Seven and a Half Behind

Seven and a half points.

Not seventy. Not seventeen. Not some cartoonishly huge gap where I can sit back, sip coffee, and say, “Well… clearly that wasn’t my year.”

No. Seven and a half.

That kind of number is disrespectful. It is close enough to shake your hand and far enough to slam the door in your face. It is the kind of number that makes you stare at the wall a little too long, like the wall owes you answers. It is the kind of number that makes you laugh once, then immediately realize you are not laughing because anything is funny. You are laughing because your brain is trying not to fight drywall.

I missed Senior Master Sergeant by seven and a half points.

And if I am being real, that hit different.

Not just because I wanted it, but because for a long time in my career, I never even thought getting this close to E-8 would be on the table. Early on, I made choices that slowed me down. Some of them were mine. Some of them came from immaturity. Some came from not understanding the long game. Some came from surviving instead of strategically building. Back then, I was not thinking like a man trying to become a Senior. I was thinking like a man trying to make it through the week, the shift, the next problem, the next season of life.

So to even be in range now is strange.

It is humbling. It is frustrating. It is revealing.

It is a weird emotional cocktail. A little pride. A little anger. A little grief. A little “man, I really did drag myself farther than I ever expected.” And then a little “wow, this machine has way more moving parts than people admit.”

For the last five or six years, I have been on a real journey of self-discovery. And yes, before somebody says it, I know. I should have started that earlier. I know that. Hindsight is undefeated. Hindsight is the most arrogant coach on earth. Hindsight always shows up after the game, arms folded, talking about, “You know what you should’ve done…”

Thank you, hindsight. Very helpful. Very brave.

Still, that journey changed me.

It made me more reflective. More honest. More intentional. It forced me to look at my habits, my mindset, my leadership, my blind spots, and the ways I got in my own way for years. That kind of work is not flashy. There is no medal for finally admitting you were the problem in some areas. There is no ribbon for learning emotional discipline. There is no dec for deciding to stop blaming yesterday for everything that hurts today.

But that work matters.

It has mattered to me because now I am no longer living with my eyes glued to the rearview mirror. I know the past shaped me, but I am not renting it space in my head like it still pays bills here. I live in the present now. That does not mean I do not feel disappointment. It means disappointment does not get to become my permanent mailing address.

And yet, if I am honest, this process has shown me something that is hard to ignore.

In the Air Force, especially at this level, it is not just about whether you are good. It is not just about whether you worked hard. It is not just about whether your records are strong. It is not even just about whether you are “ready.”

It is also about who is willing to fight for you.

That part is not always said out loud. It is the quiet part that gets dressed up in polished language, vague encouragement, and very professional shrugs.

From squadron to group to wing, there is a whole ecosystem of influence, cachet, timing, and advocacy that shapes whether somebody gets stratified, whether they get real push, whether they become a priority, and whether their name keeps surviving each closed-door conversation. That is not bitterness talking. That is observation.

And let me say something that might make a few Chiefs laugh, or maybe shift in their chairs a little.

Chiefs, some of y’all think you have world-class poker faces.

You do not.

Respectfully, your faces be talking.

I have seen the eyebrow twitch. I have seen the half-smirk. I have seen the “let me be diplomatic” stare. I have seen the facial expression that says, “I already know how this is going to go,” before a word is said. Some of y’all walk around like CIA operatives, but your face is out here leaking classified information every time somebody says “stratification” or “board.”

It is almost impressive.

But that is part of what makes this whole thing so revealing. When you ask for feedback, everybody suddenly develops amnesia. Nobody knows. Nobody can say. Nobody has the full picture. Nobody wants to be the one to explain the machine while standing inside the machine.

So you get feedback that sounds polished but hollow. Helpful but not helpful. Honest-ish.

And to be fair, sometimes even supervisors and leaders do not really know. Not fully. Not after those closed-door conversations start and the variables multiply. Because once those doors close, facts, timing, influence, perception, priorities, and politics all start doing the electric slide together.

That is the frustrating part.

Not just missing it.

Missing it while realizing how much of the process lives outside of your control.

That bothers me.

But what bothers me more is not even the politics itself. Politics exist anywhere human beings gather in groups larger than four. Put five people in a room, a coffee pot in the corner, and one shiny opportunity on the table, and congratulations, you now have politics. That part is not new.

What bothers me is the lack of transparency.

Because when transparency is low, imagination gets loud.

And when imagination gets loud, people start filling in blanks with whatever story hurts the least or explains the most. That is when people start thinking the process is a secret society, a handshake club, a good-old-boy game with better PowerPoint slides. Whether that is fully true or not is almost beside the point. A lack of clear feedback invites suspicion. It invites confusion. It invites resentment.

And I have learned this much: no slot is going to waste.

Nobody at that level is casually letting an opportunity drift away because they just ran out of ideas. People are fighting for their people. Chiefs are advocating for their folks. Groups are trying to maximize their position. Everyone is trying to make sure their corner of the house gets seen. That is part of the game.

Which means if somebody is getting pushed, somebody is pulling. If somebody is getting highlighted, somebody else is getting shaded. Not because they are bad. Not because they are not worthy. But because there are only so many seats at the table, and nobody is handing out extras because your feelings got hurt.

That is reality.

And reality does not care if you are tired. It does not care how long you served. It does not care that you have over 24 years in and still show up ready to work. In fact, let me say this plainly: sometimes having that much time in becomes its own awkward conversation.

People may not say it directly, but you can feel it.

You can feel when people look at you like a question mark instead of a possibility. You can feel when they treat you like unrealized potential with a uniform on. You can feel when the room quietly decides it would rather invest in somebody with more runway, more narrative shine, or less mileage on the tires.

Again, they may not say that.

But actions have subtitles.

Still, I am not writing this from a place of self-pity.

I am writing this from a place of clarity.

Because there is a difference between getting yourself in position to be considered and getting yourself in position to be denied by nobody.

Those are not the same thing.

I think I did a lot to get myself to the table. I really do. I think I worked. I think I built. I think I stayed consistent. I think I earned serious consideration.

But being considered and being undeniable are two different zip codes.

And that is the lesson I am carrying forward.

If I move again, if another door opens, if another chance comes, then my mission is not just to be close enough for people to debate. My mission is to become so consistent, so visible, so sharp, so complete in my impact that denying it becomes harder than endorsing it.

Not impossible. Harder.

Because timing still matters. Availability still matters. Someone else fumbling the ball somewhere else still matters. The needs of the Air Force still matter. Who is in the room still matters. Who believes in you when your name comes up still matters.

But no one, and I mean no one, can fully manufacture what has not been built.

A Chief can advocate. A leader can sponsor. A system can open a lane.

But nobody can be a kingmaker if the kingdom is not there.

That part, at least, still belongs to me.

So no, I do not believe I am unworthy.

I believe I am worthy.

I also believe I am learning.

And some lessons do not come wrapped in victory. Some show up dressed like disappointment, carrying paperwork, and asking whether you are mature enough to tell the truth about what just happened.

The truth is this:

I got close.

I am proud of that, even if pride feels a little awkward sitting next to pain.

I also know close can mess with your head. Close can make you obsess. Close can make you romanticize the finish line and ignore the fact that you still have ground to cover. Close can make you bitter if you are not careful.

I do not want to be bitter.

I want to be better.

Yes, I see the politics. Yes, I see the games. Yes, I see how much depends on conversations I will never be in. Yes, I see that visibility, advocacy, and timing can shape a career in ways hard work alone cannot.

But I also see myself more clearly now.

And maybe that is the point.

Maybe “seven and a half behind” is not just about what I missed.

Maybe it is about what I found.

I found out that my worth cannot be reduced to a point spread. I found out that disappointment does not erase diligence. I found out that late growth is still growth. I found out that even after 24 years, you can still learn hard truths about systems, leadership, perception, and yourself. I found out that some of the strongest people you will ever meet are the ones who got close enough to taste it, lost it, and still showed up the next day with their boots tied tight.

That is not glamorous.

That is grown-man strength.

So this is not a sad violin post. This is not me asking for sympathy. This is not me pretending everything is noble and clean and beautifully packaged.

No.

This is just reality.

And reality is not peaches and roses.

Sometimes reality is giving your best, falling short by seven and a half points, and having to decide whether that number becomes your excuse or your fuel.

I know what I am choosing.

Seven and a half behind?

Maybe.

But I am still moving forward.