I Joined the Space Force: My Honest Take

Note: This is a fictional first-person review for storytelling. It uses realistic details and examples to help you picture the experience.

Quick outline

  • Why I said yes
  • How getting in felt
  • Training: from boots to space nerd
  • My first unit and what a shift really looks like
  • Good stuff, hard stuff
  • Who should think about it
  • Tips I wish I had
  • Final grade

Why I said yes (and no, it’s not like the movies)

I wanted two things: a real mission and real skills. I love space, but I also like steady pay and good health care. So the Space Force felt right. I thought it would be rockets and cool suits. It’s not. It’s more headsets, checklists, and screens. And that’s okay. When a satellite blinks, you feel it in your chest. It matters. You can’t fake that feeling.

If you’re looking for an even deeper, blow-by-blow narrative of what signing the papers and stepping onto the watch floor can feel like, you can browse my longer write-up, “I Joined the Space Force: My Honest Take,” over on Air-Attack.

Getting in: hurry up and wait

Here’s the thing. The path starts with a recruiter. If you already know you’re serious, you can jump ahead and apply online through the official portal before that first meeting.
Mine talked me through jobs like Sat Ops, Cyber, and Intel. I took the ASVAB. I did medical checks. Then came the long part: the security clearance. It felt like forever. Months. Lots of forms. People from my past got calls. Don’t stress. Keep your records neat. Keep your phone on.

Basic training was at Lackland. Yes, it’s Air Force basic. Marching. Beds so tight you could bounce a coin. PT at sunrise. I learned the small stuff first: how to fold, how to move as a team, how not to lose my socks. You laugh now. You won’t later.

Training wheels off: space school

Then I went to Vandenberg. Orbital basics hit fast. We used sims to run “constellations,” and we learned simple math for orbits. Kepler’s laws showed up. But teachers explained it like real people. We drilled on comms, checklists, fault trees, and “Zulu time.” I still hear “Zulu” when I check my watch.

If you want an early taste of the lingo and hardware, skimming the mission briefs archived on Air-Attack gives you a surprisingly solid head start.

We used mock consoles. We practiced alarms. You see a red line. You breathe. You read. You call. You act. That rhythm sticks. A public snapshot of the formal Guardian curriculum lives on the Space Force training site if you want to browse ahead.

My first unit: on the watch floor

My first job was on a watch floor. Think dim lights, big screens, and a quiet buzz. We did 12-hour shifts: days, swings, mids. Coffee helps. So do good snacks. Most nights were calm. Some nights were not.

A real shift looked like this:

  • 1900: Brief. We get the pass down. Weather, windows, tasks.
  • 1930: Console checks. Headset on. We log in. We pull up status pages.
  • 2100: Routine contacts. We talk to ground stations. We send a command set. We receive data. We log, log, log.
  • 2340: Anomaly. One sensor goes quiet. Could be a comms drop. Could be a real fault. We run the checklist. Step 1: Don’t guess. Step 2: Verify. Step 3: Call. It was a ground site hiccup that time. We switched links and restored the pass.
  • 0200: Trend review. We look at health plots. Nothing wild. Good.
  • 0600: Turnover. Notes neat. We clean the console. We brief the next team.

That night felt simple. But there were harder ones. I remember a software patch that behaved weird. It lagged during a key window. We paused the load, rolled back, and filed a report before sunrise. Not flashy. Just solid teamwork.

The culture: nerdy, proud, a little weird

We call ourselves Guardians. People trade unit patches. Jokes flow, but the mission stays tight. Folks love acronyms. You’ll hear “TTPs” and “CONOPS,” and you’ll nod like you get it. Then you actually do. Uniforms? OCPs most days. The dress blues look sharp. The vibe feels new but steady, like a start-up that learned to make checklists.

And yes, we watch the sky. After a mid shift, I once saw a meteor shower in the lot. Cold air, quiet base, streaks across the dark. It felt like the job reached back and waved.

What’s great

  • Real mission impact. When a warning or a contact goes right, you know you helped someone on the ground.
  • Skills that last. Space ops. Cyber hygiene. Clear writing. Good comms.
  • Pay and benefits. The usual DoD stuff: BAH, health care, tuition help. Stable is nice.
  • Small service, big voice. You’re not a face in a crowd. You can shape things. Leaders notice.
  • Fitness is sane. It leans on regular checks, not just one big test a year. Yes, you still have to show up.

Outside observers sometimes wonder how our fitness routine stacks up against the legendary grind pilots face; for a reality check, take a look at “I Tried to Meet Fighter Jet Pilot Requirements—Here’s My Honest Take.”

What’s hard

  • Screens, not starlight. It’s systems, not space walks. If you want rocket flames, you may feel let down.
  • Shift work. Mids are rough. Sleep turns weird. Buy blackout curtains. Keep a bedtime rule.
    Shift work can also turn a normal dating routine upside-down, so some Guardians look for flexible, adult-oriented options like MeetNFuck where you can schedule no-strings hangouts that fit around ever-changing watch rotations. If you’re stationed up near NAS Whidbey or call the islands home, checking the local listings at Backpage Oak Harbor can quickly surface after-hours meetups and community events that line up with those unpredictable mid or swing shifts.
  • Secrets. You can’t tell friends what you did that day. It gets old. You learn to share the safe parts.
  • Clearance delays. It’s a lot of waiting. Plan for it. Save money. Stay busy.
  • Moving. The service is small, so some bases repeat. Moving boxes is a skill now.

Who should join?

You might fit if:

  • You like puzzles and calm voices during chaos.
  • Checklists don’t bug you. They free your brain.
  • You care about clean logs, clear calls, and doing it right, not fast.
  • You’re cool being the person people never see but always need.

Maybe skip it if:

  • You need daily adrenaline.
  • You hate nights and strict routines.
  • You want a job you can brag about in detail. You can’t.

Tips I wish I had

  • Study basics. Fractions, ratios, and time zones. They help more than you think.
  • Get a cert if you can. Sec+ or basic networking. Cyber touches everything.
  • Build habits. A tiny notebook saved me. I wrote down every odd thing I saw.
  • Guard your sleep. Dark room. Fan noise. No phone in bed.
  • Be a good briefer. Clear, short, honest. “Here’s what we know. Here’s what we need.”
  • Ask Guardians online (public forums are fine). Most people will steer you right.
  • Pack patience. The system moves. You can’t force it. You can only be ready when it does.

Curious about some of the futuristic kit floating around defense circles? Someone even tested out cutting-edge shielding tech in “I Tried Directed-Energy Protection Gear So You Don’t Have To,” and the takeaways are eye-opening.

The little moments

There was a winter night when the heater broke. We worked in jackets, fingers cold on keys, laughing at our own foggy breath. The mission kept going. We logged the fault like any other. Heat or no heat, space doesn’t pause. Funny how that sticks in your head. Not the big alarm. The small grind that we beat as a team.

My verdict

I’d call it 4.5 out of 5. The mission feels real. The skills are strong. The team is tight. The hard parts are real too. But you grow. You slow down. You think better. You learn how to be steady when it counts. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

If you’re thinking about it, ask yourself this: Do you want to guard something most folks never see but everyone needs? If your gut says yes, then you might be a Guardian at heart.

— Kayla Sox