A review of the Case File “Can’t Hurt Me”
Look, I’m not gonna lie to you, reading Can’t Hurt Me feels like getting interrogated in a dimly lit room by a guy who’s seen too much, knows too much, and doesn’t give a damn about your excuses. David Goggins isn’t just a man; he’s an Internal Affairs Officer for your soul, kicking down the door of your mind, shining a flashlight into the corners you’ve been too scared to clean out. He doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t knock politely—he just storms in, flips the table, and says, “What the hell are you doing with your life?” And you sit there, stunned, because you don’t have a good answer. You never did.
The book isn’t a self-help guide. It’s a case file. Goggins lays out the evidence, piece by brutal piece, and throws it in your face. The Evidence Locker, that’s what he calls it—or at least that’s what I call it now, because his “Cookie Jar” metaphor doesn’t do justice to the raw, unfiltered truth of it. It’s not some sweet treat you reach for when you’re feeling down. No, it’s a cold, steel drawer full of blood-stained memories and hard-won victories, and every time you open it, you’re reminded of the battles you’ve fought, the scars you’ve earned, and the fact that you’re still standing. Barely, maybe, but standing.
Here’s the ugly truth: Goggins doesn’t care about your feelings. He doesn’t care about your excuses, your sob stories, or the reasons you think you can’t. He’s the Interrogator who leans in close, cigarette smoke curling around his face, and says, “You’re soft. You’ve been soft your whole life. But you don’t have to stay that way.” And it’s not motivational. It’s not inspiring. It’s a gut punch, a slap across the face, and it hurts because you know he’s right. You’ve been hiding behind your own bullshit for years, and he’s here to drag you out into the light, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Building the Armor,” that’s what he calls it—what I call it now, because “Callousing the Mind” doesn’t quite capture the brutality of it. It’s not just about toughening up; it’s about forging something unbreakable, piece by agonizing piece, in the fires of your own pain and failure. Every mile he ran, every push-up he did, every insult he swallowed—it wasn’t just training. It was war. And he’s telling you, in no uncertain terms, that you need to go to war too. Not with the world, but with yourself. With the weak, lazy, excuse-making version of you that’s been running the show for far too long.
I’m not gonna sugarcoat it—this book is exhausting. It’s relentless. It’s like being dragged through a minefield by someone who’s already lost both legs and is still moving forward, faster than you can keep up. But it’s also hopeful, in a way that sneaks up on you. Because as much as Goggins tears you down, as much as he makes you feel like a fraud, he also shows you what’s possible. He’s living proof that you can take the worst life has to offer—the abuse, the failures, the self-doubt—and turn it into something extraordinary. Not easily, not quickly, but absolutely.
So yeah, Can’t Hurt Me isn’t a book you read. It’s a book you survive. It’s a 300-page interrogation, a trial by fire, and if you make it through, you come out the other side a little tougher, a little smarter, and a hell of a lot more honest with yourself. And maybe, just maybe, you start building your own armor. Because the world isn’t gonna stop kicking you when you’re down, and the only way to fight back is to get up, again and again, until you’re the one doing the kicking.