
When I was 29 years old, I left the Marines and joined the CIA. It was a major transition—I moved from coastal North Carolina to Washington, D.C., and I went from being Captain Ackerman to Mr. Ackerman. But the most intimidating change was something else: I would need a new wardrobe.
I had worn a uniform to work my entire adult life, one designed solely for utility and stitched head to toe with pockets. Suddenly, the dress code demanded a suit and tie. It wasn’t like that for all of the CIA. This was only the dress code for our small office, a unit filled with former special operators. Our boss insisted, whenever we had a meeting with anyone outside of our office or at headquarters in Langley, Virginia, that we dress “like gentlemen.”