The Bittersweet Irony of Valentine’s Day

February 14, 2025

Your services are no longer required.

Valentine’s Day—celebrated as a day of love, devotion, and appreciation—feels especially hollow this year. While storefronts overflow with roses and chocolates, and social media is flooded with grand declarations of affection, thousands of public servants are experiencing a very different kind of heartbreak.

They aren’t celebrating. They’re packing up their desks. They’re refreshing their emails, waiting for news that will decide their fate. They’re navigating the cruel reality that their years—sometimes entire careers—of service are being dismissed, not because they failed, but because political shifts, budget cuts, and bureaucratic reshuffling have made them collateral damage.

The irony stings. On a day meant to honor commitment, people who dedicated their lives to public service are being cast aside without ceremony. There is no appreciation, no acknowledgment, just uncertainty.

But love isn’t just about romance. Love is showing up daily, doing the work, and believing in something bigger than yourself. It’s the friendships forged in long hours and shared missions. It’s the quiet moments of mentorship, the small acts of kindness between colleagues, and the unspoken understanding among those who dedicate their time and energy to making the system work for those who rely on it. It’s the sacrifices made in service of a greater good, often at the expense of personal time, family moments, and financial gain.

If Valentine’s Day is truly about love in all its forms, then it should honor more than just couples exchanging gifts. It should honor the love of purpose, the love of service, the love that binds teams together and fuels those who dedicate themselves to making the world a little better.

So today, as chocolates are exchanged and flowers are delivered, let’s take a moment to recognize the love of those who gave their time, energy, and commitment only to find themselves left behind.

Love, in its truest sense, isn’t just about words or gifts—it’s about how we treat people, acknowledge their sacrifices, and stand by them even when the system doesn’t.

---

Gearing Up for Monday

The countdown to chemo begins. Monday marks the start of something big—something I’ve known was coming but still feels surreal now that it’s right in front of me.

N+AVD chemo is my next battle. Six cycles, each lasting about 28 days, with infusions every two weeks, blood tests, and hydration therapy in between. It’s a structured plan, a carefully calculated attack on the cancer—but like any battle plan, there’s always the unknown.

I’ve read the studies. I’ve listened to my doctors. I understand the mechanics of how N+AVD (Nivolumab + Adriamycin, Vinblastine, and Dacarbazine) works—how it combines immunotherapy with traditional chemotherapy to train my immune system to recognize and destroy cancer cells. The science is promising. The results are encouraging. But none of that changes the fact that my body is about to endure something I can’t fully predict or control.

How will I feel? How will I handle the side effects? Will I still recognize myself in the mirror six months from now?

Despite the uncertainty, I know I’m not walking this road alone. Tonight, I get to share dinner with my beautiful wife, Maria—a moment of normalcy before everything shifts. Tomorrow, I’ll sit back and watch Sam Wilson take up the shield in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, a reminder that stepping into a new fight isn’t just about strength, but about belief.

And that’s where the weight of it all hits me.

Sam Wilson’s story resonates with me more than I expected. He steps into a role that isn’t just about the shield—it’s about legacy, responsibility, and battling a world that doesn’t always appreciate the fight. Watching him take up the mantle of Captain America is supposed to be inspiring, but it also reminds me of something I’ve been struggling with lately: feeling sidelined.

As I prepare for my own fight, my friends and colleagues are in the middle of one I can’t help them with. I have an out. I can retire. Many of them cannot. They wake up every morning not knowing if they’ll have a job tomorrow. They are good people, dedicated public servants. As I sit here, reading the news and scrolling through social media, I see something that shakes me almost as much as my own diagnosis: the growing narrative that government workers are somehow the enemy.

When did this happen? When did the people who process claims, investigate fraud, enforce labor laws, and protect workers’ rights become villains in the American story? Because make no mistake—there are people out there who genuinely believe that. They believe that career public servants who dedicate their lives to making government function are actively working against them. It’s not just political rhetoric anymore; it’s a belief system that has taken root. And that’s terrifying.

I don’t know how we fix it.

But I do know this: narratives don’t change unless people speak up. If we don’t tell the real story of public service—why we do what we do, what we fight for—then the loudest voices will define us. And those voices, more often than not, are filled with anger and misinformation. Maybe the answer starts with having honest conversations and showing up in ways that remind people that the government isn’t some faceless machine—it’s made up of people. People like my colleagues, my friends, my team—people who care.

I wish I could fight alongside them, but I have my own battle to prepare for right now. I’ll be better soon and join the fray, but what will be left?

And for the chemo process, I won’t pretend I’m not afraid. The unknown is always scary, and for someone who likes to have a plan, handing control over to a process as intense as chemo is unsettling. The past few weeks have already reminded me how fragile control is—over my health, my future, and the way the world sees the work I’ve spent my life doing. It’s frustrating. It’s humbling. It’s a lesson I didn’t ask for but am forced to learn.

But here’s what I know: we’re on the right path. This treatment exists because it works. My doctors believe in it. And even though fear creeps in, so does faith—faith in the science, my body, my God, and most of all, the love and support of the people who continue to show up for me.

To my friends and family who keep checking in, send messages, and remind me that I’m not fighting this alone—thank you. Every text, call, and kind word matters more than I can express.

Monday, we start. And whatever comes next, we face it head-on.

Invictus.