Finding My Freedom: Closing the Chapter of Federal Service

This week, I learned that my time in federal service has come to an end.

It didn’t happen the way I thought it would. I had pictured myself closing the door on my own timeline—walking out with my head held high, savoring the dignity of choice. Instead, the door was closed on me. A furlough notice. A shutdown. A line of paperwork that cut off my Deferred Resignation Program days before its official end.

The end came suddenly, quietly, and without my permission.

And yet, as I sat with it, I realized I wasn’t left holding bitterness. I wasn’t consumed by anger. Instead, I felt something I didn’t expect.

The ending came like a storm.

But freedom came with the calm that followed.

Carrying the Weight

Federal service is not light work. It is not simply a job you clock in and out of. It is a weight you carry, day after day. The decisions you make and the systems you serve ripple out into communities you may never meet. The impact stretches far beyond the cubicle or the office—it reaches people whose names you will never know.

I gave myself fully to that calling. I didn’t treat the roles I held as temporary assignments. I treated them like sacred trust. I worked with the conviction that even when no one saw, the work mattered.

I was the first Senior Accessibility Officer for the U.S. Intelligence Community, responsible for weaving accessibility across all 18 agencies and into the lives of more than 100,000 employees.

I was the first DEIA Program Analyst & Accessibility Coordinator at DHS I&A, building the office’s first-ever program.

I was the first Senior Collection Strategist & Team Lead, reshaping strategy and modernizing processes for DHS, CISA, CBP, and FEMA.

I served as an Intelligence Operations Specialist, standing up the Transnational Organized Crime Watchlisting Program, a program that touched every state, every fusion center, every law enforcement partner across the nation.

There was no blueprint in front of me.

So I drew one.

There was no foundation under me.

So I laid one.

There was no roadmap behind me.

So I became one.

I was the first.

The builder.

The blueprint.

The Hidden Cost

But for all that service gave me, it also asked for something in return. Something harder to name.

On paper, my career was decorated with achievement. From 2017 onward, I received Achieved Excellence ratings of 4.5–5.0, the highest possible. Year after year, I was ranked in the top 5% of performers across my agencies. The numbers told one story: excellence.

But numbers don’t tell the whole truth.

They don’t show the invisible cost of being “the first” in so many rooms. They don’t reveal the weight of expectations, the silence of isolation, the fatigue of carrying responsibility without precedent.

And they don’t capture the ways I learned to shrink myself in order to survive.

I dimmed my light so others wouldn’t feel threatened.

I softened my voice so my truth wouldn’t cut too sharp.

I folded myself smaller so that the room could stay comfortable.

Excellence was measured.

But sacrifice was hidden.

Service demanded my labor—

but rarely honored my humanity.

I kept giving. I kept building. I kept enduring. But the truth is, parts of me grew weary from being unseen, even as my work shaped systems much bigger than me.

Looking at Myself

This week, after the paperwork was final, I pulled up the headshot I carried throughout these years of service. For a moment, I hesitated. I thought it might feel like looking at a ghost of myself—like staring at a man who had left something behind.

But what I saw stunned me.

I didn’t just see a government employee. I didn’t just see a title or a badge.

I saw joy that refused to be stolen.

I saw resilience that refused to break.

I saw a man who carried burdens in silence, who fought uphill battles, who gave his all and still had something left to give.

That headshot reminded me: I made it. I endured the pressure, the politics, the silence. I survived the weight of service without losing the essence of who I am.

And the man in that picture is not broken.

He is free.

Choosing Freedom

This ending—unexpected, unscheduled—gave me something I didn’t know I needed: clarity.

I don’t have to measure myself against titles anymore.

I don’t have to contort myself into spaces that cannot hold me.

I don’t have to prove worth that God already declared.

I am free.

Free to dream without ceilings.

Free to lead without fear.

Free to live without apology.

This is not just about closing a chapter in federal service. It is about opening a chapter in life. Not life managed by timelines, systems, or survival. Life lived fully. Boldly. Unapologetically.

This is not an ending.

This is my beginning.

What Comes Next

I am not searching for “just a job.” I am seeking my next assignment.

I want the next space where vision and impact collide.

The next calling where leadership and care transform culture.

The next foundation I will lay, knowing it will outlast me.

And if that place doesn’t exist yet, I will create it. Because that is what I have always done.

I am not waiting for opportunity.

I am building it.

I am not waiting for permission.

I am stepping into it.

Final Reflection

Writing this is not easy. It’s raw. It’s vulnerable. But it’s necessary.

Because this moment is not just about leaving government. It’s about reclaiming myself. It’s about declaring that I will never again live small so others can feel big. It’s about naming the freedom I’ve gained in finally stepping out.

The tears I shed today are not tears of loss. They are tears of gratitude—for the people I’ve served, for the systems I pushed to grow, and for the God who carried me through every season.

The chapter of federal service is closed. But my story is far from finished.

And this next page begins with freedom.

Not freedom handed to me.

Not freedom stamped on paper.

But freedom chosen.

Freedom to live fully.

Freedom to build boldly.

Freedom to never be small again.