Lost the Job
After retiring from the military, I didn’t slow down — not entirely. I traded my uniform for a hard hat and a new kind of mission. As an engineer by profession, I found myself drawn to the energy sector — specifically, power generation. It was an industry that felt familiar in its structure, demanding in its execution, and essential to the life of a nation.
“I didn’t just build power plants — I helped light up lives, one project at a time, with the same discipline and dedication I carried from the military.”
I joined a leading power generation company, and from day one, I immersed myself in the challenges ahead. My role was critical: I was responsible for the installation and development of major power plants across the region. From barren plots of land to humming turbines and glowing control rooms, I oversaw it all. Each project was more than blueprints and concrete. It was vision, planning, and relentless coordination — with architects, technicians, suppliers, and sometimes even local governments. I implemented one project after another, treating each with the same precision and discipline I had practiced during my years in service. I remember standing at the site of my first post-military project — a gas-fired power station meant to supply electricity to over a million homes. The ground was still raw, the site noisy and chaotic. But in my mind, I could already see the finished plant — efficient, powerful, humming with life. That vision, and the team behind it, kept me going.
I worked long hours, but not out of obligation — out of passion. To light up cities. To power hospitals, schools, and factories. To give entire communities the energy they needed to grow. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was meaningful. It mattered.
Looking back now, I see a career built on foundations — both literal and symbolic. I helped bring light to places once covered in darkness. I left behind structures that will stand for decades, generating power and progress. And through it all, I remained true to the values I carried from the military: duty, discipline, and determination. Now, in quieter moments of retirement, when I drive past a power plant or see the distant glow of city lights, I smile. I was part of that. Not just the concrete and steel, but the current running through it — steady, strong, and enduring.
After years of dedicated service — first in the military, then as an engineer leading major power generation projects — I believed my work, my loyalty, and my integrity spoke for themselves. I had built a solid reputation, brick by brick, just like the plants I helped erect. I gave my best, and I expected that the system I served would respect that. But life, as I’ve learned, is not always fair.
One day, without warning, I found myself entangled in a deep and silent conspiracy. Whispers behind closed doors, subtle shifts in behavior, decisions made in meetings I was no longer invited to. It didn’t happen all at once. But slowly, methodically, I was edged out. I wasn’t fired — that would have made too much noise. Instead, I was forced to leave — cornered, disillusioned, betrayed.
The afternoon I left for the last time, the air felt heavier than usual. The familiar corridors of the office, once buzzing with purpose, now seemed distant and cold. My ID card was turned in. My office door closed behind me. No celebration, no farewell. Just silence. I returned home in a depressed mood, carrying a weight that felt larger than just the loss of a job. It was the kind of weight that questions your worth, your decisions, your identity. After all, what do you do when the role that defined you for years is suddenly stripped away — not by failure, but by politics? I walked into my house, set my bag down, and sat in the quiet. The walls around me were unchanged, but everything inside me had shifted. I stared out the window, watching the sunlight slant across the floor, unsure of what came next.
But as the hours passed, so did the haze. A voice inside reminded me: I’ve faced worse. I’ve stood in storms that threatened more than a title or a paycheck. And every time, I rose again. That afternoon marked the end of one chapter — and unknowingly, the beginning of another. I would grieve what I lost, yes. But I would also reclaim something even more important: my purpose, my peace, and the power to choose what came next.
