A lone federal worker sits at a cluttered desk piled high with paperwork, facing a cracked wall and a frosted window where four shadowy political figures loom. A note pinned nearby reads, “They showed up. Every day.” The scene is dimly lit, evoking fatigue, tension, and quiet resilience.
“See you tomorrow—we hope.”
That’s what we say now at the end of calls with colleagues. Not because it’s a cute sign-off. Because it’s a genuine question. Because tomorrow, we might not have a badge. Or a login. Or a job.
This isn’t just a bad work week. It’s a level-10 anxiety loop with no off switch. And it’s by design.
I’ve spent nearly 15 years in federal service. I took this path knowing the trade-offs—less pay, more purpose. I believed in helping people access Social Security, disability benefits, jobs, healthcare. I believed in being the bridge.
But belief doesn’t pay rent when your agency locks you out mid-shift and no one tells you why.
This administration has turned public service into public enemy. DEI offices are gutted. Reasonable accommodation requests now echo into a bureaucratic void. As one federal employee told WIRED: “With no car, I am walking a mile to the train... limping along... using elevators when I can.” Their chronic pain got worse. Their physical therapy restarted. Their access? Gone .
Meanwhile, disabled employees across agencies are quitting—or being pushed out. As The Arc of the United States' Katy Neas noted to Mashable, “Really good people—who are federal employees who have disabilities—are losing their job, not because of their performance, but because of something else.”
And let’s be clear: this isn’t just about remote work. This is about power, dignity, and being seen as expendable. It’s about watching accessibility gains get reversed overnight—despite disability employment hitting a historic 22.7% in 2024 .
It’s about morale bombs dropped intentionally: Friday night RIF emails, weekend chaos, uncertainty weaponized.
And yet—despite everything—I’m still here. So are many of us. Not because we’re fearless. But because we’re fed up. Because if they want us out, they’ll have to drag us out. We’re not resigning out of fear.
But we are exhausted. And scared. And angry.
If you’re in the private sector, check in on your federal friends. If you’ve never worked in government, I promise—nothing about this is normal. We’re all navigating this storm—heartbroken, defiant, and holding the line.
We shouldn't have to choose between public service and personal survival.
We’ve survived so much. But survival isn’t the goal. Dignity is.