After high school, I bounced between a few jobs while living on my own. I had a girlfriend, and for a while, my big dream was to become a musician or maybe a career artist—painting masterpieces that would sell. Turns out, I wasn’t as talented as I thought. I was a terrible singer, and none of my art was moving off the walls. At 19, I was going nowhere fast.
My girlfriend was honest with me one day: I wasn’t really going anywhere in life. She was right. I had no real plan for the future. I thought about joining the police force so I can stay in my hometown. I applied for the police academy and crushed the pre-physical test—my run was solid, pull-ups were easy. All that was left were push-ups.
They paired us up, and I got stuck with a guy originally from Asia who spoke broken English. It was hard to understand him. I knocked out way more than the required number—over 80, easy. But the kid wasn’t paying attention and randomly yelled out, “He did 35.” Just like that, I was disqualified on the spot. They told me to come back once I “improved” my push-ups. I walked out furious and embarrassed. That door slammed shut.
I’d thought about the Army back in high school. My family had a long military lineage, but that wasn’t my main reason for considering it. I wanted to grow up, build a real future—especially with my girlfriend. I wanted stability for us. When I told her I was seriously thinking about enlisting, she got upset and said it was a bad idea. She cried. We talked it out in the parking lot of a Hobby Lobby. I explained that I needed to make sure our future would be okay. I also wanted to make my family proud and prove to them (and myself) that I had purpose. I hadn’t gone to college, and I was barely scraping by, jumping from one low-paying job to the next.
So I went to a recruiter. I took a pre-ASVAB and didn’t score great, but it was good enough to head to MEPS and give it a real shot. At MEPS, I went through the medical exam: the doc had me cough while he checked left to right (the hernia test), and then there was the infamous duck walk—squatting down and waddling across the floor to check for joint or foot issues. After that, a quick chat with the psychiatrist to make sure I was mentally sound.
While waiting, I sat between two other guys. The one on my left said he wanted to be a Green Beret and “kill people.” He looked a little unhinged—I figured he’d fail the psych eval. The guy on my right wanted to be a medic but made it clear: “I’m not going to any war. I just want the money for college.” When they asked me, I said I was going 11X. Truth is, I had no clue what that meant. I was an idiot signing papers without reading the fine print. I wasn’t thinking about war or combat—I treated it like a regular job interview. Shake hands, thank them for the opportunity, and move on.
Once everything checked out, the moment came. I still remember it clearly: raising my right hand, repeating the oath, enlisting in the military. That was the formal step where you realize you’ve just handed over your body, your freedom, and your choices to your country. No turning back. From that point, all I had to focus on was what came next—basic training.
Sand Hill? What the hell is Sand Hill?
(That’s what I kept thinking. Turns out, it’s the infantry training area at Fort Benning where a lot of new recruits, especially 11-series guys like me, go through basic and OSUT. But back then, I had no idea what I was walking into.)
Traveling Warrior 