Location: Brecon Beacons, South Wales

I stood shoulder to shoulder with the remaining recruits. There were just 19 of us now, a tiny fraction of the 150 who had started, whittled down by the sheer magnitude and severity of the task we sought to achieve. Selection for the Special Forces Reserve is a war of attrition with both the mind and body – a price that not all were willing, or able, to pay. Only once we had proved ourselves determined enough, fit enough, and resilient enough over the windswept mountains of the Brecon Beacons mountain range in Wales (known affectionately as the “hills” phase by recruits), would we begin to learn the skills and tactics necessary to be part of the SAS(R). For the last six months, I had spent most weekends battling against the clock, and invariably against the elements, to prove that I had what it took to be part of this illustrious regiment. There was now one final punishing test ahead of us – the infamous “Endurance March”.

We stood in the pitch black of a moonless January night. The freezing, driving sleet pounded against our bodies as we stood motionless, waiting to set off into the mountains above. The only reprieve from the engulfing darkness came from the dim headtorch of the Chief Instructor standing in front of us. “You know what tonight is,” he said calmly to the group. “This is the start of the longest day of your lives. If you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to keep going until the end.” It was 23:00. We would have 22 hours to navigate 64 kilometres over the highest peaks of the Brecon Beacons carrying 75lb in our bergen (the weight of a seven-year-old child). Endurance came at the end of two continuous weeks of punishment we had known as “Loadstone” and then “Test Week”. I waited to set off into the void of darkness in front of me, the weight of my bergen already cutting painfully into the top of my bruised shoulders. I’d made it this far. I sure as hell wasn’t going to quit now.

Mindset Reflection:

When I started the extraordinarily difficult process of Special Forces Reserve selection, I couldn’t help but look at the men standing beside me on the parade square. Every one of them looked stronger, fitter, meaner than me. Had I been naive enough to judge a book by its cover, I’d have quit there and then. But beneath the noise of comparison was a quiet, unwavering resolve: I would keep moving forward when others began to falter.

Selection echoed lessons I’d already learned in the mountains – that true strength rarely announces itself. It’s often the unassuming individuals, those without bravado or inflated ego, who carry the deepest reserves of grit and resilience. The Directing Staff spoke often about the importance of the ‘Grey Man’ – someone who blends seamlessly into their environment, avoids attention, and quietly gets on with the job. No theatrics. No drama. Just disciplined forward momentum. Embrace the adversity. Navigate to the next checkpoint. Repeat.

Selection has a way of stripping people back to their essence. Those with a clear sense of purpose and quiet resolve endure. Those without ultimately defeat themselves. Of the 150 who started, only 19 remained by the time we stepped off into the mountains on a cold, dark January night. Twenty-four hours later, just 15 exhausted candidates crossed the finish line. A pass rate of 10%. Quiet resolve, it turns out, is anything but weak.

The lessons I learned during the hills stage of Special Forces Reserve selection stayed with me as we moved into the tactical phase of the process – known as Continuation – and, ultimately, into the day my life changed forever. Through experiences like selection, and by repeatedly choosing to embrace adversity in the mountains, I’d come to understand and respect the true power of quiet resolve – of being the ‘grey man’.

When the cliff collapsed beneath me during a climbing accident the following year, and my future quite literally hung in the balance, that same quiet resolve returned. As I lay broken on the mountainside, surrounded by the mountain rescue team and the best friend who had just saved my life by risking his own, I was winched to safety beneath a Coastguard helicopter hovering overhead.

In that moment, I made a promise to myself: whatever happened next, I would not let it beat me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cinematic. There was no bravado or Hollywood-style defiance. It was a quiet, internal commitment – to take accountability, to accept what was out of my control, and to keep moving forward with purpose, no matter what lay ahead. Quiet resolve isn’t about being fearless, exceptional, or loud. It’s about deciding – often in moments no one else will ever see – that you will keep moving forward. You don’t need to announce it. You don’t need permission. And you don’t need to feel ready.

It might look like showing up again tomorrow when today has drained you. Taking responsibility for what is within your control. Letting go of ego, comparison, and the need to be noticed. Becoming the ‘grey man’ in your own life – quietly competent, purpose-driven, and relentlessly consistent. Adversity doesn’t require heroics. It requires commitment. So, when the path ahead feels steep, uncertain, or overwhelming, resist the urge to look sideways at those around you. Focus instead on the next step. The next decision. The next small act of forward momentum.