Collaborating with a few other veterans, I co-authored a book. The title of the book is Life Changing Leadership and the authors share leadership stories from our time in the military. All proceeds from the book went to the non-profit Shields & Stripes. We accomplished our goal to make the Amazon best sellers list and I enjoyed pretending to be an author for a few months.

The book was published in 2024. This is a copy of my chapter.

Reflections on Grit as a Leadership Trait

The airport bar was moderately crowded, with travelers passing through Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta. I sat alone, shoulders relaxed for the first time in a year, hand curled around my order of “Bourbon, rocks.” The amber liquid was mesmerizing as I sat next to the bar window with my back toward the concourse. My wife calls it “sitting like Wild Bill,” referencing the tragic end of the famous cowboy. I was vaguely aware that being in a bar and drinking in uniform were two things a random sergeant major instructed us not to do as we were dropped off at the airport. But I was a soldier, and this is what soldiers do. “What are they going to do,” I joked to myself, “send me back to Afghanistan?”

The sweet smell of the bourbon, a mixture of oak and corn, turned my nostrils into a time machine. It transported me back, not to the snowy mountaintops of Afghanistan, but to the beautiful rows of green cornfields that glowed in the Alabama sun, to my family’s farm, the place where I had learned life lessons about work, sweat, and the satisfaction of watching my labor turn into a successful harvest.

I’ve always thought that life itself mirrors those rows of corn. You plant something, tend to it, fertilize it, and wait patiently while it grows. Some days, you see progress, other days, nothing at all. But you keep tending to it because you know that the effort will pay off. The thing about farming is that it doesn’t give you immediate rewards. I call this the “law of the farm.” There is no procrastination in farming. The work must be done daily regardless of personal schedules or mood. There is no cramming for the test or making up for lost time. Seasons come whether you have prepared or not. You learn patience in those fields and the resilience that comes from watching and waiting. I never thought those slow-growing rows of corn would help me navigate a world so removed from a dirt farm in Alabama, but they did.

The Weight of Legacy and Grit in the Fields

As a boy, I spent countless hours in those Alabama fields, and each moment shaped the foundation of my leadership style as an army officer. I remember one day in particular; my father and I were helping a cousin with some work around his barn, the smell of hay and dust in the air, Alabama heat on our backs. This cousin had grown up with my father, and their relationship was more like brothers than cousins. During a break, he looked at me, a young kid trying to keep up with the men, and started sharing stories about how his dad and my grandfather, Rufus, or as we grandkids called him, “Pop Pop,” had built that barn back when he was my age. He said Rufus was the hardest-working man he knew. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he added, “Except for your other grandfather, Leonard.”

Leonard, my maternal grandfather, died long before I was born, so I had never met him. But hearing those words, I stood a little taller. Deep pride swelled up inside me, knowing that I had come from a line of men who were respected. This respect was not because of their words but their actions. It struck me that grit wasn’t something you talked about. Grit was evident in how you showed up and lived your life. My grandfathers earned respect from the sweat of their brows and the strength of their backs. This was the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind.

I can still remember waking before the crack of dawn and doing morning chores with my older brother. Our efforts mimicked our father’s, steady and deliberate. Dad never complained about the early mornings or the long hours. In fact, I do not recall a time, ever, when he was not up by 6 am, ready to start the day. If something needed doing, he did it. No fuss. I wanted to be like that. Maybe that’s why, even as I found myself in Afghanistan, thousands of miles away from that farm, I still carried it with me. The way I handled tough situations, the way I kept my head down and pushed through the hard days, all traced back to those early mornings on the farm.

My father’s lessons did not come in lectures. He didn’t sit me down and explain grit to me. He simply lived it, day after day, in the way he worked, in the way he tended his crops, cared for his livestock, and maintained his equipment. He didn’t need to tell me to work hard. I saw it every day. His was a quiet leadership, the kind that stays with you long after you’ve left.

The Watermelon Fields and the Practice of Patience

That lesson in silent grit carried me through many seasons of planting and harvesting. But one field taught me more about perseverance than any other: the watermelon field. Growing watermelons was easily my least favorite activity. It is the crop requiring the greatest amount of manual work, and it provided the least amount of fun. In fact, on the list of summer activities available to a boy in rural Alabama, growing watermelons is at the bottom.

We would spend hours in the summer heat hoeing weeds, the rows so long they disappeared into the horizon. It was tempting to stop and look up, to check and see how far we had to go. But I learned early on that only prolonged the pain and made the task feel seem unending. The best method, I discovered, was to keep my head down, focus on the work right in front of me, and push forward. The trees at the end of the row, where cool water waited on a cart in the shade, would come eventually. But first, there was work to do.

There’s something about physical labor that clears your mind. The rhythm, the repetition, the feel of the soil under your boots, it centers you. Out in the fields, the only thing you can control is the effort you put in. You can’t speed up the process. You can’t cut corners. You just have to keep going. That’s where I learned the true meaning of grit, not in any loud or dramatic events but in the quiet persistence of daily effort. Grit isn’t about heroic acts. It is about doing the work, day in and day out, no matter how tired or frustrated you are.

That mentality, keeping my head down and pushing through, became my compass as I started my army career at Fort Knox. As a tanker, this was my introduction to those infamous hills: Agony, Misery, and Heartbreak. Their steep grades test every soldier who passes through; the challenge increased further by the weight of a rifle and 50 or 60-pound rucksack. Like those endless watermelon rows, the trick is not to look for the summit. You can’t focus on how far you have to go or how grueling the climb is. The only way to get through is to concentrate on each step and trust that, eventually, you will reach the top. It was just hoeing an endless row but in a new and more punishing context.

Each time we climbed those hills, I thought about the watermelon fields back home. The trick was the same: don’t look too far ahead, don’t focus on the distance left to travel. Just keep moving. This mindset carried me through more than just the physical challenges of training. It has helped me stay grounded as things get tough emotionally and mentally, too. The Army has a way of pushing you to your limits in ways you didn’t expect. It’s not just about physical endurance; it’s about mental fortitude. There were days I wanted to quit, days when the weight of everything felt too much. But I’d think of those long rows of watermelons and keep going, one step at a time.

Leadership in the Field: Grit in Action

But grit didn’t just mean physical endurance; it also meant attention to detail. On the farm, we used everything from tractors to plows to combine harvesters, some of which were older than my parents. Each day began before sunrise, with my brother and me greasing fittings, checking belts, and monitoring fluid levels. Caring for those machines was as important as caring for the livestock because, like the crops, the equipment was a lifeline. If we neglected them, we wouldn’t have a harvest. That level of care, that understanding of maintenance and attention to detail, became second nature to me.

That farm-bred instinct paid off when I graduated from the Armor Officer Basic Course and was awarded the Maintenance Award. I achieved the highest scores on both the written tests and the practical exercises for conducting maintenance operations on armored vehicles. It was a powerful validation of all the work I had done back on the farm. The attention to detail, the early mornings spent keeping our old equipment running, it all translated directly into my new role, where the machinery had changed, but the principles remained the same.

The Pea Patch: Early Lessons in Leadership

Then there was the pea patch. The seeds of grit were sown in a humble plot of land that my father gave my brother and me to manage. It was just a few acres, but to us, it represented the beginning of something much larger. Starting at the ages of 5 and 7, we planted peas, tended them, picked them by hand, packaged them for sale, then sold them, and reinvested what we earned into the next crop. Every season was a lesson in self-sufficiency, managing resources, troubleshooting, and pushing through tough times. As we got older, we expanded our ambitions, growing other crops, negotiating land usage, and hiring workers for the bigger harvests.

Managing that small patch of land gave me my first taste of leadership. It wasn’t just about getting the crops in; it was about making decisions, taking responsibility, and learning how to deal with setbacks. If we had a bad season, it was on us. If the weather didn’t cooperate or the crops didn’t sell, we had to figure out how to compensate for it. Those early lessons in leadership were invaluable when I found myself leading soldiers in Afghanistan. Just like the farm, there were no guarantees in a combat zone. You had to adapt, make quick decisions, and take responsibility for the outcomes.

Leadership: Planting the Seeds of Success

In Afghanistan, the stakes were high, and my mission was anything but ordinary. Commanding a unit responsible for retrograde operations, which is essentially logistics in reverse, I was faced with the monumental task of pulling back years’ worth of military equipment, all while supporting the troops who still had battles to fight. We had been in the country for two decades, sending in more and more supplies with little thought for the Herculean effort it would take to get it all out. And then, shortly after I arrived in 2013, came the announcement from the President: the U.S. would be out of Afghanistan by the end of 2014 (spoiler alert: we missed this deadline).

The President’s announcement hit like a thunderclap. Suddenly, what had felt like a manageable challenge turned into an immense, time-crunched puzzle with soldiers’ lives hanging in the balance. The clock was ticking, and the pressure was palpable. There was no luxury of time, no easing into the task. It was as though someone had upended a chessboard mid-game, and I had to figure out how to place every piece back where it belonged without losing any of the pieces.

Much like tending to the farm equipment of my youth, where every belt and pulley had to be meticulously cared for or risk the failure of an entire harvest, retrograde operations required an obsessive attention to detail. There were tens of thousands of pieces of equipment to track, and each piece had to be accounted for, packed, and transported through dangerous terrain. We also faced the scrutiny of the media and multiple government agencies. Soon after the President’s announcement, Time Magazine sent a reporter and published an article painting a realistic picture of our “mission impossible.” This opened a floodgate of media requests and distinguished visitors. And yet, in the midst of this logistical chaos, we still had to support the troops on the ground, ensuring they had what they needed to carry out their missions safely.

The mission demanded resilience. There were moments when the sheer magnitude of the tasks seemed insurmountable. One challenge that became routine was the frequent visits from generals, media, or government dignitaries, each wanting a tour of our operations. Despite their assurances that they wouldn’t disrupt our work, it was impossible to show them real-time operations due to the overwhelming noise and activity inside our warehouses. We had to shut everything down and stage mock displays for them.

If you’ve never dealt with a general officer (GO), their leadership style is something like this: GO arrives with promises not to interfere and offers their support. Then, they disrupt everything. They ask a barrage of questions until they land on one you can’t answer. After that, they deliver a solution you probably don’t need, hand out a few coins, pose for photos “with the troops,” and stroll away feeling like they solved a problem.

Meanwhile, our core mission continued. We were responsible for receiving and accounting for all theater equipment from departing brigades while issuing critical equipment to incoming combat units. Amidst the chaos of retrograde logistics, the operational tempo didn’t slow, not even in the face of the weekly attacks on our base. In those moments, adaptability and grit weren’t just abstract qualities. They became essential tools, guiding us as we recalibrated on the fly and pushed forward with determination. Like my father, like my grandfathers before me, I desired to lead through action, not words. And it was in those quiet moments of persistence, in focusing on the next step when the summit seemed far away, that I realized the value of grit as a leadership trait.

Adversity in Graduate School: Grit in the Pursuit of Knowledge

When I began my PhD program, I was eager to delve deep into a topic that I was passionate about. I had initially aligned my research with that of a senior faculty member whose interests resonated with my own. As luck would have it, that faculty member retired unexpectedly early, leaving me without a dissertation advisor. Faced with this hurdle, I tried to maintain my initial enthusiasm and momentum. I thought I could simply power through by finding other faculty members to fill that gap. Fortunately, I secured two professors who sympathized with my plight to create a dual-advisor arrangement. Unfortunately, they shared neither enthusiasm nor interest in my dissertation topic.

I spent months working under this new arrangement, dedicating myself to making it work. Eventually, the unconventional dual-advisor arrangement came to a head. One of them finally delivered the hard truth I needed to hear but dreaded, “James, you need to pick a new dissertation topic.” Hearing that was a blow. It was hard. I had been so committed to my original idea, convinced that my dissertation had to be something I loved, something that ignited joy and passion in my research.

After two years of work, I had to start over. I felt defeated, grappling with the notion that all my previous efforts were for naught. However, true to the lessons of grit I had learned throughout my life, I allowed myself only that day to feel defeated. The next morning, I approached my situation with fresh eyes and a renewed spirit. Embracing the opportunity to steer my research in a new direction, I chose a new topic and found a new advisor.

Though initially perceived as a setback, this change turned out to be the best bad news I had ever received. With a new topic that aligned better with my new advisor’s expertise, I found renewed vigor in my work. Eight months later, I was holding a completed dissertation in my hands, a tangible testament to the power of resilience, adaptability, and persistence. This experience was pivotal. Not only did it push me to adapt and overcome, but it also reinforced the importance of flexibility and the willingness to accept difficult truths, qualities that are invaluable in both academic and personal growth.

Transitioning into Academia: A New Battlefield

One of the core values the Army instilled in me was the importance of mentorship. Whether mentoring junior officers or helping soldiers develop their skills, it became a natural part of my leadership role. I found real fulfillment in guiding others, particularly in teaching them the skills they needed to succeed in challenging environments. This passion for mentoring eventually led to an opportunity that I hadn’t initially expected: becoming an instructor at the Armor School.

At the Armor School, I was tasked with preparing young captains for the responsibilities of company command. This wasn’t just about passing on tactical knowledge but equipping these officers with leadership tools to lead their soldiers through life-altering situations. During these moments, lecturing on tactics, debating leadership principles, and fielding difficult questions, I realized how much I enjoyed the process of teaching and mentoring.

That experience planted the first seeds of my eventual transition into academia. After obtaining my PhD, I was invited to serve as an adjunct professor at the Command and General Staff College, where I again found myself in a role that combined mentoring with teaching. It was a natural extension of my military career. Only now, I was helping to shape future military leaders in a classroom instead of on the battlefield.

Those experiences convinced me that my future lay in higher education. The joy I felt when guiding students, encouraging their curiosity, and helping them develop into more capable leaders and thinkers was unmatched. As I shifted out of the military, the path into academia was not just a continuation of my desire to teach and mentor but a calling I felt compelled to pursue. Each classroom I enter reminds me of the leadership lessons I have learned throughout my military career and the importance of passing those lessons on to the next generation.

The Entrepreneurial Journey: Building from the Ground Up

While I was building my academic career, I found myself drawn to a new challenge: starting a technology company. It wasn’t an easy decision. The world of startups is fast-paced and unpredictable. At the time, I had minimal experience in running a technology business. But something about it called to me. Maybe it was the desire to build something from the ground up, just like I had done on the farm.

The early days of the startup were exhilarating but exhausting. Every day presented a new challenge, from securing funding to perfecting the software product to managing a small team. The pressure was intense. Failure wasn’t just a possibility; it felt like a constant threat. While I would not say that I thrive under pressure, I do think working under pressure is in my comfort zone. The farm had taught me how to work through uncertainty, and the Army had taught me how to lead through chaos. I approached the startup the same way I had approached every other challenge in my life: head down, focusing on the next step, and trusting that each small effort would eventually lead to success.

Just as things were starting to take off, we hit a major obstacle. I discovered that my business partner had been embezzling funds, and the company was on the brink of collapse. It was a punch to the gut. I had put everything into this venture, and now it was falling apart because of someone else’s selfishness and dishonesty. The situation ended with my co-founder pleading guilty to wire fraud and being sentenced to federal prison. But the damage had been done. I was embarrassed and ashamed. It had happened on my watch. Even though my duties were focused on product development, I blamed myself for not paying closer attention to the details.

I felt like I was once again staring at those endless rows of watermelon plants, feeling like the task ahead was so big, so overwhelming. But just like on the farm, there was no option but to push forward. I tightened my grip on the hoe, leaned heavily on advisors I could trust, built a new and stronger team, and slowly, step by step, pulled the company back from the brink. The experience taught me a hard lesson about trust and accountability. It also reinforced my belief that grit, true grit, was the key to overcoming any obstacle.

Reflections on Grit: The Thread That Connects It All

Looking back on my journey, I can see how grit has been the thread connecting every part of my life. From the farm to the battlefield, from the classroom to the boardroom, the lessons I learned in those watermelon fields have shaped everything I’ve done. Grit isn’t something you’re born with; it’s something you build over time through hard work, persistence, and resilience. Just like Malcolm Gladwell’s “10,000-hour rule,” grit is developed through repetition, through showing up day after day, even when you don’t feel like it, especially when you don’t feel like it.

In the Army, we have a saying: “The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war.” I believe that was always a reflection of grit. The effort you put in before the battle is what sustains you when things get tough. That same principle applies whether in the fields, in the classroom, or in the business world. The work you do behind the scenes, the quiet perseverance, is what prepares you for the moments when everything is on the line.

But grit goes beyond just enduring hardship; it’s about embracing it. It’s about understanding that challenges and setbacks are not roadblocks but stepping stones on the path to growth. Whether I was standing in the fields at dawn or leading soldiers in the unforgiving terrain of Afghanistan, I realized that true grit lies in refusing to be daunted by adversity. It is about facing obstacles head-on, knowing that each struggle brings you closer to your goal.

Grit is what keeps you grounded when the ground itself seems to shift beneath you. It’s the internal compass that points you toward resilience, regardless of the storm. And as I continue to lead, teach, and build, I know that grit is the foundation upon which all great leadership is built. Without it, success is fleeting, but with it, any obstacle can be overcome.