Reply With One Word: Resign

A federal employee reflects on the government’s “Fork in the Road” offer.

In early 2025, federal employees across the government began receiving an email with a striking subject line: “Fork in the Road.” The message introduced a Deferred Resignation Program. Accept the offer, and you could leave your agency within weeks but remain on the payroll through September 30, 2025, without reporting to work.

The email arrived on January 28, and employees were given until February 6 to decide.

I clicked Reply and typed the required word:

Resign.

Then I stared at it.

For days, I had opened the same email, typed the word, and deleted it again. Accepting the government’s Deferred Resignation Program required replying with that single word.

It sounded simple.

It didn’t feel simple.

In late January 2025, federal employees across the government began receiving an email with a striking subject line: “Fork in the Road.” The message introduced what was called a Deferred Resignation Program. Accept the offer, and you could leave your agency within weeks but remain on the payroll through September 30, 2025, often without reporting to work.

Thousands of federal employees suddenly faced the same question: accept the offer or stay and see what happened next.

The email itself felt unusual. There was little explanation and no personal signature. The instructions were stark.

The process itself sounded almost procedural: reply to the email from your government account, type a single word in the body of the message, and press Send.

Reply with a single word — Resign.

In effect, federal employees were being asked to make a major career decision by responding to something that felt, at least in spirit, like an anonymous letter.

Yogi Berra once said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

He also said, “Never answer an anonymous letter.”

The irony was hard to miss.

At the same time, the newly established Department of Government Efficiency, DOGE, and other signals from the incoming administration suggested that large reductions in the federal workforce might be coming. News coverage, legal commentary, and opinions from former officials quickly filled the air. Some lawyers warned the program might not even be legal. Others urged employees to stay away from it entirely.

The opinions were everywhere. Certainty was not.

I had already been planning to retire at the end of 2025. In that sense, my situation was something of a sweet spot. If the offer turned out to be a bad deal or not real at all, I could simply retire.

Many employees didn’t have that safety net. For them, the decision carried far greater uncertainty.

But even with that cushion, the choice still felt like a gamble.

Accepting the deferred resignation meant leaving my agency in February but remaining on the payroll through the fall. In my case, because I was already eligible to retire, it also meant the possibility of extending that time until my retirement date. Or I could ignore the offer and stay where I was, waiting to see what might happen next.

As the deadline approached, I found myself opening the email again and again. I would stare at it, click Reply, and begin typing my response.

More than once, I typed the word.

Resign.

And more than once, I deleted it.

My wife and I talked about the decision repeatedly. We ran the numbers, considered the possibilities, and tried to filter out the growing chorus of outside opinions. Each day, the deadline crept a little closer.

The whole experience began to feel strangely familiar, like watching a contestant on the game show Deal or No Deal.

On that show, the contestant must decide whether to accept the banker’s offer or continue opening cases, hoping for a larger payout but risking everything. The audience shouts advice from every direction. Some yell “Deal!” Others shout, “No deal!”

But the audience doesn’t know the contestant’s life. They don’t know the contestant’s finances, obligations, risk tolerance, or long-term plans.

They’re shouting without the full picture.

The deferred resignation offer created much the same dynamic. Commentators, lawyers, journalists, and coworkers all had opinions. Some warned employees to stay far away from the program. Others insisted it was a rare opportunity.

But ultimately, the decision wasn’t theirs to make.

Only you know your circumstances, your finances, your retirement eligibility, your career plans, your tolerance for uncertainty.

In Deal or No Deal, the best contestants try to tune out the noise. They study the numbers, weigh the risks, and make the choice that makes sense for them.

That’s easier said than done. The crowd is loud. The clock is ticking. The host is waiting.

One afternoon, not long before the deadline, I opened the email yet again.

I clicked Reply.

This time I didn’t delete the message.

I typed the required word:

Resign.

I paused for a moment, took a breath, and pressed Send.

In effect, I had just answered an anonymous letter.

As it turned out, the decision worked out well. I left my agency at the end of February, remained on the payroll through the year, and ultimately retired on December 31, 2025.

But at the moment I pressed “Send,” none of that was certain. Like the contestant staring at unopened cases on Deal or No Deal, I had to make a decision without knowing how the rest of the game would unfold.

Which brings us back to Yogi Berra’s advice.

He warned people never to answer an anonymous letter. Yet that was essentially what thousands of federal employees were asked to do.

Sometimes decisions arrive with limited information, a ticking clock, and a crowd full of opinions.

When that happens, there’s no audience to vote and no banker to negotiate with.

There’s only the fork in the road in front of you.

And the quiet decision about whether to take it.

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