Why Veterans Build

I came to software late. Thirteen years in the Army — 2003 to 2016, most of it as a Behavioral Health Specialist — and then a laptop, documentation, and a decision that the next stretch of my life was going to be built instead of waited out.

I'm not unusual. Look around the industry and you'll find veterans everywhere: writing code, running infrastructure, shipping products, starting companies. Enough of us that it stopped looking like coincidence to me and started looking like a pattern.

I think the pattern is three habits. The service installs them, and building software happens to demand the same three.

Mission

In the military you don't get tasks. You get missions. The difference matters. A task says do this thing. A mission says here is the outcome that has to happen, here is why it matters, here is what you have to work with — and the how is largely yours to solve.

That is software work, described exactly. Nobody hands a builder finished instructions. The job arrives as an outcome: people need to be able to do this thing, reliably, by this date, with this stack. Everything between here and there is yours.

People who never served often assume the military teaches obedience. The habit that transfers is holding an outcome steady while everything underneath it moves. Requirements shift. A dependency breaks. The plan you made this morning is dead by lunch. Someone trained on missions doesn't read that as a crisis. The objective didn't move; the route did. You re-plan and keep going.

Discipline

Discipline gets misread as intensity. In practice it's small and boring. In the service you maintain your readiness whether or not you feel like it. You run the same checks the same way every time, because the one time you skip the check is the time it costs you.

Code rewards exactly that temperament. Run the tests before you push. Commit in small pieces, with messages your future self can read. Read the error message instead of guessing at it. Back up before you migrate. None of it is impressive to watch. All of it compounds — and the absence of it compounds faster.

The deeper transfer is this: discipline separates output from mood. In uniform you learn early that the mission does not care how you slept. As a developer managing a disability on top of the work, that lesson turned out to be the whole game. I don't need to feel like building. I need a way of working that runs when the feeling doesn't. The service is where I learned that such a thing could exist.

The handover

Every position you occupy in the service, somebody occupies after you. You will hand it over, and the handover is a judgment on you. Squared away and documented, or a mess the next person pays for — that's the standard, and it outlasts the uniform.

Software is nothing but handovers. Every file you touch will be opened later by someone else — often by you, six months on, with no memory of what you meant. The legacy code everyone dreads is just a bad turnover: a position abandoned without a map. So you fix the misleading variable name while you're in the file. You write the README nobody asked for. You document the deploy step that only exists in your head. Nobody praises a clean handover. You do it because someone is coming after you, and you were trained to care about that person before you ever met them.

Of the three habits, this is the one I'd keep if I could only keep one. Mission gets things started. Discipline gets them finished. This one is why any of it matters past the day you ship.

What I'm building

Which brings me to why I build the thing I build.

After the service, I had to put a life back together, and it took longer than I want to admit. I know that terrain from the ground — the part where the structure is gone and nobody issues you a new one.

Life Re:Scripted is what I'm building now — a platform for rebuilding identity, direction, and daily structure, built by someone who needed one first. All three habits are in it. Mission: the outcome is that fewer people cross that ground alone. Discipline: I build it whether or not the day feels good, because the people it's for don't get to wait for my good days.

And the third habit is the real reason it exists at all.

I found this ground hard when I crossed it. Someone is crossing it behind me. This is the handover.