Why I left CIA

I still remember the night I knew I couldn’t stay.

I was sitting alone in a cheap motel room somewhere in the Middle East, the hum of the air conditioner mixing with the distant shouts of a city that didn’t sleep. My hands were shaking—not from fear, but from exhaustion and something heavier, something I couldn’t name. Years of carrying secrets, running operations, and watching people’s lives hang by a thread had finally left me hollowed out inside.

I had joined the CIA thinking I could make a difference. I believed in service, in doing what most wouldn’t. But over time, the line between right and wrong blurred until it almost disappeared. I had taken oaths to protect, yet I began to wonder—protect whom, exactly?

There was a night in 2003 I’ll never forget. I sat in a briefing room watching a drone strike target list. Faces, names, and locations scrawled on a screen. I knew the people, at least in fragments. I knew some of them were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I realized then that my decisions, the information I provided, could hurt people I’d never meet. Did I have the right to do this?

I wrestled with the guilt quietly for years. I buried it under promotions, medals, and the kind of discipline that comes from pretending nothing matters except the mission. But pretending doesn’t erase questions. It doesn’t make the voices go away.

I remember one morning in Langley, walking through the same hallway I had paced a thousand times before. The sunlight hit the marble floors just right, and I saw my reflection in the glass wall. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. He looked tired, hollow, like he’d been split in two by secrets too heavy to carry. I asked myself: who am I if not my job? Can I even trust the man in that reflection?

Leaving the CIA wasn’t a single moment of heroism. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no fanfare, no heroic exit. I just handed in my badge and walked away. For the first time in years, I could breathe. And yet, it was terrifying. Because leaving didn’t erase the things I had seen, the choices I had made, or the people I could never stop thinking about.

I still get letters from families, emails from colleagues who want advice, questions that cut straight to my conscience. Some nights, I dream of those I couldn’t save. Do I carry the weight of their loss? Or do I carry the weight of what I learned, hoping it will help someone else?

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that sometimes doing your duty doesn’t make you a hero—it makes you human. And being human means facing your mistakes, your regrets, and the truths that agencies and governments would rather you ignore. I’ve had to look at myself in ways I never expected. I’ve had to ask: is protecting secrets more important than protecting your own soul?

Since leaving, I’ve tried to find a new purpose. I write, I speak, I share what I know—not to indict, but to illuminate. To remind people that the people behind these operations are complicated, flawed, and often caught between impossible choices. And maybe, just maybe, sharing our stories helps someone out there feel less alone in their own struggles.

I want to ask you, the reader: have you ever felt trapped by a choice you made, even when you believed it was the right one? How do you decide when the line is crossed, and it’s time to walk away?

Leaving the CIA gave me clarity, but it also gave me questions I may never fully answer. Can a lifetime of secrecy coexist with honesty? Can service coexist with self-preservation? I don’t know. All I know is that I needed to reclaim my life, to stop carrying what wasn’t mine to carry alone.

I walk differently now. I notice the sunlight hitting a sidewalk. I listen more closely to the stories of strangers. I know the weight of the world is still there, and I cannot fix it alone. But I can live in a way that feels like me again, not the shadow I was forced to become.

So why did I leave the CIA? I left because the person I was becoming didn’t recognize himself in the mirror. I left because I needed to feel, to breathe, to be human again. And maybe, in leaving, I finally learned the hardest lesson of all: courage isn’t just in service—it’s in knowing when to step away.

Do you ever wonder what it would take to walk away from something you’ve devoted your whole life to? And when the cost is everything you thought defined you, how do you decide who you really are?

I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: leaving saved me, even if it didn’t erase the past.