2013 Never give up...
Never Giving Up: Sometimes It Just Takes Time to Get Back to It
In 2013, I had started writing a book on meditative thought, in addition to my first book “IT IS About Leadership…Not Just Management”.
Not just any book. It was not meant to be another professional manual or checklist. It was something far more personal—something that asked me to pause and reflect, not perform. This book focused on a concept that had been slowly forming within me over years of experience: meditative thought. It was about how stillness could shape decision-making, how awareness could calm internal storms, and how leaders could grow stronger by stepping back, breathing, and listening to what silence reveals.
This draft from 2013 is for the book “Stop and Think…IT IS about getting outside your own head.”
The idea was clear in my mind. I had notes, outlines, and pages written in longhand—raw but real. I believed in it. I believed in the voice that was coming through. But life had a way of interrupting what the soul starts.
I was writing about the space between action and reaction. About the moment when breath, thought, and presence collide. About how leaders don’t just need strategy—they need stillness.
And I was on fire with it—until I wasn’t.
I told myself, “I’ll come back to it when I have more time.” But as time marched on, I didn’t return to the book. Still, the book never left me.
The Quiet Exit
If you have ever stepped away from something you enjoy, you know how subtle the drift can be.
One day you are energized and scribbling notes, and the next, you are telling yourself you will come back to it “next week.” Then the job demands more. Someone else needs your time and leadership, not in a negative way, but a personal one as well. An opportunity arises that doesn’t leave room for anything else.
Suddenly, that idea you believed in becomes an afterthought. It gets packed into a file drawer. That file gets boxed up. That box finds its way to a shelf.
And there it sits.
Not forgotten. Not erased. Just waiting.
It is rarely a dramatic moment when we step away from the things we care about. Most people don’t quit with a slammed door or a bold declaration. We just slowly step back. We reprioritize. We promise ourselves that it is temporary. That the pause will not last long.
Then one day becomes one week. A week becomes a month. And before you know it, years have passed.
That is how it happened to me. The manuscript sat in that box for so long, it started to feel like a forgotten project. But the truth is—it never really left my mind. It would surface during quiet moments, during times of stillness or transition. I would hear a phrase in my head, see an image from the old outline, and feel the quiet tug: “You’re not done.”
I just kept pushing it away. There was always something more urgent. Something more visible. Something tied to service, rank, or obligation.
But looking back now, I realize that I was not ignoring the book. I disappeared into responsibility. Into service. Into the uniform. It is easy to lose yourself when the mission is loud and the world rewards constant movement.
But when we pause—when we are honest—we know exactly what we have set aside. And that unfinished thing? It calls us, even years later.
I was avoiding what it asked of me: to slow down and face the part of myself that wasn’t leading in uniform, but leading from within.
The Myth of Quitting
We often confuse pausing with quitting. Our culture worships momentum. We celebrate “the grind,” “the hustle,” and the speed of execution. The faster you can achieve something, the more applause you get. But real transformation does not live on fast tracks. It lives in the valleys. In the detours. In the long, winding spaces where you are forced to grow before you can finish what you started.
For a while, I bought into the idea that I had failed to follow through. I carried that quiet weight—the internal voice that whispered, “You left something unfinished.”
I used to believe that if I put the book down, it meant I had failed, that I had given into the fear of failure and possible rejection for what I had written. That walking away—even temporarily—meant it was not important enough. But over time, I have learned something else:
You don’t quit when you pause. You quit when you never return.
Rest is not retreat. Waiting is not weakness. And reflection is not wasted time.
We must stop punishing ourselves for being human—especially when the human experience is exactly what makes our message meaningful.
But what I’ve come to realize is this: some things need to mature in the dark. Some seeds take years before they break the surface. Some voices, especially your own, take time to find their full strength.
The book was not a failure. It was an ember—still glowing, still waiting. And I wasn’t lazy or distracted. I was just becoming the version of myself who was finally ready to write it right.
When the Storm Breaks You Open
The turning point was not a burst of inspiration—it was a Storm.
A few months ago, I hit a hard wall professionally. The kind that rattles your sense of direction. A situation in my position forced me to confront some uncomfortable truths—not just about leadership, but about identity. About who I was underneath the rank, the role, the résumé, about the years I had spent in service, the role I had built, the structure I had worked so hard to hold together.
It shook me. And like most turning points, it did not show up with a roadmap. It arrived with a question:
“What now?”
Suddenly, the titles did not feel as grounding. The uniform did not answer the questions swirling in my head. And the path I had always trusted began to feel strangely unfamiliar.
Those moments can break you—but they can also wake you up.
As I sat with the fallout of that experience, I realized I needed to realign. Not with a position. Not with a rank. But with purpose.
And that’s when I thought of the books I had started all those years ago. There were notes for at least five different books.
I went searching for it. Not with the confidence of someone ready to publish, but with the curiosity of someone who had come home to a part of themselves that had been waiting.
What I found wasn’t just old notes—it was clarity. But as I read through those pages, something inside me shifted.
This was not just a manuscript. It was a map—leading me back to myself.
The words I had written in 2013 felt distant, but familiar. Unfinished, but still full of life. And in that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do.
This pushed me to get the first book out "IT IS About Leadership...Not Just Management" (already done and published in Jun 2025)
A Different Kind of Service
For most of my life, service has meant wearing the uniform—military, law enforcement, structured leadership. My identity was built around protecting, leading, and showing up strong for others.
I have always been wired to serve. It’s in my DNA. It’s what led me to the Marine Corps. To law enforcement. To leadership roles that demanded courage, consistency, and presence. But there comes a point when the form of your service has to change—even if the mission stays the same.
In that post-challenge clarity, I realized something important: I was still meant to lead—but not from behind a badge or in a chain of command. Not with authority—but with authenticity.
That service is not confined to badges or boots. It does not retire when the role changes. Sometimes, the most powerful service happens after the storm—when you come back to share what you have learned through the struggle.
That old draft became something new: a symbol of transformation.
And that’s when I committed—not just to finish the book—but to live out its message.
That’s when the shift happened. I didn’t need a uniform to serve. I needed a voice. I didn’t need a title—I needed truth. I didn’t need another position—I needed to return to my purpose of helping others grow.
So now, I lead differently. I speak. I write. I coach. I guide. I help others pause long enough to hear themselves—and sometimes, that is more powerful than any command I could give.
What Time Taught Me
There is something sacred about waiting. When you give something time—not because you are avoiding it, but because you are letting it mature—you allow it to become what it was always meant to be.
We rush a lot in leadership. We want quick wins. Fast turnarounds. Clear answers. But some things—especially the things that matter most—cannot be forced.
That is what time taught me.
Time taught me that the voice I write with today is wiser than the voice I wrote with in 2013—because I have lived more. I have led under pressure. I have made mistakes. I have been humbled. I have sat with silence and wrestled with what it means to lead when no one is looking.
And because of all that, this book will be better now than it ever could have been then. The person I was in 2013 was not unqualified. He was just still gathering the right experiences. He hadn’t yet faced the challenges that would make the message deeper. He hadn’t walked through the fire that would give the writing its weight.
Now, I see it so clearly: Sometimes we are not ready to finish the work because we have not lived the ending yet.
Now I have. And because of that, this book will be better than I ever could have imagined.
What Are You Waiting to Pick Back Up?
This is not just about writing. This is about whatever you set aside.
Maybe it was a book. Maybe it was a business plan. Maybe it was a conversation you were meant to have. Maybe it was your health, your art, your spiritual life, or your personal vision.
A nonprofit idea. A speech. A calling. A personal practice. A degree. Something you were passionate about before life got complicated.
Here’s the hard truth: most people will not finish what they start. Not because they are not capable, but because they forget they are allowed to return.
So I am saying it clearly:
You are allowed to return.
You are allowed to pick up what you laid down. You are allowed to continue what you started—without shame, without apology.
You are allowed to finish, not because the world is watching, but because something inside you still believes it matters.
You have not failed. You have not missed your chance. You are not too old or too far gone.
You have just been in the middle of your story.
And now, it might be time to turn the page—and go back to what you started. Not to prove anything. Not to anyone else. But because it still matters to you.
Because the world might still need what you put down.
A Final Word for the Warrior in You
We often celebrate beginnings. We applaud finishes. But we don’t talk enough about the return.
The moment when you say, “I’m not done.” The decision to dig through the dust and rediscover the fire. The courage it takes to step back in—not as who you were, but as who you have become.
That is where real leadership lives. Not in perfection, but in persistence. Not in the loud victories, but in the quiet returns.
There is deep strength in the return. In coming back to the work that once lit you up. In admitting that something meaningful was never fully gone—it was simply waiting for you to be ready.
This is leadership. Not the kind you post on a résumé, but the kind that reshapes your character. This is how warriors evolve. Not by fighting the same battles, but by accepting new missions—missions that ask more of your heart than your hands.
So, if you have walked away from something you once loved… If life pushed your purpose to the back burner… If fear, failure, or fatigue made you pause…
I want you to know:
It is not over. You are not done. You never gave up. You just took the time you needed.
And now, it might be time to return.
So go ahead. Find your box. Pick it up. And lead from there.
If this spoke to you—if you have been carrying something in silence—know this: someone out there is waiting for the story you almost gave up on. Reach out let’s work on getting things going again.
Amazon.com: IT IS About Leadership...Not Just Management: Go Beyond Just Management To Become The Leader Others WANT To Follow eBook : Doizaki, Randall: Kindle Store