men”—people who reinforced the very dysfunction driving the mission into the ground.

And despite how much I hated the environment, I was extremely good at the job.

The Secret to My Success? Honesty.

I didn’t sugarcoat the Navy. I didn’t sell fantasies. I told the truth— even when it wasn’t flattering.

I shared my own setbacks. My frustrations. My failures.
I let every recruit know that my only goal was to treat them better than I had been.
And I meant it.

That approach worked well. So well that I submitted a package to convert and become a career recruiter— not because I loved the work, but because it was the only realistic pathway for me to remain on active duty.

The Recurring Theme: Policy Over Performance

I was denied.
Not because of my results. Not because I lacked qualifications.
But because, at the time, the establishment didn’t have room for Chiefs to convert.

That was the pattern.
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.

“No matter how good I was, it was never good enough to beat bad policy.”