A former CIA Officer Contemplates the Mission Ahead

OPINION — The transition away from any beloved career can be difficult, but for those who have had highly engaging, rewarding, and even exciting careers — those that one might rightly view as a mission or a calling — it can present particular challenges. Beyond that, leaving an extreme career, such as that of an intelligence operations officer, inevitably forces a profound shift in perspective, purpose, and even self-identity.

Having witnessed many former operations officers struggle with this transition over the years, I knew I needed to prepare for this significant life change as I approached retirement from the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Recalling my time decades prior as a student in southern France, when I first learned of the ancient pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, I thought, what better way to clear one’s mind and prepare for the future than to walk the fabled Way of Saint James?

In my retirement speech a few months ago, I referred to this planned pilgrimage as a physical and mental transition from one life to the next, and indeed, the experience turned out to be both deeply personal and transformative.

Setting off on this solo pilgrimage of about 800 kilometers over mountain ranges, foothills, and farmland offered a unique opportunity to clear my mind, reflect on the life that was, and prepare for a new and different future, essentially leaving behind what is familiar and forging a wholly new path.

As I slowly made my way along the route that millions of pilgrims have walked since the 9th century, and with the luxury of time and mental space I had not enjoyed for decades, I pondered themes of resilience, purpose, wellness, and self-discovery, among others.

Friends and family asked me more than a few times what I was striving to discover during this pilgrimage, and they expressed interest in learning of my “revelations” upon my return. But even before departing, I sensed a potential trap that many might find in such situations.

I remembered Viktor Frankl’s groundbreaking work on finding purpose in life and the risk that hyper-intention can, counterintuitively, drive you further away from what you seek. And I thought of Laozi, who encouraged us to embrace life’s inevitable transitions with an open, flexible attitude, adapting to – rather than resisting – change. So, for me, I knew the right approach was to embark on this pilgrimage with an open heart, receptive mind, and no expectations, letting the Camino present its wisdom in its own time and in its own way.

In short order, even as I was still tracing the route of Napoleon’s ill-fated army over the Pyrenees in 1813, the value of mindfulness was repeatedly brought to my attention. I have never been one to dwell on the past, but the future? That’s where I could spend hours or even days contemplating events that had yet to transpire.

The combination of dramatic elevation changes, uneven, rocky paths, inconsistent signage, and chronic knee pain required that I pay close attention on the Camino. And when I didn’t? When my mind was thousands of miles away thinking about some future challenge that may never arise?

I had a rather spectacular and inelegant fall into a rocky ditch, resulting in scraped knees, some blood, concerned bystanders, and a bruised ego. More poetically, a few days later, I walked along a narrow, wooded path and delighted in the magical experience of having four butterflies flying in formation just in front of my chest. They stayed with me for quite some distance, but as I slowly reached for my phone to snap a picture or take a video, the butterflies immediately disbanded. And as soon as I returned the phone to my pocket, they reappeared and continued escorting me through the woods. Message received. Live in the moment. Enjoy it. Embrace it.

As a lifelong introvert, one aspect of the Camino that appealed to me most was the opportunity for as much or as little solitude as I needed.

Coming off a decades-long career in national security, ending in four and a half years as CIA’s Deputy Director for Digital Innovation, it wasn’t until I began the hike that I recognized the signs of mental exhaustion resulting from years of aggressive travel, sleep deprivation, international engagements, public speeches, webinars, and podcasts, not to mention the normal (unrelenting) pace of work required to lead a large, globally dispersed technology workforce.

All of this was compounded, understandably, by the immense scope, import, and risk of the intelligence mission. (For the record, the experience was an honor each day, and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.)

I realized that, though I had been in roles that required me to work against type for decades, I had failed in more recent years to seek some semblance of balance to replenish my energy stores, fully committed as I was to the mission.

With each silent, solitary step on the Camino, I could feel a small weight being lifted from my shoulders and the renewal, little by little, of both energy and optimism. There were plenty of moments when, simply walking alone through a forest, I found myself smiling broadly, a feeling I had not experienced for years. Rather than finding time alone to be a reason for concern, it became a source of joy and renewed strength for this lifelong introvert.

Mindfulness, solitude, and moments of adversity along the Camino naturally enabled deeper contemplation of life’s purpose. Aside from the love of family and friends, I had long found my meaning and purpose in the mission of protecting my country. It’s been a noble calling and one that motivated me for decades. It fueled resilience in the face of challenges, gratitude in moments of triumph, and steadfast humility, even as I rose to the highest ranks of the intelligence community.

But this is where so many former intelligence officers stumble.

Once the adrenaline of high-risk missions and the dopamine hits of victory stop coursing through your system, what then? When you wake up in the morning and your country is no longer relying on you – you personally – to guarantee our security, what is your purpose? When you’ve spent years, perhaps decades, sacrificing your health and relationships for your country (and you have done so without regret), how do you find a new and equally compelling mission?

I know former officers, perhaps too many, who grapple with this uncertainty, even years after leaving the service. A few have reached out to me upon learning of my pilgrimage, sharing that they wished they had done something similar to ease their transition and help redefine their future. Instead, they felt frozen in a moment of regret and loss, much like grief – a now distant career and their life’s purpose entombed in amber.

My own purpose has evolved, aided by this pilgrimage, the luxury of time, and the clarifying effect of extreme physical exertion. In speeches and articles, I’ve long argued that economic security is national security, and in multiple roles over the past decade, I’ve been personally responsible for strengthening public-private partnerships.

In recent years, my purpose has been closely connected to the race for digital supremacy against highly capable and aggressive adversary nations. So for me, finding renewed purpose was relatively straightforward. I recognized that years of global engagements, (extreme) risk management, building public-private partnerships, leading teams in the development of advanced digital capabilities, and studying the adversarial threat landscape would bring unique value to the U.S. private sector in a time of intense competition across the digital landscape. A different mission, to be sure, but one with its own deep purpose and relevance, which will propel me for years to come.

Finding one’s purpose after a major life transition inevitably requires separation – an ability to let go of the past and do so without regret or remorse. As expressed by Rumi, one should embrace the impermanence of all things, finding solace in the ephemeral beauty – or the fleeting gratification – of the present moment.

But operations officers, like perhaps a few other extreme careers, are a breed apart. They’ll face tremendous challenges and gladly embrace risks that would paralyze the average person, all driven by a commitment to their mission, a sense of duty and honor, and a desire to make a real difference for their country. But for those who don’t plan for this moment of transition, coming to terms with the inevitable ending of one’s prior life can generate unexpected pangs of grief, with stages like those experienced following the loss of a loved one – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and eventual acceptance.

Operations officers are among that small group of dedicated professionals whose self-identity is inextricably tied to what they do, not who they are.

For years or even decades, they introduce themselves by saying, “I am a case officer,” and for those in their tight circle of trust, these few words carry deep meaning.

I’ve long fought this tendency, refusing to limit my identity to the work I do, and this has certainly made my transition easier. But I still feel sympathy for my former colleagues who struggle with self-identity following separation from the service – an organization they often describe as a close-knit family. But there is no family. There are good friends, there are fellow patriots, and we do occasionally marry each other, but there is more to our identities than our job titles. And the CIA, however special an organization it may be, is no substitute for family.

Many philosophers have written about identity and life transitions. Spinoza’s work, for example, suggests that identity is not fixed, but something that undergoes continuous change. Retiring intelligence officers would do well to embrace such thinking; they must find their own path to a new identity, one that honors prior service as formative experience, but one that also opens a path to a new and broader identity.

Walking the Camino de Santiago rekindled within me the enjoyment of connection, meeting as one does, dozens or even hundreds of fellow pilgrims from around the world. Being thrust together in pursuit of a common purpose – and one characterized by an open heart – meant that every pilgrim was receptive to connection when wanted – or solitude when needed.

For a career that is all about making connections, somewhat counterintuitively, operations officers’ personal connections often suffer over the course of their careers. It’s a sad reality that divorce is common and deep friendships beyond the inner circle of serving and former CIA officers are not the norm.

Living one’s cover can become an exhausting burden, while the frenetic pace and unpredictable schedules can fray relationships even with one’s closest family members. The countless missed birthday celebrations, holidays, weddings, and funerals each take a toll, and the retiring officer should consciously view this next phase of life as a tremendous opportunity for new (and renewed) connections, which are essential for a full and meaningful life.

Over the course of 800 kilometers, the physical pilgrimage became an outward manifestation of an inner journey for me.

You may wonder why I’ve overlooked the important theme of spirituality, which was indeed part of my own journey. But I’ll set that deeply personal theme aside for now, focusing instead on mindfulness, solitude, purpose, separation, identity, and connection as directly relevant to professional transition.

Each lesson along the way brought new insight for me or, if I’m honest, with myself, revived my attention to insights long understood and long ignored in the pursuit of a very compelling, often intoxicating, mission.

Life changes, and one must embrace the flow of this life, trusting in an ever-varying course for the future. A pilgrimage, such as mine, offers a unique opportunity for transformation if one approaches it with an open mind, generous heart, and no fixed intentions. Lessons will be revealed along the way.

And for those very lucky few who have led fulfilling, exhilarating, even “extreme” careers, a pilgrimage can help one navigate a potentially painful transition with grace, resilience, and optimism.

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