Jamie Tate

Personal Biography

I was born in Illinois, but North Carolina is where I really grew up. I come from a military family—my sister served in the Navy, a couple of uncles too, my stepdad was in the Army, and a bunch of my cousins are still serving. So it was kind of in my blood.
Originally, I thought I’d become a doctor or maybe an engineer. I ended up following my sister’s footsteps and joined the Navy, shipping out on August 24, 2008. I became a Quartermaster—working navigation, standing watch in the pilot house, and diving into search and rescue operations.
My first assignment was on the USS Nitze (DDG 94), where we deployed to the Horn of Africa for six months. When we returned, two slots opened for Surface Search and Rescue Swimmers. I put my name in, got selected, and headed to Jacksonville, Florida, for intense training—despite not even knowing how to swim before I joined the Navy.
After more time on the Nitze, I was assigned to the USS Cole (DDG 67) to fill a Quartermaster role. I was meant to rotate back to the Nitze but deployed with the Cole instead. That mission had us running anti-piracy and missile defense operations off the coast of Somalia for nearly seven months. This deployment was the first time I had seen the aftermath of large caliber rounds hitting a body. We had an encounter where a ship was being hijacked by pirates. The call came through in the pilot house and we took off to assist. We got there too late. My GQ station—if it wasn’t a man overboard situation—was as a medical stretcher bearer, assisting in all things medical emergencies. Myself, HMC Gentry, and HM3 went over with the VBSS team to render aid. Unfortunately, the pirates had already killed everyone onboard. I remember looking down at this guy and I could see through his head.
But after that deployment, I started unraveling. I didn’t know how to process what I was carrying, and I definitely didn’t know how to talk about it. One day at sea, I tried to end my life. I wrote a letter to my family and walked to the lifelines. HMC Gentry found my note and got to me just in time—he saved my life.
They flew me to the USS Wasp, then to Portsmouth Naval Hospital, where I spent a week in the mental health unit. I returned to my ship, but things had shifted. I was medically discharged after five and a half years of service.
When I got out, I poured myself into school and studied engineering with a concentration in networks. My first job was in Gillette, Wyoming. I didn’t know a thing about motors or drives, but the company gave me a shot. I learned everything I could and eventually moved back to North Carolina for a role in medical automation. That’s where I found my groove—writing PLC logic, HMI interfaces, and diving into Fanuc robotics. It clicked in a way nothing else had before. I also became a certified firefighter in the state of North Carolina, adding another layer to my commitment to serve and protect.
I found myself constantly chasing the next accomplishment—certifications, job titles, training courses—because I didn’t know how to just sit still and be okay with who I was. I needed the push, the progress, the next. But at the same time, I was ignoring the storm inside me.
In 2017, I was arrested for brandishing a firearm and making threats. I hadn’t yet faced the pain I was carrying. In 2018, I hit rock bottom again. I tried to take my life a second time. The gun jammed, and I swallowed almost an entire bottle of Tylenol. I woke up in a hospital and finally admitted I needed real help.
I had also started losing people I loved—brothers I served beside. In 2017, I lost my good friend IT1 Corey Ingram in the USS McCain collision. That hit hard. Then in 2018, I lost Rashene Smith—one of my closest friends in the Navy—to suicide. He used to call me late at night just to talk about everything—life, dreams, frustrations. That night, he called and I missed it. The next morning, they found him on base with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I carried that with me for a long time—felt like I failed him in his moment of desperation. Just four months later, I lost Petty Officer Reece to suicide as well. Each loss deepened the weight on my chest, and I felt like the darkness was closing in from every direction.
I went to the VA and completed seven weeks of Cognitive Processing Therapy. That experience changed the way I see everything.
Soon after, I met a guy near Fort Bragg who biked to manage his stress from selection. I grabbed a cheap bike and joined him. He eventually earned his Green Beret and moved on, but I kept riding. Biking gave me what I hadn’t found anywhere else—peace, purpose, a reason to move forward.
I began racing across the country, got a few sponsors, stood on some podiums, and met incredible people. One of the racers and I later co-founded a nonprofit focused on mental and physical wellness through outdoor activities. We serve veterans and active-duty service members—especially those who've seen combat—showing them there's another way to heal, one that doesn’t rely solely on pills and silence.
I also became a certified firefighter in North Carolina, another chapter in a life built around service, grit, and community.
Today, I’m still chasing growth—but not to escape. I chase it because I love what I do. I’m an engineer to my core—curious about how things work, always wanting to build something better. Robotics and automation aren't just my job, they're my passion. Whether I’m wiring control panels, troubleshooting PLCs, or watching a robot cell run flawlessly, it’s where I come alive.
Now, I’m just trying to make a difference, be a great dad, push the boundaries of what I can build, and live fully—one ride, one fire call, one design, one moment at a time.