A Discipline of Seeing, Part 1

“Write down what you see, what you think. It may come in handy one day. The memory plays foul. There is no trusting what we recall. It’s good training for the mind and enforces a kind of discipline.”

“A discipline of seeing.”

The Passages of H.M., by Jay Parini

In twelve months, the beginning ends. I’ll turn in my Officers’ sword for the Civilian mantle. Between now and then, I plan to write a weekly post about what I see and what I think about this transition. Thousands have done it before and thousands will after, but only I will see what I see, think what I think, and experience this new beginning at this distinct moment in time.

“A Discipline of Seeing” is an adventure in slow-burn habit-forming: setting achievable short-term goals, so easy as to seem trivial, with a defined frequency. I’ve been working on the concept of slow-burn habit-forming for years, and it works! I’ve had success with reading (“one page a day”), with cooking (“make a totally new dish once a week”), even with flossing (“put a single plastic flosser in your pocket every morning”). The effects are tremendous! Last year I read 10,000 pages, cooked over 100 new dishes, and I even flossed every day…  

This new habit is all about communicating what I see and what I think. I’ve noticed over the last few years that I’ve become more reserved and private. Less articulate. That I don’t regularly share my thoughts, opinions, or observations. My ability to express these things has withered. I want my communication to become more regular, articulate, and expressive. By writing one post every week, I hope to build this habit over many years. To make the goal easily achievable and accountable, I’m posting publicly on LinkedIn about the most relevant topic to my current life: my professional transition. Without further adieu, here’s part 1.

Observation: Leaving the military is scary!

In the Navy, we complain a lot. There’s an old saying, “A bitching Sailor is a happy Sailor.” We complain about the hours, the food, the work, the people, the policies, the weather, the paperwork, the pay… But staring down the track with my exit ramp quickly approaching, I’ve realized something. In many ways, military life was a sort of cheat code to adulthood. Giving it up is scary! Tackling all the challenges of civilian life -- the challenges my peers face daily -- is daunting.

I’ve been steeped in this military world for a decade -- my entire legal adulthood. At 18 I put on a uniform. At 28 I’m still wearing it. I speak the language, I appreciate the customs, I understand the methods (even if I don’t always agree with them), and I respect the purpose. I am a Naval Officer to my core. But in 12 months, I won’t be. I’ll just be Brandon again. Shit, I haven’t just been Brandon since I was a teenager. That kid is long gone.

What about the grass is greener? In the military, the pay is actually pretty good. The promotions are guaranteed. I can predict every promotion for a 36-year career within a few months' error. The hours do suck and the work is tedious. That’s inarguable. Time away from family isn’t ideal. The relinquishing of personal freedoms is frustrating. But at least I know what’s expected. It’s all explicit, quite literally in writing. You can find a published Instruction, Policy, or Procedure that dictates and directs everything I’ve done for the last decade. You can’t find that sort of structure in the private sector...

Leaving this world of predictability for one of unstructured professional freedom is terrifying. I’m coming to accept that truth, but it’s not easy. And it begs the universal question, “Why?” Why relinquish security and predictability for anxiety and uncertainty? Why turn my back on leading hundreds of Sailors, ownership over millions of dollars of equipment, control over national security programs I’m still passionate about, and retirement by mid-40s?

There’s no easy answer. Self-actualization might be a good place to start. Self-control. Self-determination. Independence and autonomy. Identity. Embracing my true personality hiding under the veneer of crisp white uniforms, gilded insignias, shiny medals, and squeaky shoes. The Navy doesn’t embrace Brandon. It took that young kid, put him on the starting line with bumpers to the left and right, and set him running. They created Lieutenant Karpf. A “Sir.” A member of the collective.

In starting this transition, I’ve had the opportunity through various programs to look inward for the first time in a long time. To ask, “What’s my identity?” Strip away the rank, the positions, the authority, and who am I? (Quick aside, I’ll write more about these programs and opportunities in a future post. Transitioning from the military to the civilian sector is a serious challenge with lessons applicable to many areas of life...)

I don’t have a good answer yet. They’re still coming. But I’m becoming a better person because of them. This exercise -- a massive and permanent disruption to my life, my future, and my career -- is helping me grow as a man, a husband, and as a professional. It’s an adventure of a whole different sort. And I think it makes up for how terrified I am for December 31st, 2021, my final day as Lieutenant Karpf. And that’s pretty cool too.