The Warrior's Dilemma

I look back on many of my “warrior” moments to remind myself that I’m capable of doing hard things. Identifying with the warrior brought me far in life. I’m grateful to my warrior part and still call on him often. More as a general now than the commander in chief. As I continue to grow and learn from my past experiences, that distinction has become increasingly relevant. As Alan Watts said, “It’s useful in moderation: a good servant but a bad master.” There are moments in my life when I allowed the warrior side of myself to become the greater part of my identity. 

I think back to a particular instance in the Army when the warrior part had no business making the final call. I was 20 years old, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane in the icy Alaskan tundra with well over a hundred pounds of gear and weapons strapped to my shoulder and between my legs. This particular jump was like any other, and I was excited to get it over with. The planes finally arrived and we packed ourselves into the C-130 like matchsticks in a box, ready to go up in flames with a simple movement of the commander's wrist. I had become so accustomed to the process that I took a short nap as we flew to our drop zone. No use elevating the heart rate before the jump. Best to stay calm. 

I stood up and got ready to jump. I had so much weight on me that when I leapt out of the plane, I hit the side of it, sending me into a rapid spin and wrapping my neck in the risers holding me to my parachute. Not a problem for my warrior self. Simply grab the risers, kick free, untangle myself, and continue the secondary checks. I untangled myself and began falling slower. Then my parachute suddenly began to lose air and collapse. As the icy white ground rushed toward me, I didn’t have time to process what was happening. I released my equipment before slamming into the earth. I hit hard. My heels struck first, then my ass, then my head. My helmet flew off. The wind was instantly knocked out of me, and I writhed in silent, breathless pain while nearby paratroopers ran over and began cutting away my parachute. Nearby, I heard another soldier screaming. His helmet had shattered his nose, and he cracked his tailbone after colliding with me.

The adrenaline was pumping through my veins and, to the warrior in me, I still had a mission to complete. Training or not. I stood up and attempted to continue. I managed to get to my feet, but the weight of my own body felt like I was attempting a deadlift world record. Every step sent a bolt of lightning through my spine. My feet slid on the ice, causing my body to jerk as I tried to regain my balance. The pain nearly brought me back to my knees. Eventually, I listened to the medic and waited for the medevac. Each bump on the ride to the hospital felt like someone teeing off on my back with a driver. I later learned that the screaming paratrooper had drifted over me during the jump. His collapsing parachute stole the air from mine until both parachutes collapsed and we freefell the rest of the way. At the hospital, they took X-rays, found nothing broken, and sent me home.

I spent the next several days in bed writhing in pain while friends brought me food and water from the DFAC. The following Monday, I reported for duty. We had another week of field training ahead of us. Afghanistan was right around the corner. I checked out my M240B machine gun from the armory and got ready to charge the snowy mountains of Alaska. Every step continued to send a jolt of lightning through my spine. I did my best to hide the pain and press forward. “What would I do if this happened on the battlefield?” the warrior would ask. I would have to carry on. So I did. Until one of my squad leaders noticed how slowly I was moving. Thankfully, he recognized something I couldn't at the time. My overall health was more important than another day of infantry drills. He ordered me to take a few more days to recover. Despite needing much more than that, a part of me was happy to receive the order to stand down. This was one of many lessons that taught me the warrior cannot always lead. 

Looking back, I’ve seen warriors—my own and others’—learn to disregard, numb, or suppress qualities that don’t appear useful in survival. It depends on who trained or raised that warrior. One warrior may learn the bow while another may learn the sword. One warrior may learn diplomacy and charm while another may learn force and intimidation. Each can be a tool of the warrior. Whatever tactic the warrior learns can become the standard because it proved effective during crucial moments. This is the warrior’s dilemma, perhaps best illustrated by the old aphorism: If all you have is a hammer, everything begins to look like a nail. 

My warrior was an expert with the hammer. If I didn’t achieve what I wanted, I worked harder. If I didn’t receive the attention I wanted, I worked harder. If I was injured, I worked harder. That approach built much of who I am today and served me well. I’m a disciplined and driven man who is resilient in the face of any challenge. But then working harder didn’t work. In fact, my body broke from all the hard work. The warrior was forced to move to the sidelines. Just like back then, someone else had to make the call. Thankfully, the warrior was never alone.

First, grief showed up and helped me process the end of my athletic career and let go. Then, in time, gentler and more patient sides of myself emerged. The warrior was still there, but his suggestions now had to be considered with care. A more collaborative team began to form. My injuries healed, and I started to consider my longevity. I decided I was worth more than the next big fight. The warrior remains one of my most trusted generals. He built the foundation that allowed me to pursue everything that followed my athletic career. Now that I had a resilient structure, it was time to make it a home.

I went back to school and found a vocation that is truly fulfilling. The warrior made sure I stayed disciplined and studied hard. I branched out into fun and new activities that continued to align with the warrior’s overall interest in growth. I made new friends and social groups, challenging the warrior’s proclivity towards loneliness. I let others into my newly furnished home. I learned to be more gentle with myself, both physically and mentally, and the warrior benefited from that too, finally having time to heal and grow strong again. The warrior finally had a home and a family, not just a war room.