Every developer has a “rubber duck”—that silent object they talk to while debugging, just to work through logic.
Well, mine’s alive. He drools. He snores. And he’s about 140 pounds of loyal muscle.
My Great Dane doesn’t know Python. He couldn’t deploy a container if his life depended on it. But he’s the best coding partner I’ve ever had.
Here’s why I truly believe dogs make the perfect companions for developers—especially veterans transitioning into tech.
When I first broke into tech, I felt like I was doing it alone.
Until I started hearing the stories.
Stories of other veterans who made the leap—who didn’t just survive the transition, but thrived.
They inspired me. They motivated me. And honestly? They helped me keep going on the hard days.
I’ll be real with you—when I got my first tech job, I felt like a fraud.
I didn’t have a degree in computer science.
I didn’t speak the lingo fluently.
And I certainly didn’t think I belonged in a room full of hoodie-clad engineers talking about Kubernetes.
That feeling? It’s called impostor syndrome.
If you’ve ever stared at a blank resume wondering how firing artillery or managing convoy security translates to working in tech, you’re not alone.
I’ve been there—trying to explain my military experience to hiring managers who had never seen an MRE, much less a fire mission.
Deadlines. Slack messages. Alerts. Bugs. Zoom fatigue.
The tech world is full of stimulation—and for someone with a military background or anxiety-prone brain, it’s easy to get overwhelmed.
I’ve tried productivity hacks. Mindfulness apps. Timers. Noise-canceling headphones.
But nothing has stabilized me more than the presence of my dog.
He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t judge.
He just sits there—calm, grounded, breathing slow—and somehow, I breathe slower too.
Military life is intense, structured, all-in.
There are no half-measures, no part-time missions, no “clocking out.”
So when I left the Army and stepped into civilian life, I brought that same intensity with me. I thought I had to hustle 24/7 to prove myself in tech. I worked 12-hour days, skipped meals, ignored sleep.
Eventually, my mind and body pushed back.
That’s when I had to learn a lesson I wish I’d learned sooner:
Balance isn’t weakness. It’s strength.
Let’s face it—when you transition out of the military and step into tech, it’s like being dropped into a foreign country.
You hear people talk about Git, Docker, APIs, Python, and you’re like... what language is this?
I’ve been there. I didn’t come from a computer science background. I came from a 13B artillery background—tactical, high-stakes, hands-on.
One of the hardest parts of military transition isn’t the job search.
It’s the loss of brotherhood.
You go from a tight-knit unit to... a LinkedIn profile.
From shared hardship to Slack threads.
From knowing someone’s got your back—to wondering if you’re even being seen.
At first, I thought the tech world would be too... cold. Too corporate. Too isolated.
But I was wrong.
Because when you look in the right places, the tech world has its own kind of camaraderie—and for veterans, it can become a new kind of brotherhood.
When I left the Army, I expected to feel free.
What I didn’t expect was how quickly freedom would turn into floating.
No formations. No NCOs. No battle rhythm. Just space.
Too much space.
And for a while, it was terrifying.
Because in the military, structure is survival.
But in civilian life? No one’s handing you a daily schedule.
So I had to build one—brick by brick, line by line—using tools I never thought I’d need: frameworks, code, calendars… and a Great Dane.
Motivation is a liar.
It shows up when it wants, disappears when you need it, and never calls you back.
But discipline? Discipline shows up. Every. Damn. Day.
As a veteran, I was trained on routine. Wake up. Train. Execute. Repeat. It didn’t matter if I felt like it—we did it because it had to be done.
And that mindset—the one they drill into you during basic training—is the same one that makes me a better developer today.
It’s easy to talk about "problem-solving" in a job interview.
But when you’ve had to fix a jammed artillery piece while rounds were flying overhead, that phrase hits different.
The military taught me that real problem-solving isn’t just about logic—it’s about composure, speed, and resourcefulness under pressure.
And that skillset? It’s golden in the world of tech.
Let’s get one thing clear right up front:
Hacking isn’t just for hoodie-wearing rebels in basements.
It’s a skillset. A career path. A mindset. And in many ways, it’s a natural extension of the military experience.
When I stumbled into the world of ethical hacking, I didn’t know I’d fall in love with it. I just wanted to understand how systems work—and how they fail.
But soon, I realized: everything I did in the Army prepared me to think like a hacker.
