Finding My Way Forward

When I wrote about my resignation from the Pleasanton Police Department, I ended with gut wrenching uncertainty: “In this season of life, I don’t know what’s next for me but I’ll be spending more time with my loved ones to figure that out.”

That was February. And those months that followed? They were exactly what I needed—and harder than I expected.

The In-Between

After turning in my badge, I entered what I can only describe as the most disorienting period of my adult life. For the first time in 18 years, I didn’t have a clear professional identity. I wasn’t “the communications guy” anymore. I wasn’t Officer Louie #371. I was just… Mike. And I had to figure out who that was.

The blessing in all of this? My wife had started a full-time position shortly after I resigned. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect—or more divine. It gave us breathing room. We could live month-to-month without panic. More importantly, it gave me permission to actually reflect rather than frantically jump into the next thing out of financial desperation.

But even with that safety net, the pressure was real. I’m wired to provide. I had been the sole income earner in our household for the majority of our 19-year marriage. And sitting in this liminal space—this professional purgatory—felt unnatural. Some days I felt grateful for the pause. Other days I felt like I was falling behind, watching peers climb ladders while I sat still.

The Paths I Almost Took

During those months, I explored everything.

Returning to tech was the most obvious path. I spent 18 years in that world. I know how it works. I know the language, the rhythms, the expectations. And let’s be honest—the money is incredible. The innovation is intoxicating. There’s something seductive about being in that bubble where you’re building the future, disrupting industries, and changing the world.

But here’s what I kept bumping up against: that same bubble can make you blind.

When you’re laser-focused on quarterly goals, product launches, and competitive positioning, it’s easy to turn away from what’s happening in your own community. The suffering. The injustice. The people who aren’t being served by all this innovation. I’d lived in that world long enough to know I could succeed there again. But I wasn’t sure I could do it without compromising the parts of myself that mattered most.

Law enforcement was still calling to me, too. Despite everything I wrote in my resignation letter, part of me wondered: Was I a quitter? Should I have sucked it up and pushed through? Could I find a different role in public safety that didn’t drain me the same way?

I researched different agencies, different specializations, different ways I might serve without sacrificing my family or my mental health. But every path I explored led me back to the same realization: I didn’t leave because I wasn’t good enough. I left because the cost was too high. And no amount of optimization or role adjustment would change that fundamental equation.

The Moment Everything Clicked

The answer didn’t come from LinkedIn or career counseling or some profound epiphany during prayers.

It came from watching and listening to my kids.

Jeremy and Maya were finishing 7th grade, and I was finally present for it. Not just physically in the room while my mind raced through police reports or replayed stressful service calls. Actually present. I watched them navigate friendships, tackle assignments, and wrestle with ideas. I heard their stories about which teachers inspired them and which ones just went through the motions.

And I kept thinking: I could do this. I could do this better.

Not in an arrogant way. In a “this is where I’m supposed to be” way.

Every time they came home frustrated about a teacher who didn’t care or they got excited about a lesson that made them think differently, I felt something stirring. This wasn’t abstract. This wasn’t theoretical. This was impact—real, daily, and generational impact.

I spent 18 years helping executives and business leaders craft messages. I spent a year trying to keep communities safe. But what if I could help young people find their own voices? What if I could teach them to think critically, argue persuasively, communicate confidently?

What if I could help shape the next generation of thoughtful leaders?

That’s when I knew.

The Dorris-Eaton School

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve accepted a position as the Communications and Debate Coach at The Dorris-Eaton School.

It’s the ideal mixture of everything I’ve learned:

• My 18 years in corporate communications
• My passion for teaching and mentorship
• My belief that storytelling matters
• My commitment to serving something bigger than myself

Since November, I’ve been working with students to sharpen their critical thinking, construct compelling arguments, and command attention with their public speaking. These aren’t just “debate skills”—these are life skills. The ability to think clearly under pressure. To advocate for what you believe. To listen well and argue fairly. To change your mind when the evidence demands it.

I’ll also be doing what I’ve always done best: telling stories. But instead of crafting executive messages or policing narratives, I’ll be capturing the authentic, remarkable moments happening in our school community. I’ll be empowering teachers, parents, and alumni to share their Dorris-Eaton School experience—because great stories deserve to be told.

What I’ve Learned

Looking back on these past months, here’s what I know now that I didn’t know in February:

1. Taking time to reflect isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.
Our culture (at least here in the Bay Area), glorifies the quick pivot, the immediate rebound, the “I’m already onto the next thing” mentality. But sometimes the scariest and bravest thing you can do is sit in the uncertainty and ask hard questions. I’m grateful I didn’t rush this decision.

2. Financial security creates space for discernment.
I don’t take for granted that my wife’s new job gave us stability during this transition. Not everyone has that luxury. But if you do have it—or can create it—use it. Don’t let financial pressure force you into the wrong role just because it’s available.

3. The “right” career isn’t always the lucrative one.
Tech would have paid more. Law enforcement would have felt more heroic. But neither would have given me what I was actually searching for: purpose, presence (especially with loved ones), and the chance to invest in the next generation.

4. Your kids are watching.
Maya said to me over the summer, “Daddy, if we didn’t have to worry about money and benefits, I think you would be an awesome teacher. Just don’t teach at my school because you’ll grade me harsher than everyone else.” That comment made me laugh but also wrecked me—in the best way. She saw something in me that I was still figuring out for myself. Our kids are learning from our choices, even when we think they’re not paying attention.

5. Sometimes the path forward is through service.
After years of chasing impact at scale—millions of users, thousands of employees, hundreds of arrests—I’m choosing impact at depth. Dozens of students. One classroom. One school community. And I’ve never been more excited about my work.

What’s Next

I’ve been ramping up at Dorris-Eaton, and I’m equal parts nervous and energized. I know there will be challenges. I know I’ll make mistakes. I know I have a lot to learn about education.

But I also know this: I’m no longer soul-searching.

I’m no longer in the in-between.

I’ve found my way forward—and it feels right.

To everyone who checked in during these past months, who listened to me grieve and process, who offered advice or encouragement or just sat with me in the uncertainty: thank you. Your support meant more than you know.

And to my wife, Mindy, who held down the fort financially and emotionally while I figured this out: I couldn’t have done this without you.

Here’s to new chapters. Here’s to purpose over prestige. Here’s to showing up for the next generation.

Let’s go.