I Didn’t Leave. I Was Pushed — And Then I Chose.
So, what has happened since my family, and I got on a plane in August and landed in South Africa. Here goes: Unpolished, unfiltered and raw. I am sitting in Johannesburg, South Africa, seven months later, in a city that hums with a particular kind of energy that’s engaging and enraging at the same time — writing words on a screen that still feel surreal to type. I am a published author. I am building a company. I am still doing the work I was called to do. And I am, in many ways, still putting myself back together. Both things are true. All of it is true at once. The Loss Was Real I want to name it before I move past it, because I think we do each other a disservice when we skip straight to the triumph. I spent 18 years at USAID. Eighteen years of early mornings in countries most people couldn’t find on a map, of negotiating contracts in the middle of outbreaks, of building teams in the middle of conflict, of believing, genuinely, fully believing, that the work mattered. That it was changing lives. That it was worth every sacrifice my family and I made to do it. And then it was gone. Not gradually. Not on my terms. Gone. The institution I served, the mission I had sworn to uphold, the colleagues I had poured myself into, dismantled. While I was still standing in it. While I was still Mission Director. While people were still looking to me for answers. That is a particular kind of grief. The kind that doesn’t come with a funeral or a casserole from the neighbors. The kind you have to carry in public, professionally, while still showing up every single day for the people who need you to hold it together. I held it together. And it cost something. It cost me sleep, confidence, security, sanity, peace, hurt, all the things. The cost is long lasting. I want to say that clearly for anyone reading this who is in their own version of that moment right now: the cost is real. You are allowed to name it. Oh and let me not forget to tell you, benefits, my retirement is still in que. I was entitled to my retirement on Sept 3. I AM STILL WAITING. Let that sink in. The Book Was the First Reckoning I wrote I Said My Piece with Peace: Inside USAID’s Final Days because the story demanded to be told. But I also wrote it because I needed to understand what had happened to me — and what I had learned about leadership, integrity, and resilience in the middle of the fire. Writing a memoir is not the same as writing a report. There is no diplomatic language available to you. There is no bureaucratic distance to hide behind. You sit with the truth of what happened, what you felt, what you chose, and what it cost — and you put it on the page anyway. It is the hardest thing I have ever written. And it is the most honest thing I have ever done. When that book hit #1 New Release on Amazon, I was not celebrating a marketing milestone. I was exhaling. I was saying: it mattered. It was real. And now it belongs to everyone who needs it. Johannesburg Was Not the Plan. It Was the Answer. When Vincent and I relocated to South Africa, people had questions. I had questions too, honestly. This was not the orderly transition I had imagined for my next chapter. There was no offboarding ceremony, no graceful exit. There was just: what do we do now, and where do we do it? South Africa chose us back. Or maybe we finally stopped running from the answer that had been waiting. There is something about this continent — this specific convergence of complexity, beauty, resilience, and possibility — that continues to call me forward. I have worked across Sub-Saharan Africa for most of my career. I have seen what happens when the right systems, the right leadership, and the right resources come together. I have also seen what happens when they don’t. I am not done with that work. I am just doing it differently now. The Mission Continues — On My Own Terms I am still in the arena. I want you to know that. Through my work with Operation End Starvation, I am still designing procurement systems that will feed people. Still interfacing with the State Department. Still holding the line on compliance, integrity, and excellence — because those standards do not change just because the institution behind me did. And through The Imara Advisory Group, which I co-founded with three extraordinary women, I am building something that was always inside me: a firm that brings the full weight of our expertise to organizations that are serious about doing this work right. Not performatively. Seriously. That is the thing no one tells you about institutional collapse: it clarifies. When everything you thought was permanent turns out to be fragile, you stop building your identity around structures that can be dismantled overnight. You start building it around something sturdier. I know what I am. I know what I do. And I know why it matters. This Blog Is Part of That This space — this website, this platform, this blog — is where I will document the next chapter honestly. Not just the victories. The pivots too. The moments of doubt and the moments of absolute clarity. The work of building something new after something beloved has ended. I said my piece. I found my peace. And now I’m building what comes next. If you’re in a season of reinvention — if you’ve been pushed out, burned out, or simply called to something you don’t have a roadmap for yet — pull up a chair. You are not alone in here. Keisha Effiom is the author of I Said My Piece with Peace: Inside USAID’s Final