“This wasn’t the plan — and yet somehow, it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.”

If you told me five years ago that I’d be 22 weeks pregnant, unemployed, and starting over as a single mom by choice—I might have smiled politely while mentally updating my five-year plan to get back on track.

Because I’ve always been a planner. A do-er. A public servant with a clear vision and a tightly color-coded spreadsheet of goals. And I had a good reason: my father.

From the time I was in elementary school, my dad instilled in me the importance of public service. He taught me that our lives should mean something beyond ourselves—that our actions should ripple outward to others. He encouraged my interest in global development, made sure I took French lessons in Montpellier during high school (language skills are critical, after all), and helped me handpick college courses like we were building a launchpad for a life in USAID.

When I got into the Presidential Management Fellows program, we celebrated together like it was a joint victory—because it was. My career wasn’t just mine. It was ours. He was my cheerleader, strategist, and co-architect of a 20-year plan to get me into the SES ranks before retirement.

Then everything changed.

My father was diagnosed with dementia. I became his full-time caregiver, shelving career ambition without hesitation. That period, though filled with grief and exhaustion, turned out to be one of the most meaningful chapters of my life. I discovered I was not only a capable advocate in the elderly care system—but I actually loved it. I found strength I didn’t know I had and learned that care is its own kind of service.

When he passed away, I lost more than a parent. I lost my compass. And just when I thought I might begin rediscovering my professional identity, the DODGE administration delivered another gut punch: effectively shutting down key arms of USAID. In an instant, my career—the one my father and I had built, grieved through, and celebrated—was gone.

No roadmap. No five-year plan. Just loss layered on loss.

So I did the only thing that made sense in the silence: I listened.

I went to counseling. I grieved. I remembered my dad telling me that his greatest joy wasn’t his job or his degrees—it was raising two children as a single dad. “Nothing compares to that,” he said.

And in that quiet, messy, uncertain space, a childhood dream whispered back to me: What if I became a mother—on purpose, on my own terms?

At 35, I had frozen my eggs—just in case. At 22 weeks pregnant today, “just in case” has become very, very real.

I won’t lie. I’m scared. I don’t have a steady income. I might lose my housing. My identity as a bureaucrat is in pieces. But I also feel something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Purpose. Maybe even joy.

This baby is not just a new chapter. It’s a legacy reborn. It’s a continuation of my father’s love, strength, and values—passed down to a child he will never meet, but whose life will be shaped by him nonetheless.

I started Bureaucrat to Baby Steps to document this unpredictable, imperfect, and powerful new path I’m walking—alone, but never without history. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve got stories, resilience, and a stubborn belief that this step—this terrifying, beautiful step—is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Welcome to the journey.