You Are Not Special
The liberating truth about federal service that nobody talks about
Understanding your role as a temporary custodian in something bigger than yourself
Look, I need to tell you something. And I want to be clear upfront — I'm not saying what you're doing isn't important. Your work matters. Your mission matters. The people you serve matter.
But after 27 years in federal law enforcement, watching friends retire, seeing organizational changes, and living through the complete cycle from rookie agent to senior executive to retirement...
You are not special. And neither am I.
And that's actually the most liberating thing I can tell you.
My Wake-Up Call
I started as a rookie corrections officer and worked my way up to Deputy Associate Director over 27 years. I was the youngest in my peer group by several years. I made Special Agent in Charge (SAC) at age 37, which is damned near unprecedented in federal law enforcement. I thought I was something special. Hell, maybe I was — for a minute.
But here's what happened as I got closer to retirement age: my older peers started retiring one by one. These were guys I'd worked with for 12, 15, 20 years. Close friends. Colleagues who had become like family after decades of working together in some of the most challenging environments federal law enforcement has to offer.
And I watched each of them go from essential to invisible in the span of a week. It was shocking to me how quickly my friends were replaced. My friends and colleagues... guys I worked with for decades.
The Doug Noseep Story
Let me tell you about Doug Noseep. Doug was my best friend in the service. Worked with him like a brother for 12 years. Doug was one of those guys everyone came to for answers. He knew every case, every procedure, every contact. If something needed to get done right, you called Doug.
How Quickly We All Become Yesterday's News
Monday: Doug Noseep is running operations, making critical decisions, fielding calls from headquarters, coordinating with other agencies. Everyone needs Doug.
Friday: Doug's retirement party. Huge send-off. Speeches about his irreplaceable contributions. "We'll never find another one like Doug."
Monday: "Well, guess we need to put in an SF-39 to replace Doug."
The next day: Doug's acting replacement starts. Different approach, different style, but the work gets done.
Six months later: The new people don't even know who Doug Noseep was.
It was sad, but also... shocking, honestly. These were people I'd worked with for decades. Doug Noseep was there one day, essential and important, and then gone the next. The machine just kept running. They put in another spoke and rolled on.
Like spokes in a wagon wheel... we leave, and it keeps rolling
The Darren Cruzan Lesson
The most influential guy in my entire career was BIA Office of Justice Services Director Darren Cruzan. This man shaped how I thought about federal law enforcement, about leadership, about managing people across different cultures and jurisdictions. Brilliant leader. Innovative thinker. Left a huge impact on everyone who worked with him.
Darren Cruzan retired about 5 or 6 years before I did. For the first couple years after he left, people still talked about him. "Darren used to say..." or "When Darren was here, we handled it like this..."
But you know what happened in my last few years? The folks working for me — good people, smart people — would hear his name mentioned and ask, "Darren who?"
The Reality of Organizational Memory
Even the legends get forgotten. Even the people who "changed everything" become footnotes. Even your greatest innovations become "how we've always done things."
And that's not a tragedy. That's not disrespectful. That's just how organizations work.
But I'll be honest — watching decades-long friendships and working relationships just... disappear from the organizational memory was more jarring than I expected. These weren't just colleagues, they were people I'd been through everything with.
New people come in with new ideas, new energy, new ways of seeing problems. The organization evolves. That's actually healthy. But it doesn't make watching your friends get replaced any less surreal.
What Happens to All That "Irreplaceable" Knowledge
You know all that specialized knowledge you've accumulated? Those systems you developed? Those relationships you built? Those solutions you figured out?
Here's the uncomfortable truth: most of it gets lost. But honestly... so what?
The Knowledge Replacement Cycle
What actually happens:
- You leave, taking your knowledge with you
- New person comes in, spends 6 months figuring out how things work
- They "discover" solutions to the same problems you solved 5 years ago
- They think they're being innovative
- They develop their own systems, their own relationships, their own approaches
- Some of it's better than what you did, some of it's worse, most of it's just different
- The mission gets accomplished anyway
And that's perfectly fine. New knowledge replaces old knowledge. People keep "discovering" how things work, over and over again. The wheel keeps turning.
Why This Isn't Depressing
Look, I'm not trying to minimize your contributions or make you feel like nothing matters. What I'm trying to do is give you perspective that will actually help you be a better leader and live a healthier life.
When you understand that you're not the irreplaceable hero holding everything together, you can:
- Actually delegate meaningful work instead of micromanaging everything
- Take real vacation without checking email every hour
- Train people properly instead of just telling them what to do
- Make decisions without thinking the entire organization's future depends on getting it perfect
- Sleep better at night knowing the world won't end if you're not there
Permission Granted
You don't have to be the hero.
You don't have to save the organization.
You don't have to have all the answers.
You just have to do good work while you're here.
The Federal Manager's Burden
I've watched too many good federal managers burn themselves out because they think the weight of the world is on their shoulders. They think:
The Thoughts That Kill Federal Managers
- "If I don't stay late tonight, this project will fail"
- "Nobody else understands this system like I do"
- "I can't retire until I train the perfect replacement"
- "The program will collapse without me"
- "I have to be available 24/7 or something will go wrong"
- "Only I can handle the difficult situations"
Stop. Just stop.
The program existed before you got there. It will exist after you leave. Your job is to do your part while you're there, not to be Atlas holding up the world.
What Actually Matters Then
So if I'm going to be forgotten, if my knowledge will be lost, if someone else will come along with "better" understanding and insights anyway... what's the point?
The Real Legacy
Maybe my retirement planning tools help some federal employees make better financial decisions. Maybe this management training helps a few supervisors lead better. Maybe it even changes how someone sees themselves in the role. And if it doesn't? Someone else will come along with their own perspective. That's okay too.
And you know what? That's perfectly fine.
The point isn't to be remembered forever. The point is to:
- Do honest, competent work while you're in the position
- Help the people in front of you today be successful
- Leave things a little better than you found them
- Train people well enough that they don't need you to hold their hand
- Go home to your family without carrying the weight of the federal government on your shoulders
- Sleep well at night knowing you did your job with integrity
The Quiet Legacy
If one person becomes a better leader because of something you taught them — even if they never say it out loud — that's a legacy too.
The Servant Leader's Ultimate Goal
True servant leadership isn't about making yourself indispensable. It's about making yourself unnecessary.
The highest compliment a servant leader can receive isn't "we couldn't do this without you." It's "you taught us so well that we're ready to handle whatever comes next."
When you can walk away from your position and genuinely know that:
- Your people have the skills and confidence to handle their responsibilities
- The systems you helped build will function without constant intervention
- Someone else will figure out new and better ways to tackle the challenges
- The mission will continue because it's bigger than any one person
- You've contributed your part to something worthwhile
That's success. That's what 27 years of federal service taught me.
The Weight of Choices
When I was a young officer working on reservations throughout Indian Country, my children were also little. I thought the most important thing I could do for them was to go on those month-long TDYs and provide for them. I was being the best officer I knew how, and yes, for that timeframe I was.
Now... decades later, my son is in the US Space Force and my oldest daughter is a couple years from graduating high school and going off to wherever life takes her. I would give anything to be back 15 years ago when they needed me. Their tiny arms hugging daddy's neck. Yes, maybe being away and sacrificing those times helped us be where we are now, but was it worth it? I honestly don't know.
My kids and I have a great relationship, but they were only little once. It's things like that that weigh on a guy in retirement.
You can't really know how it would have turned out differently. Maybe staying home more would have meant financial struggles that created different kinds of stress. Maybe those TDYs taught my kids something about service and dedication that shaped who they became. Or maybe we would have all been just as well off with me home more and a hundred more bedtime stories.
What I'm carrying isn't unusual for guys like us. It's the particular burden of parents who served — wondering if we got the balance right, knowing we can't go back and try it differently.
There's no fixing this kind of regret, but there's also no point in torturing yourself with it. You do your best with what you know at the time. That's all any of us can do.
But if you're reading this and your kids are still little... keep that balance.
The Liberation
This perspective isn't meant to make you feel small or unimportant. It's meant to free you from the impossible burden of thinking you have to be superhuman.
When I finally understood this — really understood it — it changed how I managed people. I stopped trying to be the smartest person in every meeting. I stopped thinking I had to solve every problem personally. I started focusing on building up the people around me instead of proving how essential I was.
And you know what happened? I became a better leader. Not because I was special, but because I stopped trying to be.
The Permission You Need
I'm giving you permission — as someone who's been where you are and come out the other side — to:
- Take your vacation and actually disconnect
- Delegate important work to people who might do it differently than you
- Retire when you're ready, not when you think the organization is ready
- Let other people figure things out their own way
- Not have an opinion about every decision
- Be human-sized instead of trying to be superhuman
- Keep that balance — your kids are only little once
The organization will be fine. Really. It was fine before you, and it'll be fine after you.
Looking Back with Peace
As I write this, retired and looking back on nearly three decades in federal service — from rookie corrections officer to Deputy Associate Director — I can honestly say I'm at peace with being just another spoke in the wheel.
I did good work. I helped people when I could. I made some differences that mattered to the people involved at the time. I trained folks who went on to do things better than I did them. I served the mission faithfully.
Am I remembered as some legendary figure? No. Do the current crop of agents and managers know my name? Probably not. Did the organization survive my retirement just fine? Absolutely.
And that's exactly how it should be.
The Final Word
You are not special. Neither am I. Neither was Darren Cruzan, even though he fundamentally shaped how I think about federal leadership. Neither was Doug Noseep, even though he was one of the best agents I ever worked with.
We're all just temporary custodians of something bigger than ourselves. We do our part, we help the people we can reach, we try to leave things a little better, and then we pass the responsibility on to the next person.
That's not cynical. That's realistic. And it's liberating.
Work hard. Do good. Care about your people. Serve the mission. Train folks well. Then go home, live your life, and let the next generation of leaders figure out their own way forward.
They'll be fine. The wheel keeps rolling. And that's a beautiful thing.
Ready to let go of being the indispensable hero?
Sometimes the most important thing a leader can do is teach others they don't need you.