Just because I’m 50+ and my whole identity is tied to a 25 year old’s view of military service doesn’t mean I’m the one who needs to change. I’ve done things my way for decades. If others think I’m rigid, that’s their issue. I’ve earned being right, and I’m not rethinking anything.

This guy doesn’t get it — a leader’s job isn’t to hand out Fridays off. It’s to forge warriors in fire: miles run in rain, rifles snapping at dawn, minds sharpened on steel. Readiness isn’t born at Applebee’s over boneless wings and cheap liquor, it’s forged in patrol bases and at gunnery ranges.

Compassion dulls the edge. Empathy slows the draw. Self-awareness is a mirror for men afraid to face the dark. Warriors don’t reflect—they prepare. Every second spent feeling is a second not sharpening. Mercy’s a luxury. Readiness is survival. The rest is sentiment.

Haven’t done a “moral inventory.” Don’t need to. Reflection slows the hand. Regret softens the will. I prepare, same as always — for whatever’s coming. Storm, war, silence, doesn’t matter. Discipline keeps its own company. The rest is noise and people trying to name it.

Wife left years ago. Said I never had time for diapers, soccer practice, or sex. She was right—I was busy honing my martial virtue in the garage, barefoot, sweating under a dying bulb. She wanted warmth. I wanted discipline. The callouses. The heaving breath. The sound of the boots hitting asphalt.