Some mornings, I step out into the cold, silent dawn, and it’s as if I’m right back in the field—minus the uniform and the kit checks. The chirping birds, the faint glow on the horizon, and that odd mixture of nervous anticipation and calm—all of it reminds me of those early Army days. There’s comfort in that familiarity. Civilian life might offer more freedom, but it can’t quite replicate that undeniable sense of purpose I used to feel the moment I woke up.

Picture the darkest hour just before dawn, when most people are still happily snoozing and the world is a quiet, moonlit canvas. That’s when I lace up my shoes and step outside, half-awake, mind already spinning with possibilities. I’m not exactly a social butterfly—small talk can still make me stammer—but there’s something about the crisp air and the crunch of dirt and gravel underfoot that flips a switch in my brain. Suddenly, I see answers to questions I didn’t know needed answering. I come up with ideas to design running shirts that won’t cost an arm and a leg. I have random thoughts of supernatural twists for spooky stories, or even how to help someone else find their inner spark. In these moments, I feel like have purpose to keep pushing forward.