Fresh out of the Air Force as a Captain, I moved with my then boyfriend, now husband from our duty station in Florida across the country to Los Angeles, California.
There, I found a contractor position on base in one of the Director’s Action Groups (DAG), working alongside active-duty members and government civilians assigned to what was then called Space and Missile Systems Center.
The DAG was responsible for answering Task Management Tool (TMT) inquiries and coordinating across the directorates to accomplish tasks assigned to us from other groups.
The position required the use of my security clearance and was similar to my previous job as an executive officer, so it seemed like a perfect fit.
And maybe it would have been, if I had carried the right attitude into the position.
Instead:
I hated not wearing a uniform
By this, I don’t mean I missed the ill-fitting blouse, pants, and boots.
No. I missed the fact that anyone could look at me and see I:
Had been in the Air Force at least 4-8 years (as shown by the Captain rank)
Was a senior aviator (as shown by the star on my navigator wings)
These two things elicited a certain level of respect from almost everyone I had interacted with on active duty because they represented authority and expertise.
With my civilian attire, individuals I spoke with had no idea who I was, what I was, or what I could do.
And it annoyed me (my ego).
A lot.
The assumption from the people I met was now based on my status as a contractor (a.k.a. not active duty and not a government civilian), my gender, my age, what I was wearing, etc.
Because of this, I learned the first lesson of my military transition:
No one cares who you WERE. You have to prove your value NOW.
I hated being on the outside looking in
Rather than embracing my position as a contractor, I was caught up in grieving my status as an active duty member.
From the small things like having the “privilege” to shop at the base exchange and commissary, to the big things like enjoying the camaraderie with other folks in the unit.
There were several other officers who were my age and former rank, and under prior circumstances, they would have been my peers and probably would have become my friends.
But contractors don’t and can’t follow the same rules as active-duty members. I couldn’t attend the morale events for the squadron because I had a contractual obligation to work a certain number of hours.
I didn’t have the same holidays and family days that the active-duty members had, so I missed out on social gatherings.
It became very clear to me that I was no longer in the “in” crowd, despite working in such close proximity to the military and still talking the same language.
I was different now. I was an outsider. And I would never fit in with military members again.
In my little contractor bubble, I felt very isolated, and became resentful of those who took their built-in friendships for granted and had the opportunity to lead.
Which led me to my second transition lesson:
You don’t have to wear a uniform to be a leader.
I rested on my laurels
Back in the “good ol’ days,” I had been on top of my game. Awards, decorations, stratifications, etc.
Out in the civilian world, none of it mattered anymore.
And that was a hard adjustment.
Not only because it was all irrelevant, but because it meant I had no momentum in that position. No political capital. No direct experience. No networks or relationships. All of it had to be built.
And to do that, I had to learn my third transition lesson:
Have the humility to start at the bottom and learn.
This also meant letting go of “how things were” at my old base, and adapting to my new work environment and culture.
I went for comfort over growth
When I took the contractor job, I was thinking only of the here and now. I needed a job. It paid okay (that’s a whole other post), and it would be easy.
I didn’t give a second thought to what I wanted to do, learn, or be. I operated on auto-pilot. I was a blobfish. (Check out this post on LinkedIn to understand that reference!).
Rather than stretch myself into a new industry or work on new skills, I chose to be comfortable, to go for the next best thing outside the military.
But it turned out that being too close to where I came from hindered my growth. It forced me to stay gridlocked in the past, growing more frustrated, resentful and bitter as time went on.
Final Thoughts
It took about six months before I decided the contractor gig was over.
My crappy attitude toward the work and inability to make the mental transition to the civilian world precluded me from succeeding in the role. And frankly, it was making me miserable.
Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe it was a dead end anyway. Maybe it wasn't.
Now, I look back on it as crash course in my fourth transition lesson:
You don’t have to get it right the first time (or second, or third, or fourth, etc.).
Every misstep is an opportunity to learn, grow, and try again. It would take me four more moves into different positions to feel like I got it “right.”
It may take you more, or less. But the point is, you have the opportunity to keep exploring. Keep going until you feel like you belong, regain your sense of purpose and reignite your passion.
Don’t settle. Fail forward and define your own success.