Learning To Let Go

Do you remember your first day in the military? Those first minutes? The chaos, the confusion, the doubts about whether you made a really terrible decision?

On July 2, 2001, my family and I took our seats at West Point and abruptly heard the words “You have 90 seconds to say your goodbyes!” In a flurry of surprise and worried hugs, my classmates and I were whisked out of sight to begin a very long day of being yelled at, shaven, stripped and re-dressed, drilled, and fed as quickly as humanly possible. It was dizzying to say the least.

I hadn’t remotely adequately prepared myself for what lay ahead. The following weeks of Cadet Basic Training were full of acronyms and terms I’d never heard before. I couldn’t figure out who to call Sir or Ma’am and who to call Sergeant. Who was I supposed to salute? What did it mean to “cup my hands”? Why was I supposed to make the hangers in my closet tilt to look like question marks?

I fought this new culture like hell. When a hospital corner was slightly askew on my bed or a speck of dust was found on a mirror, I raged internally, watching my sergeant tear up our room, throwing our belongings everywhere as punishment. As I stood in silence, instructed to study my copy of “Bugle Notes” (the cadet bible of history, quotes, and mottoes that we were to memorize), instead of taking notes to help myself remember, I literally just wrote “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” over and over and over again in the margins.

Everyone hated it. It was supposed to be frustrating. It was supposed to test our every nerve and build discipline within us. But once the school year started, most of my classmates seemed to adapt a bit better than I did. I was still resisting, fighting tooth and nail and everyone else seemed to be acquiescing, learning to operate within the system. I became the odd man out. I was doubly lonely, with no one to commiserate with - people didn’t want to hear me complain anymore. I became annoying. Some of them would have preferred I either shut up or leave altogether. I applied for a transfer to Notre Dame, but wouldn’t hear back until mid-summer. I had to wait it out.

That spring, a few big things changed. My high school girlfriend broke up with me, severing my tether to the idea of an alternate life. “I’ll just leave West Point and go be with her” no longer was an option. Second, we hit the point of plebe year when the hazing stopped and life got a bit easier. Instead of fighting every step of the way, I decided to invest in where I was - at least until I heard back from Notre Dame. I came back for my second summer’s worth of training with a whole new attitude - this was my new life, and I was going to make the most of it. If I still hated it and that letter showed up, I’d have an out.

Turns out, I loved it. The second summer was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. Instead of being hazed, it was basically Army summer camp. It was heaven for the 7-year-old inside of me who loved playing with green plastic soldiers. Each week we were firing machine guns, rocket launchers, grenades, and explosives. They took us down to Fort Knox so we could drive around in tanks and really blow some things up. Our free time was filled with laughter and water balloon fights and pranks on other squads. I was a top performer. I found my “leadership gene.” People were following me and I was being rewarded.

Mid-summer, the long-awaited letter from Notre Dame came in the mail. I got in. I had my ticket out. But I didn’t even flinch - I tucked it away and never looked back. I learned that I simply needed to let go of the past to embrace a different future. Three years later I chose to be an infantry officer, to volunteer for Airborne and Ranger School, and to fight in the streets of Baghdad. All it took was me surrendering to the process and letting myself thrive instead of pining for my old life.

Despite the somewhat violent initiation process, military culture can ultimately be an easy culture to grow fond of. Things make sense. You always know where you stand. You always know who’s in charge and who’s not, and when things go wrong, you always know where to look for guidance. There are both explicit and implicit rules, and the near universal adherence to these rules makes you feel safe. You feel like you can trust those on your right and your left, and that they can trust you. When the shit hits the fan, you know that someone will have your back.

Transitioning out of the military can be an equally jarring experience as getting in. All of a sudden that sense of order - that culture that becomes deeply ingrained in you - vanishes. You can feel like an alien on another planet, just like you did when you were getting your head shaven and yelled at on day one. Your rank and badges and medals become meaningless. You won’t always know who you can rely on. You won’t always know who’s in charge or why. You won’t always know what to wear, or what all of the new jargon means, or why your courage in combat seems to count for a lot less out here. Your physical courage is like a party trick - civilians may think it’s cool, but it won’t hold their attention for very long.

They don’t need someone who’s willing to kick down doors in Baghdad, they need someone who can write a really solid marketing brief. People might not be hostile to your military background - but, just like when you joined the military in the first place - they’re often pretty indifferent to whatever it was that you did that’s not directly relevant to the task at hand. This can be painful, because you fought hard for each one of those accomplishments. What appears to a civilian as a small piece of ribbon on your chest might symbolize hundreds of combat missions or dozens of lives risked, saved, or taken.

It can be natural to become bitter and cling to other veterans. Just like it was natural for me to find other people to complain with during Basic Training, it gives you an outlet. “WTF is up with these civilians?!” can be a comforting conversation to have. This won’t go away - our community will likely always feel like home. When you’re with other veterans, you’ll probably be able to trust one another a bit more inherently than you can trust civilians. But the temptation will be to just stick to other veterans at first - to complain about this new, uncomfortable life - to isolate yourself because you don’t understand these civilians and what makes them tick. This is important: resist that temptation with all of your might.

Trust me - it’s a lot less painful to let go of those grudges about your old life changing, and embrace your new life as best as possible. There’s no lifeline - no letter waiting to arrive that can bail you out. You need to find the right balance of periodic check-ins with those who understand you well, and pushing yourself to be exposed to new people, new cultures, and new methods of problem solving.

You pick up the habits, the jargon, the values, and the culture of your new environment. The best way to get smart is to immerse yourself into situations in which you’re the least informed person in the room. Be a sponge. Be prepared and pay attention. Take notes. Observe everything and everyone. Google every term you hear and don’t know. Imagine you’re deployed to a new country and you’ve been tasked with learning the culture, identifying centers of power, and developing influence among the locals. You’ve done this before, and you can do it again.

Relationships drive everything in civilian life - and if you actively isolate yourself and prevent yourself from trying new things or making new friends because these people are different from you, you’re not only damaging your own mental health, you’re also hindering your own advancement. Learn to let go. Don’t turn your back on your past, but learn to chart a new future. 

Where you find yourself outside of your comfort zone, that’s where the good stuff happens. Get out there and get after it.