On my last day in the Navy, I made the rounds at the command, making sure all my paperwork was complete.

It was a beautiful spring day and I’d already cleaned out my cage and said goodbye to my troop. For the past couple of months, I’d been stressing about the decision. I’d been going hard for thirteen straight combat deployments with no breaks. For the first time in my career, I admitted that I was tired, even exhausted. The pace of constant deployment, training, deployment, and more training had started to take its toll. I always figured I’d make it twenty years in the SEALs or die trying. Getting out was a massive decision and couldn’t be made in a vacuum.

I made the decision the same way I would make a choice in combat. I hit up my swim buddies first to test the water. To a man, they all thought I was crazy. I had fourteen years in the Navy and I needed only six more to earn my pension. But my enlistment was up and I had to make a decision. I could either sign up for four more years with one more deployment and then get moved to an administrative job, or get out and take a shot at some sort of regular civilian life.

I’d almost completed my team leader time, which is arguably the best job at the command. The only thing I had to look forward to beyond this position was becoming troop chief. But I’d have to endure at least two years in a training job until then. The war in Afghanistan was dying down, and with the new rules of engagement, we knew that any “good operating” with just the guys on your team was almost completely gone. Deployments were starting to drag on, with little action. I had joined to fight, not sit around.

The command master chief pulled me into his office. He’d heard about my decision to not reenlist and wanted to discuss it with me. He was a great leader with a no-bullshit attitude. He was well respected in the command and I owed him an explanation for why I was leaving.

“So I hear you’re done,” he said as I sat down.

I nodded.

“I’m cooked,” I said. “I feel like if I don’t make a move now, I’ll be stuck in the Navy with another four-year commitment, and I’m not sure this job is still what I signed up to do.”

“I understand,” the master chief said. “I’ve got over twenty years in and even thought about getting out myself on several occasions before my twenty years. You’ve only got six years left, though, and you’re a huge asset to the team. We’d hate to lose you.”

I thanked the master chief for the kind words, but I’d made my decision. There wasn’t really anything he could say to change my mind.

“I understand what I am leaving,” I said. “But this job has never been about the paycheck. It’s never been about the shitty pension I’d get if I made it to twenty years either. I love this job more than anything in the world and have made it my number one priority for almost fourteen years.”

He nodded, fully understanding the sacrifices because he had made them as well.

“The war is slowing down, I’d be moved out of my operational squadron after this next deployment, and all the fun would be over,” I continued. “I honestly feel like it’s time to move on and figure out the next steps in my life. The idea of a vacation and actually being able to choose my own schedule sounds amazing.”

We’d all been running hard for years, but the master chief wasn’t going to let me out of his office unless I had a plan.

“Do you have some shit set up on the outside? I don’t want you to become a bum,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not going to give you some bullshit pitch to get you to stay in the teams. I understand where you’re coming from and want you to be happy. You’ve done your fair share of the fighting. Now, get the fuck out of my office and best of luck.”

My next stop was with my former squadron commander. He was the first person to welcome us home from our last deployment. He came running onto the plane after we landed and started shaking our hands. After the mission, he became the acting commander.

Getting called to the third deck, where the officers roam, meant I had to change into my uniform and blouse my boots. I changed out of my shorts and T-shirt and used water to smooth my hair out. I then walked upstairs to meet with the commander.

When he saw me, the commander ushered me into his office. As I sat in the chair across from his desk, I took in the massive mahogany furniture and the walls filled with plaques and other memorabilia. I also saw a blue sleeping mattress tucked in one corner of his office.

“What can we do to keep you?” the commander said. “You’re one of the leaders in the community. You’re going to run this place someday.”

I was honored, but I shook my head no.

“It’s time for me to move on,” I said. “Like I told the master chief. I’m cooked.”

The commander didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t going to let me get away without a pep talk. He was doing the sales pitch.

“Look,” he said. “This is your life. You’re like me. I sleep in the office. I’m a warrior monk.”

He wasn’t kidding. He didn’t take vacations or time off. He ground out each day in an attempt to show how hard he was and how dedicated to the mission. I understood where he was coming from, but I’d just done almost fourteen years of that same type of commitment. I just didn’t have a nice office to sleep in. Shit, everyone at the command had done that or more.

“Sir, trust me, to some degree I feel like I’m quitting something for the first time in my life,” I said.

He didn’t reply. I got the feeling he knew I was gone. There wasn’t anything that he could do to get me to stay in the command.

“I’ve lived a long time by my gut feeling, and right now, my gut is telling me I need to get off this speeding train,” I continued.

“OK, well, if we can’t change your mind, I understand, and best of luck in the future,” the commander said. He was done trying to convince me to stay. To him, I was just another guy who got off the train.

I stood up, shook his hand, and walked back to the cage area. I ran across a handful of my teammates. We’d already talked about my decision, and like the true brothers that they were, they understood and just wanted me to be happy. But I was also an ex-teammate the minute I decided to not reenlist.

“Hey, fucker, shouldn’t you be working behind a desk already?” one of my teammates said.

“Yeah, hey, fatty, good luck with those TPS reports,” another added.

Their visions of my dismal civilian existence were colored by Office Space, a movie that we had watched no less than a thousand times while on deployment. They already had me in a cubicle in a shirt and tie. In the days leading up to my last visit, I was given a plaque with my name misspelled commemorating my service to the squadron and the SEALs.

All of it felt somewhat hollow.

It wasn’t my teammates’ fault. They were happy for me, but I also knew they were really focused on the next mission or training trip. For more than a decade I’d been honing my skills to be the best SEAL I could be. But that journey was behind me as I walked out of the gate one final time.

I think of it like a surgeon who, after years of training and working in the operating room, became one of the top two hundred and fifty surgeons in the country. Then, with just under fourteen years in practice, he decides to step away and start all over. He just turned in the keys to the operating room after locking it behind him, and started anew.

As I climbed into my truck to drive home, I felt something I’d trained years to control: fear. I was scared. All the questions I left unanswered started to roll around in my head.

What do I do with the rest of my life?

How do I reinvent myself?

What do I fall back on?

Holy shit, what did I just do?

My decision to get out of the Navy was the toughest I’ve ever made. All my friends were still in the command. They would continue to deploy and make the sacrifice that comes with the job. I felt like I was quitting, and we were taught never to quit. I felt like I was letting my teammates down. As hard as that was, in the back of my mind, I knew I had made the right decision. The hard part was going to be remembering it.

I was worn-out.

I’d put the SEALs and service to my country above all else, including relationships, family, vacations, free time, and a normal life. I hadn’t been on a real vacation in years. There were huge gaps in my pop culture knowledge. I couldn’t tell you who won the Super Bowl that year or how many comebacks Britney Spears has had.

But, I could tell you the best tactics for taking down a Taliban stronghold. I was extremely good at skydiving, shooting guns, and plenty of other SEAL skills, but few of those skills are in great demand in the civilian world. I had no idea how my skill set would translate outside of the speeding train of the SEAL teams. I’d just walked away from my purpose in life, and now all the skills I needed to survive as a SEAL were obsolete. I had to redefine my life and goals all over again. In a way, I was back in Alaska, but this time I didn’t have a dream to guide me.

The book No Easy Day was my first step toward a new purpose.

One of the first things my co-writer, Kevin Maurer, and I talked about when we started working on No Easy Day was the book Men in Green Faces by former SEAL Gene Wentz. The novel inspired me to become a SEAL. I considered the book and many like it to be an essential tool in my quest to become a SEAL. The books were better than a commercial or recruiting poster because they allowed me to experience a SEAL’s world firsthand. The same was true for most of my buddies at work. We had all read books about SEALs when we were young.

Phil, one of my mentors and best friends, read the book Delta Force: The Army’s Elite Counterterrorist Unit by Colonel Charlie Beckwith, the unit’s first commander. When he was done, he wrote Beckwith a letter telling him about his dream of joining Delta.

Several months later, Phil got a reply. The handwritten note encouraged him to always dream big and told Phil he could achieve anything. It was that letter that encouraged Phil to pursue his dream. Beckwith’s encouragement put Phil on the path to an amazing career of service.

I wrote No Easy Day to encourage young people and share with the world the sacrifices that our servicemen and women face on a daily basis. I wanted people to understand the community, which is made up of people who go into harm’s way daily. I wanted to show the human side of the SEALs after months of hero worship from the politicians.

Sitting in my home office, decorated with mementos from my years as a SEAL, under a picture of my BUD/S training class hanging on the wall, I worked on the book until I felt it captured the raid and the culture of the SEAL community perfectly. I wrote the book the same way I was trained, by enlisting the help of friends, family, and swim buddies. My closest friends gave me a lot of advice when I told them I was writing a book. They urged me to do it “right,” and not write another navel-gazing battle memoir that focused on me.

“Don’t be the douche bag who thinks he’s a superhero,” one friend told me. “Make sure it’s about the team.”

Another just laughed at me when I told him.

“Hey, buddy, if the SEAL community can fully back an action-packed Hollywood blockbuster like Act of Valor, I’m sure you’ll be fine with a book that pays respect back to the community,” he said.

I did my very best to write No Easy Day about the team and for the men and women I served with for more than a dozen years. When it was done, I waited for the publisher to announce it. I was the new guy on the team again and I trusted the experts to help me navigate the book launch. When word of the book came out in August 2012, the coverage shocked me. I don’t think I realized the storm I was walking into. The demand for the book far exceeded my expectations, but so did the backlash.

I was standing on the tarmac preparing to do a charity skydiving event in San Diego when I got the call. I was doing tandem skydives with folks willing to donate money to the SEAL Foundation for the chance to skydive with a SEAL.

I’ve been in some stressful situations, but hearing that my name had leaked was in the top ten for sure. For a split second, the stress consumed me. I guess in hindsight I was naïve to think I could maintain my privacy, but I never seriously considered it.

“Well, shit,” I thought.

I retreated from the crowd getting ready to jump and took a second to regroup. My training kicked in and I started to make a list of priorities. Skills that I figured were long gone suddenly mattered again. It was like when the instructors pulled off the hood during the hooded box drill. I was back in the box dealing with the situation. Soon, I started to come up with a list of things I needed to do. After the jump, I would start acting on the list.

What could I affect? My name had just leaked. There was no way I could affect anything in the press. I couldn’t stuff the words back into the producer’s mouth, although I would have loved to meet the Fox News producer and make an attempt with my foot.

First, I had to make sure my parents moved to a safe location away from the prying eyes of the media. Next, I had to limit my personal profile. I was surprised how much information was out there and could be found online. Finally, I stopped worrying about leaks. They were beyond my three-foot world. I had to focus on the things I could change.

One of the organizers of the charity jump waved me over. The plane was ready. I still had to jump. I’d made a commitment to the charity and wasn’t about to leave them hanging. I took the stress of the book and the current media situation and put it away, walling it off from what I had to do on the jump. The issues surrounding the book would be waiting for me when I landed.

When the door to the plane finally opened and I jumped into the crystal-clear blue sky over San Diego, I felt at peace. There was comfort in going through my jump procedures because I had little room in my mind to think about anything else.

What I learned almost immediately after the news report containing my name was that the skills I’d tried for more than a decade to master actually meant something in the civilian world. When I focused on them, the drama revolving around the publication of No Easy Day and the transition to civilian life didn’t become easy, but they became manageable.

Throughout the process I kept reflecting on all the lessons that I’d learned during my career. My ability to manage stress, stay focused, and keep the problems compartmentalized kept me from losing my mind. These skills spread to the publishing team. Concepts like the “three-foot world” became part of our vocabulary.

The most gratifying part of the No Easy Day publication was the response from the people who read the book. Maybe the biggest surprise was that most of the readers who reached out to me wanted to talk not about the .................................. but about the glimpses of the rest of my career and my buddies that they had found in the book.

So many people sent me inspirational accounts of challenges in their own lives and how they had overcome them, sometimes with some inspiration they had taken from No Easy Day. I certainly never intended that, but it makes me happy to know that the SEALs I wrote about in my first book have inspired others. It makes sense to me, because I always found inspiration in the team too. The men I served with drove me to be better, as a SEAL and as a person.

I am still trying to get my feet underneath me, but every day my path gets clearer. I fell back on what I’d learned and that is why I wanted to write this book. No Hero is part of my reinvention and my way to pay it forward. The book is as much for non-SEALs as it is a way to honor my brothers in the SEAL community.

These aren’t only my lessons. These are lessons I’ve learned from mistakes I’ve made as well as those made by others who were willing to share their lessons with me. I’ve screwed up plenty of times. I’m definitely not perfect. I’ve tried to bring those mistakes and lessons together in one place so that maybe others can avoid them.

Getting off the speeding train was not easy. I have watched from the sidelines as my teammates, my brothers, continue to fight overseas. I read the news and follow the developments in Somalia and Iraq. My stomach hurts when I read about Fallujah being overtaken by al Qaeda because I’ve fought there. I sometimes wish there was something I could do.

But I have a new mission now, one that I chose. For a long time, I thought the lessons and methods we used in the military could apply only to SEALs. A lot of people I talk to think there are major differences between combat and civilian leadership, motivation, and mental toughness.

I tell them I now disagree.

Since I’ve transitioned out of the SEAL teams and into civilian life, I’ve discovered that the lessons I learned during my career apply to a much greater audience than just our community.

These lessons are fundamentals.

There is no Navy SEAL secret sauce, but if I had to make one it would be built from the basics. When you’re stressed, like in combat, the simple skills are easiest to muster. Understanding the most basic principles perfectly, and working to execute them flawlessly in any circumstance, will always put you ahead of someone who lacks the fundamentals. All a SEAL does is master the basic principles and perform them as close to perfect as possible. I have found that if you remember the little things, the rest will work itself out.

Now that I’ve gotten out of the Navy and had time to interact with people other than SEALs, I see the chance to inspire and inform people by telling the stories that my swim buddies and I have learned in the constant drive to be the best SEALs possible. I thought telling our story was important before I wrote No Easy Day, and now I think it is critical.

I hope the next generation of SEALs, Delta, Rangers, and Special Forces soldiers will read this book, and No Easy Day, and be inspired to live a life of service like all our servicemen and women have. Maybe a few of them will carry some of my lessons learned with them onto the battlefield and be safer and more effective because of it. I know not everybody dreams of testing themselves in combat, but I think no matter what challenges you face, you can find something valuable in the stories of the men and women I served with, those still in the fight and those who’ve lost their lives.

I hope No Easy Day and No Hero offer something most books on war don’t: the intimate side of it, the personal struggles and hardships and what we gained from them. I believe it would be irresponsible of me not to share the most intimate parts of my career in hopes that people don’t have to make the same mistakes I’ve made. This book is one way I can continue to give back. For the rest of my life I will find other ways to pass along the lessons I learned from my teammates and hopefully inspire others like they inspired me. Leaving a career of service didn’t need to end my life of service.