an open letter to all the leaders holding the line

Dear Leaders,

If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you may be feeling the weight of being a leader in this moment of history.

Much of my career was spent interviewing people who were fleeing their homelands, fearing persecution by their own governments. After a long day of listening to heartbreaking stories, I often felt a deep sense of gratitude—grateful that I lived in a country where I believed we’d never witness the same.

And yet, here we are.

The decimation we are witnessing across the federal workforce, and the collateral damage spilling into every sector connected to the government, is unimaginable. Institutions that once held a sense of stability are being recklessly dismantled by unelected bullies, leaving so many of you in positions that no leader should ever have to face. As a former civil service leader, I know the pressure to be strong, to hold the line, to offer hope to others even when you’re struggling to find it yourself.

If you’re at a loss for how to lead in this moment, please know this doesn’t make you a bad leader. The truth is, nothing about what’s happening right now is normal. We expect so much of our leaders, but this moment is pushing everyone to their limits. And there is no playbook for this particular crisis—nothing to guide us on how to lead in the face of tyranny. No guidebook for navigating through authoritarianism or how to bear witness to the erosion of the very institutions you’ve dedicated your life to protecting. You’re being asked to carry an impossible weight, and still, here you are. I hope you know that, in itself, is extraordinary.

It takes immense moral courage to stand in the gap when everything around you is falling apart. To hold the line—not just for yourself, but for your teams, for the mission, and for the values you swore to uphold—even when that line feels impossibly thin. And yet, you’re still here, still standing.

Up until four years ago, I was one of you—navigating the labyrinth of government service. I served under four different administrations, but it was serving under 45 that brought the deepest sense of conflict. As I write about in my book, I often wondered what my moral tipping point would be. The Muslim Ban? Separating families at the border? Gutting the refugee program? For a long time, I carried a sense of shame, believing that I only stayed out of fear. Fear of who would take my place if I left. Fear of losing the ability to make an actual difference. Fear of how I’d survive without an income. Fear that walking away meant giving up when things were at their worst. But looking back now, I realize I stayed for far deeper reasons.

I stayed because I was a public servant, and that identity mattered to me. I stayed because the oath I had taken—to protect and defend the Constitution—was more than just words; it felt like a promise I wasn’t ready to break. I stayed because I believed that even in the darkest moments, the institutions and the values we upheld were bigger than any one person or administration. And I stayed because I felt a responsibility to fight from within, to be a part of protecting what was still salvageable.

That conflict—the push and pull between shame, fear, and purpose—is something I continue to feel at times. And if you’re feeling that same tension right now, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I also want you to know that your service has mattered. It still matters. Even now, as this regime tries to undermine and discredit government workers, the impact of your work has rippled out in ways you may never fully see. The people you've served, the lives you've touched, the moments of compassion and integrity you’ve offered—they endure. They are real. They matter.

You matter.

I hope you know there are so many of us who now stand outside these systems—but continue to stand with you in solidarity and support. In those moments when the isolation and despair that so often accompany collective trauma begin to set in, I want you to remember you’re not alone—that we’re in this fight together. I know that may not lighten the load you’re carrying right now, but I hope it brings even a small amount of comfort to know that you are seen, you are heard, and you are valued.

And if all you can do today is show up—just show up—even in your uncertainty, even in your fear, that is enough.

You are enough.

I won’t pretend to have the answers about what comes next. None of us do. But I do know that every intimidation tactic used by this regime is designed to keep you off balance—uncertain, afraid. It’s a cruel kind of erosion, chipping away at the foundations not just of our institutions, but of our collective spirit.

It’s important to remember that the smallest acts—the most human ones—matter deeply. Caring for yourself isn’t a luxury; it’s an act of defiance. Drink plenty of water. Step outside and feel the sun, the cold, or the rain—whatever is waiting for you—on your skin, and breathe—deep, chest-expanding, soul-steadying breaths. Lean into collective care through the people and places that bring you comfort, whether that’s your family, friends, team, or the quiet company of nature. Hold onto what anchors you, and allow yourself to feel the joy that still exists in everyday moments. Remember, every act of connection and care is a quiet rebellion against a regime that is indifferent to the suffering of the many.

I want to close by saying thank you. Thank you for your strength. Thank you for continuing to care under a regime that wants us not to. Thank you for your powerful acts of defiance and resistance, both seen and unseen. And most of all, thank you for your service.

In solidarity and gratitude,