The Fluorescent Hum

The fluorescent lights of the dairy aisle are humming at a frequency that matches the low-grade vibration of my own anxiety. I am standing in front of the almond milk, but I am not thinking about calcium or vitamin D. I am thinking about the tail of my t-shirt. It feels thin, dangerously thin, like a veil between me and the judgment of every person within a 14-foot radius. I shift my weight. There it is again-the sharp, unmistakable poke of Kydex against my hip bone. It’s an anchor that refuses to settle, a secret that feels like it’s screaming. I reach back, ostensibly to check my back pocket, but really to tug the fabric down another quarter inch.

I’ve done this 24 times since I walked through the automatic doors. My hand is a magnet for the hem of my shirt. I am more aware of the three pounds of polymer and lead on my belt than I am of the shopping list in my hand or the toddler currently barreling toward my shins with a miniature shopping cart. This is the confidence gap. It’s the chasm between owning a tool and actually being prepared to use it, and right now, the chasm feels wide enough to swallow me whole.

Perishable Readiness

Yesterday, I went through my refrigerator and threw away 14 jars of expired condiments. There was a Dijon mustard that had seen three different presidential administrations and a bottle of relish that had separated into a liquid that looked like toxic runoff. I realized, as I scraped the glass clean, that I keep things long after they’ve stopped being useful simply because I like the idea of having them. I like knowing I *could* make a charcuterie board, even if the mustard would actually give me food poisoning. We do the same thing with our gear. We buy the gun, we tuck it in the safe, and we tell ourselves we are ‘ready.’ But readiness is a perishable good. If the gear makes you so self-conscious that you’re constantly fidgeting, you aren’t a protector; you’re just a guy with a very expensive, very uncomfortable hobby.

“Readiness is a perishable good. If the gear makes you so self-conscious that you’re constantly fidgeting, you aren’t a protector; you’re just a guy with a very expensive, very uncomfortable hobby.”

The Eye of the Storm

My friend Michael H.L. understands this better than most. Michael is a therapy animal trainer, a job that requires a level of environmental awareness that would make a secret service agent look distracted. He works with dogs that have to remain calm in the middle of chaotic hospital wards or schools, which means Michael has to be the eye of the storm. He can’t be twitchy. He can’t be reaching for his belt every 4 minutes.

“If the dog feels you checking your gear, the dog thinks there is a threat… If you aren’t comfortable in your own skin, you’re communicating a lack of safety to everyone around you. Trust isn’t just about the animal; it’s about the system you’re wearing.”

Michael doesn’t just carry; he integrates. He showed me how his holster sat-not as an appendage, but as a part of his silhouette. He wasn’t constantly adjusting. He wasn’t worried about printing. He had moved past the stage of ‘owning a tool’ and into the stage of ‘unconscious competence.’ Watching him move through a crowded park with Barnaby, I realized that my own discomfort was a signal. It was my body telling me that I didn’t trust my carry system. And because I didn’t trust the system, I couldn’t trust myself to be present.

The Liability of Comfort

This is the Great Lie of the tactical industry: that the object is the objective. They want you to believe that the steel and the springs are the 90% of the equation. But if that steel is sitting on your nightstand while you’re at the grocery store because your holster digs into your appendix, then the object is 0% effective. A tool that is left at home because it’s a nuisance isn’t a tool at all; it’s a liability of the conscience.

I struggled with this for 44 weeks. I tried three different belts. I tried wearing shirts that were two sizes too large, which just made me look like I was wearing a tent made of plaid. I was constantly in a state of ‘pre-adjustment.’ You know the move-the little hitch of the hips, the subtle pull of the waistband, the sideways glance in the glass of the frozen food section to see if the grip is poking out. It’s a performance. And the only people who don’t see the performance are the ones who aren’t looking. The people you actually want to hide it from? They see the ‘tell’ immediately.

The problem isn’t the gun. The problem is the bridge between the human body and the machine. We spend hours researching muzzle velocity and grain weight, but we spend 4 seconds choosing the thing that actually attaches the weapon to our lives. I finally had to admit that my ‘good enough’ setup was the reason I was failing. I needed a system that offered more than just a place to shove a piece of metal; I needed something that understood the ergonomics of a human being who actually has to move, sit, and reach for a gallon of milk on the top shelf.

I started looking at higher-tier options that prioritized retention and comfort without sacrificing the profile of the draw. I realized that the solution wasn’t a smaller gun, but a system that didn’t lie to me. I finally looked into Just Holster It after seeing how Michael carried his own gear while working with those massive dogs. He needed something that stayed put even when a hundred-pound animal was leaning against his leg, yet remained accessible if things ever went sideways.

The Silent Awareness

That sounds counterintuitive, doesn’t it? We’re told to be ‘constantly aware.’ But there is a massive difference between being aware of your surroundings and being aware of your gear. True preparedness is silent. It doesn’t itch. It doesn’t require a secret handshake with your belt loop every time you stand up from a chair. When I finally switched to a holster that actually fit my body and my lifestyle, the cognitive load disappeared. It was like finally getting a pair of glasses that were the right prescription; suddenly, I wasn’t looking *at* the lenses, I was looking *through* them.

I remember the first day I wore a proper setup for 14 hours straight. I got home, took off my boots, and sat on the couch to watch the news. It wasn’t until I went to bed that I realized I hadn’t adjusted my shirt once. I hadn’t checked the mirror. I hadn’t felt that nagging ‘lump’ of anxiety. I had just been a person, going about his day, who happened to be prepared. That is the shift. That is where the power lies.

Investing in Integration

If you find yourself leaving your tool at home because it’s ‘just for today’ or because ‘I’m only going to be out for 34 minutes,’ you don’t have a preparedness problem. You have a gear problem. You are currently in the same position I was with those expired condiments. You are holding onto the idea of safety while the reality of it is sitting in a drawer gathering dust.

We often talk about the ‘cost’ of gear in terms of dollars. We say, ‘I can’t believe that holster is $104.’ But we rarely talk about the cost of the alternative. What is the cost of the one time you actually need that tool and it’s sitting on your dresser because it was too hot out and your holster felt like a branding iron? What is the cost of the distraction you feel in a crowded room because you’re worried about your shirt riding up? That distraction is a tax on your survival instincts. It’s a drain on your battery.

I threw away the old holster along with the expired mustard. It was a cathartic moment, a realization that I was done pretending. I stopped settling for ‘good enough’ and started investing in ‘integrated.’ The results weren’t just physical; they were psychological. I stopped being the guy in the dairy aisle with the twitchy hand. I became the guy who could actually focus on the milk, the toddler, and the exit doors all at once.

In the end, the tool is just an extension of the will. But if the extension is broken, the will is frustrated. Don’t let a $44 piece of plastic be the reason you aren’t the protector you claim to be. Own the tool, yes. But more importantly, own the system that allows the tool to become a part of you. Only then are you actually prepared. Only then can you stop adjusting your shirt and start living your life, knowing that if the world ever demands it, you won’t be reaching for a ghost.