With almost 20 years in the New Zealand Navy, this honest, funny and at times heartbreaking memoir follows Brad Poulter from small-town New Zealand to serving in Afghanistan and how his own journey with being comfortable with his sexuality mirrors that of the navy from a time of 'don't ask, don't tell' through to being named the most inclusive defence force in the world.
Built for This follows Brad Poulter from a North End butchery in Oamaru to the mess decks of the Royal New Zealand Navy. A young sailor learning the ropes, trying to fit in, getting knocked down and rebuilding on his own terms.
Growing up in Oamaru, Brad didn't know that he was gay but he suspected that he was different from his classmates, and in small town, late 90's New Zealand, he knew that being gay was unacceptable. He needed a different scene, so escaped to join the Navy – immediately finding a home in the strict rules and regulations. But keeping up the pretence of being straight came at a great cost – he kept pushing himself to take on bigger roles as a distraction and while stationed in Afghanistan during the War on Terror, the pressure to keep pretending became more overwhelming than the war itself, and it took a huge toll on his mental health and wellbeing.
He finds belonging in the noise of the ship, the tempo, the people and the dark humour that gets you through. Mateship keeps him going. Owning his story sets him free.
From cooking for a ship's company to serving as a Military Police investigator, Built for This dives into life inside the the discipline, the deployments and the moments that test who you are. It is about the cost, the fallout and the courage to speak up when silence feels safer.
Honest, raw and sometimes funny in the way only lived experience can be. Not a hero story. A true one, told straight(ish).
Brad's journey takes him from the lower decks to leading culture work for the New Zealand Defence Force, proof that purpose can grow from rough water.
Built for This is raw, deeply personal, and at times almost uncomfortably honest. There were moments where I found myself thinking an editor could probably have tightened parts of it—but strangely, I also think some of that roughness is exactly what gives the book its power. It never feels manufactured. It feels like someone trying to tell the truth as honestly as they know how.
As a gay man myself, this book hit me in ways I wasn’t expecting. It made me reflect on my own life, on masculinity, belonging, purpose, and on the experiences of other gay men I’ve known who have worked in traditionally masculine professions. Long after I finished reading, I found myself thinking about conversations I’d had, dreams I’d let go of, and questions I’d never really answered.
Very few books have made me cry after I finished them. This one did.
It isn’t just a memoir. It’s a conversation that many of us have probably been waiting a long time to hear someone have out loud.