Sit Down, Shut the F--- Up, and Do What You're Told
An Anonymous Pilot's Story
My second quad meeting with the airline marked about three months into my HIMS journey. I had already completed the required 28 days of inpatient rehabilitation—something I took seriously. To be honest, that part of the process wasn’t all bad. It was actually a meaningful opportunity for me to reset, to reflect, and to recenter myself around my goals, both for my family and for my career.
The month that followed was relatively uneventful. My first quad meeting went fine. I had asked a few questions there—nothing confrontational, just seeking clarity. Basic things any thinking adult would want to understand in a program that affects your entire livelihood.
Then came the second meeting.
After it ended, I stayed behind for a bit and resumed my earlier line of questioning. I asked my peer monitor about some of the inconsistencies and gaps in how things were handled. It wasn’t even about my specific case—I just wanted to understand the big picture.
There were a lot of “Where is this written?”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Why does it work this way?”
Nothing accusatory. Nothing inappropriate. Just honest, level-headed questions about a program that had suddenly become the central governing force in my life.
That’s when it happened.
My peer monitor looked directly at me and said,
“Sit down, shut the f--- up, and do what you're told.”
Those were his exact words.
Not figuratively. Not paraphrased. That’s what he told me. A grown man. A fellow pilot. Someone supposedly there to mentor me.
What I didn’t know then—but soon learned—is that this man had never been through the HIMS program himself. Not even once. He wasn’t a “graduate.” He was, by his own admission, an alcoholic—but one who had never been officially diagnosed or reported. He made that clear, even bragged about it, at HIMS conferences. He would tell FAA officials about his drinking history and, according to him, they’d laugh and say:
“As long as you’re not officially diagnosed, you don’t have to disclose anything.”
And just like that, the hypocrisy became clear.
Those of us who came forward in good faith—who acknowledged the past, who took responsibility, who entered treatment and followed every rule—were subjected to years of scrutiny, compliance checks, and ever-changing expectations.
But others who never disclosed, never entered treatment, and yet admitted to significant issues? They were not only let off the hook—they were often elevated. Some even put in positions of authority over us.
That man—who barked at me to sit down and shut up—had no business mentoring anyone. He wasn’t there to help. He was there to keep people quiet.
I left that meeting stunned. Not because of the language—pilots can handle colorful language—but because of what it signaled. A system that discourages inquiry. A culture that suppresses curiosity. A program that punishes transparency while quietly protecting those who know how to game it.
But I didn’t sit down.
And I’m still not shutting up.
Because I know now that this wasn’t just about one comment or one bad monitor. It was a window into something bigger—something broken. A system that demands obedience instead of understanding. That thrives on silence instead of fairness.
To every pilot out there asking, “Why does it work this way?”—keep asking.
Because someone has to.