Invisible Fences: The Limits We Don’t See

Before we talk about invisible fences, I want to show you one. In the photo above, I’m standing at attention during a ceremony in Kuwait in 1991. To my left, there’s an empty spot in the formation.

That space belonged to Specialist Peter L. Swano—a soldier, mentor, and friend in my unit who died the following morning after I asked him if he was okay. I told him, “Swano, you look like you’re going to die, man. You good?” He said, “Detty, I’m good, man. Thanks.” The next morning, he was gone.

At the time, I had never seen someone die in front of me. I didn’t know what dying looked like. But something inside me knew—and I didn’t act on it. Why? Because I was a Private in the Army. Who was I to say anything? I wasn’t a doctor. I had no medical training. And even though my gut was screaming that something was wrong, I told myself I must be overreacting. So I stayed quiet.

His absence became the first invisible fence I ever recognized: the cost of staying silent or taking no action when something inside says speak. Most fences don’t need to be made of wire or wood. Some of the strongest ones are invisible—and they’re the ones we build around ourselves.

The Final Roll Call

The ceremony we held for Swano was something I had never seen before. It was called a Final Roll Call. They called his name three times:

“Specialist Swano.”

“Specialist Peter Swano.”

“Specialist Peter L. Swano.”

And each time… silence.

I remember thinking: We all know he’s not here. Why are we doing this? But now, decades later, I understand. That roll call wasn’t for Swano—it was for the rest of us. It was a way to feel his absence. To honor it. To confront the reality that one of our own was gone.

That moment shaped everything about who I became as a leader. I promised myself: Never again will I ignore that instinct.

The Transition Trap

For many service members, transitioning out of the military feels like stepping into the unknown. There’s this sense that the world outside the uniform should be filled with opportunity—but somehow, we end up in the same types of jobs: Government service. Defense contracting. Law enforcement or security.

There’s nothing wrong with those paths. They can be stable, fulfilling, and high-paying. But too often, veterans don’t explore other careers—not because they lack the skills, but because they never saw those options as realistic. That’s what I call the invisible fence. It’s not a physical barrier. It’s a belief, a mental limit, a story you’ve absorbed so deeply that it feels like truth.

I’ve seen it affect people at all levels: Senior leaders (E-8s, E-9s, O-5s, O-6s) who feel like they have to pursue GS or senior contracting roles that reflect their former rank. Junior NCOs and enlisted who assume they can’t aim for leadership positions in the civilian world because they “weren’t officers.” Combat arms soldiers who believe their only post-military path is private security because they don’t have a “civilian trade.” Support roles who feel locked into logistics, HR, or admin because “that’s what I did in the Army.”

None of this is written in stone. But when everyone around you acts like it is, it might as well be. That’s the trap.

Breaking the Pattern

I enlisted as an E-1. I didn’t come from money. I graduated from Kauaʻi High School with a 1.2 GPA. I wasn’t supposed to become a Command Sergeant Major. I wasn’t supposed to finish my degree. I wasn’t supposed to have a family at 47—or again at 53. I wasn’t supposed to build a successful business after the military.

And yet I did.

Not because I had the roadmap. But because I stopped asking for permission to change my life—and started tearing down the fences that told me I couldn’t.

This message isn’t just for veterans. It’s for anyone who’s ever thought: “I’m too old to start over.” “I missed my window.” “People like me don’t get to do that.” “I’ve already chosen my path—I have to stick with it.”

You don’t need permission to change your life. You just need to start seeing the fences—and tear them down.

From That Day Forward

After Swano died, I faced a choice: get out because none of this felt worth it… or stay in and be the leader I wish he’d had. I stayed. And I never again let rank or hierarchy silence me.

I’ve never been concerned with pleasing my higher-ups—because they didn’t control how I treated my soldiers. Whether I was praised or punished didn’t matter. My mission was to say what needed to be said, even if it cost me. If that meant I’d make people mad and not get promoted—so be it.

Of course, that was always my intention—but I can’t say with certainty that it was always perceived that way. I made mistakes, no doubt. And I’m sure there were times I thought I was doing right by people when I could have done better. Leadership isn’t about getting it perfect—it’s about owning the impact, learning from it, and doing everything you can to keep growing.

Where I Am Now

I’ve been thinking about these fences a lot lately. And I’ve come to realize: they don’t just show up once. Every new stage of life brings new fences. The challenge is to keep seeing them for what they are—mental limits, not real ones—and keep pushing forward.

That’s why I’m building something called “Let’s Talk It Through.” It’s a space for honest conversation, personal clarity, and helping others break through their own invisible fences. No selling. No judgment. Just real talk, when you need it.

I’m not charging for anything right now. This is my give-back until the demand grows. Until then, if something’s been on your mind, I’m here. Because this journey isn’t about proving anything. It’s about becoming everything you’re meant to be—once the fences are gone.

What invisible fence have you had to break through—or are still facing today?