Ray Martinelli ⋅ Flanders, NJ U.S. Marine Corps, Sergeant ⋅ 8 years served

Ladies and Gentlemen,

In my humble opinion this is a must read for all those transitioning & wounded warriors. It is exactly the feeling I had when faced with the decision to transition out of the Marine Corps. I hope it may assist you in some way.

I have not changed or altered this article save copy & past his article below; also supplied the link to that article.

Semper Fi

Ray

http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=86145090&snapshotID=&authType=name&authToken=QWTk&ref=NUS&trk=NUS-body-member-name

Stan McChrystal
Co-Founder and Partner at McChrystal Group
Career Curveballs: No Longer A Soldier
April 22, 2014

The trick is to pick up the spin. Some pitchers vary their delivery slightly, unintentionally signaling a curve. The 5-ounce leather covered baseball is traveling at 90 mph, but with experience, you stay in the batter’s box, confident you can predict the trajectory, and either hit or dodge the pitch.
But no matter how good you think you are – you often fail. Sometimes you swing and miss; sometimes the ball hits you in the head. Either way, it hurts.
In June 2010, after more than 38 years in uniform, in the midst of commanding a 46-nation coalition in a complex war in Afghanistan, my world changed suddenly – and profoundly. An article in Rolling Stone magazine depicting me, and people I admired, in a manner that felt as unfamiliar as it was unfair, ignited a firestorm.
I boarded a flight immediately, returning from Afghanistan to Washington, D.C. to address the issue with our Nation’s leadership. Less than 24 hours later I walked out of the Oval Office and in an instant, a profession that had been my life’s passion and focus came to an end. I would not return to Afghanistan; the mission would continue without me. I no longer commanded the forces I loved.
Even seemingly mundane details like where we lived and what I was called had shifted suddenly. The uniform I’d first donned as a 17-year old plebe at West Point, the uniform of my father, grandfather, and brothers, was no longer mine to wear.
Most importantly, my very identity as a soldier came to an abrupt end. I’d been soldiering as long as I’d been shaving. Suddenly I’d been told I could no longer soldier, and it felt as though no one really cared if I ever shaved again. I’d caught a curveball directly on the chin; I wanted to find a corner of the dugout, away from TV cameras, to rub my head and maybe sniffle a bit.
I’d never been more tempted to feel like a victim – an emotion that could have easily consumed me. Many would have supported, even welcomed me in the victim role; pundits would have let me rant, and a tell-all would have been an instant bestseller.
But, with my wife Annie’s support, I made a deliberate effort not to define myself as a victim, and to not let others define me. While tempting in the short term, when emotions run high, there are long-term consequences to seeking sympathy and support. If I outsourced my identity to others, I’d be dependent on others for how I felt about myself.
The bigger the curveball, the harder it is to see the high road – but finding and sticking to it is critically important in these moments.
For me it was easier said than done. Teachers can change schools, bankers might find a new bank, and a car engineer is still relevant at Ford or GM. Soldiers can’t do that. There is only one Army in which you serve. When that identity is gone, it is gone forever. For me, it was gone in an instant, and on terms that I could never have imagined.
I faced some immediate and profound questions: what am I in the world if not a soldier? Who am I to those around me if not a General Officer? This was not a query for consultants or confidants. I needed step back up to the plate and prepare to read the next pitch.
While momentous at the time, the question was actually quite simple: what am I? And what do I want to be next?
I was raised a soldier. I was familiar with weapons, tactics, and war. But years on the battlefield had taught me that soldiering is really about people. Weapons don’t dig muddy foxholes – people do. War plans don’t evacuate wounded comrades – people do. The Pentagon doesn’t create the brotherhood of the Army – people do. What I’d learned, above all other lessons, was the importance of those you surround yourself with. That lesson would be with me forever, uniform or no uniform.
So in the end, the answer was simple. My business, and my life, has been people. Like leaders in many walks of life, my business has been to serve with, and for, others. By focusing on this simple truth, and allowing it to guide my decisions through a difficult time, this curveball ultimately opened as many doors as it closed. From starting a company to teaching at Yale, the past few years have been full of incredible experiences shared, most importantly, with true and lifelong friends.
Photo: International Security Assistance Force