Editor’s note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service, under the headline “After 30 Years in the Military, an Army Colonel Asks: Who Am I Without the Uniform?” Subscribe to their newsletter.
The morning after my retirement ceremony, I opened the closet and stared. For 30 years, the Army had made getting dressed simple. Although the look of the uniforms changed over my career, the functions remained the same: PT, duty and dress.
Now, I faced choices every morning. What belt matched? Footwear? None of it felt like me. I put on a pair of khakis and a matching shirt, but it felt like a costume. Standing there, I felt like I was looking at someone I didn’t know. I realized the question wasn’t about clothes at all. It was much deeper and sharper: Who am I now, without the uniform?
My retirement ceremony had been full of smiles. The master of ceremonies read a summary of my career, and my commander pinned a retirement award on my chest — the last military award that I would receive. Hands were shaken and promises to stay in touch were exchanged. My family beamed with pride. Old friends told stories that made us laugh and wince in equal measure.
It felt like a proper ending — until the next morning, when there was only silence. No reveille, no formation, no mission brief. Just a house that suddenly seemed too quiet and a calendar with nothing written on it.
For three decades, I knew exactly where I belonged. My rank and position told the world — and me — who I was. People stood when I entered a room. My experience counted. My signature carried weight. Every morning, I woke with a mission. And then, in a single ceremony, it all ended. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do.
The absence hit harder than I expected. I didn’t miss the 5 a.m. alarms, physical training in weather so cold it made your lungs hurt, the deployments or the endless paperwork.
I missed the tribe — my people. I missed being part of something larger than myself. I missed walking into a room and knowing that everyone there was chasing the same goal. The type A personalities engaged in a dance of natural competition, elevating both the individual and the organization. Outside this environment, I felt unmoored.
In the first weeks of my retirement, I found myself reaching for my phone at 5 a.m. and waiting for a text or a phone call that would never come. I was still guided by muscle memory from years of responsibility that no longer belonged to me. The instincts were still there, but the mission was gone.
One afternoon, not long after I retired, I called a close friend, another Army colonel who had taken off the uniform around the same time. “It’s strange,” he said, “to walk into a room and not be introduced by rank.”
He felt as if he had lost his “aimpoint, the goal that drives daily life.” His words were like a mirror before me. It wasn’t just me. Hearing it in his voice gave me permission to admit what I had been reluctant to say out loud: I felt lost and disconnected, too.
Those early months of retirement were disorienting. I rested, reconnected with family and caught up on everything I had postponed for years. I volunteered in my community, finished projects around the house and spent a few mornings improving my golf game. My family was happy to have me home, but they couldn’t feel the weight of what I’d lost. The Army had been more than a job; it was my compass.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table one morning, staring at the empty coffee cup. In the Army, that same hour would have been filled with a briefing or a staff huddle. Now, it was just quiet. A few of my old friends stayed in touch, shared tales of the latest stupid thing that happened at work or discussed an upcoming mission.
Their words made me smile but reminded me that my time in that world was over. I began to question, “Was the part of me that mattered most gone with the uniform?”
There were reminders everywhere. The photos on the wall showed me in uniform, flanked by soldiers whose names I could still rattle off. The coins and plaques that had once decorated my office now sat in boxes or leaned against the wall as if waiting to be hung, heavy with meaning but oddly useless.
Even the way people greeted me changed. Neighbors called me “Alan” instead of “Colonel.” Even when I went to the VA clinic for medical care, I was referred to as “Mr. Evans.” My identity had shifted overnight, and the world moved on without ceremony.
Eventually, I found my way back into federal service. Today, I work for the federal government in another department. The mission is different, the pace slower, but the sense of responsibility feels familiar. I still lead people, still solve problems, still try to make the right call when no one is looking.
Nevertheless, it doesn’t feel the same. In uniform, identity and mission were inseparable; every task fed into something larger than me. Now, the mission is mine to define. Sure, there is an overall strategy, but my agency allows me to set priorities based on the region my team serves. There is freedom in that, but also uncertainty. The Army gave me clear orders; this chapter requires me to write my own.
Over time, I realized that the mission hadn’t disappeared; it had just changed. It transformed into mentoring the next generation, showing up for my family in ways I once couldn’t, and finding new ways to serve.
I still live by the principles that once guided me in uniform: integrity, courage and care for those I lead. I’ve learned that purpose doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it’s found in the small, steady acts that make a difference, like showing up for a friend who’s struggling, sharing a story that makes someone feel less alone, or simply doing the right thing when no one is watching. The career gives me purpose; the personal mission gives me meaning. It’s quieter than the Army, but no less important.
Dr. Alan M. Evans is a retired U.S. Army colonel who now serves in a leadership role within the federal government. He holds a doctorate in strategic leadership from Liberty University, where his research explored the impact of followership dynamics on leadership effectiveness. Drawing on more than three decades of service and experience, he writes about leadership, identity and purpose in and beyond the military.
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Kim Vo wrote the headline.
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