60 second q&a with emily fertitta: “i realized if i wait for everything to fall into place, i might never share our story.”

I’ve known Emily Fertitta (she’ll always be Emily Hunter to me) since our days at Upper St. Clair High School in the late ’90s and early 2000s. We were part of that first generation of high school graduates who stayed more connected than previous generations as our lives unfolded online through Facebook or IG. But it wasn’t until I learned about what she and her husband, Val, had been through over the last few years that we found our way back to a real conversation.

There’s something humbling about knowing someone since you were 15 and then watching them step into experiences they never set out to have – and show up strong and steadfast and honest. What Emily and her family have navigated over the past several years isn’t something you plan for, but the way she’s carried it says a lot about who she is.

What she shares below is real, direct, and deeply lived. We kept editing to a minimum to honor both the weight of the experience and her candor.

– Meg

toth shop (ts): In 10 words or less: when do you know it’s time to speak up?

Emily Fertitta (EF): When staying silent protects wrongdoing.

ts: You – former FBI agent – and your husband, Val – a decorated Marine Corps officer and FBI agent – made the decision to speak up about misconduct inside the FBI, and what followed included denied promotions, mental health evaluations, and even national security investigations. There’s a moment when telling the truth stops being theoretical and becomes personal. When did that shift happen for you and Val, and what did that moment feel like for you? When did you realize that telling your truth would be something that would fundamentally shape your lives and your family’s life?

EF: ​​My husband and I built our lives around service to our country, with decades of federal service and a deep belief in the mission. Being a whistleblower was never part of our plan.In 2021, my husband was blocked from applying for a promotion after taking medical leave to treat combat-related injuries. That should not have happened under FBI policy and the laws meant to protect employees and service members. When he first spoke up, I thought the process would work and life would move on. But each opportunity to fix it made things worse.

For me, the shift became undeniable when I realized that no matter how hard I pushed, my work would not protect me. I was receiving the highest performance ratings the FBI can give and I had just received an award from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, yet I was being treated like a criminal.

The moment it became fully personal was when I was ordered to attend three days of a secretive interrogation without an attorney – and the FBI refused to record it. I was ultimately forced into constructive discharge without any real path to stay in a job I loved.

There is a different level of expectation in our line of work. We weren’t in low-risk roles; we risked our lives in service to our country. We both experienced profound institutional betrayal. So much of our identity was tied to our service, and that foundation was shattered. It made clear that we had a role to play in working toward effective protections for employees and service members.

ts: There’s often a gap between what people think whistleblowing is and what it actually means or requires. What do you wish more people understood about that reality?

EF: There’s a perception that whistleblowers are just complainers, but the process is too demanding for that. Whistleblowers pay the cost financially, emotionally, and personally. It requires time and resources that people wouldn’t invest unless they suffered injustice and were grievously wronged. The whistleblower process is built to punish, not to protect.

Whistleblowing is also very isolating. Relationships crumble. Coworkers who were once close distance themselves. You go from being part of a team to being on your own. In law enforcement especially, whistleblowers are not always seen as courageous. They can be seen as a threat to the status quo. The process strips everything down to who and what really matters. You get very clear on your values. You learn your own strength, and just as importantly, you learn who will stand beside you

ts: How has this experience reshaped the way you think about truth, storytelling, and who gets to be heard?

EF: I now have personally observed in real-time how stories about truth and accountability are filtered through a political lens, depending on which “side” someone was on. That should not be the case. These are human issues, not political ones.

I am incredibly inspired by people in the whistleblowing community who have gone through difficult experiences and use their voice to help others. They could have stepped away after the resolution of their situation, but instead they stay, sharing what they have learned and helping others navigate the process.

I used to think storytelling meant having it all figured out. The full picture, the right words, and everything organized. At some point, I realized if I wait for everything to fall into place, I might never share our story. I’m still working through that, letting go of needing to say it perfectly and instead focusing on sharing the story.

ts: In the midst of everything you and your family have faced, what have you learned about yourself, your voice, and how you tell your story?

EF: I learned how much energy I was spending trying not to make others uncomfortable. At work, I had to make it seem like everything was fine, like our situation wasn’t affecting me. I knew that if it did show, it could create more distance and lead to ostracization. In a long-term situation like this, that’s energy you can’t afford to spend.

I also had to shift from a culture that valued secrecy to becoming someone willing to share my story, and that has been difficult for me. It felt self-centered. I’m not someone who seeks a spotlight, but I’ve learned I can endure it to help others and bring about change.

I realized I must keep looking for small moments of hope, the glimmers. In this demanding battle, those moments keep me afloat.

If sharing our story can be that small light for someone else, then my discomfort is worth it. Over time, people began reaching out, saying hearing our story helped them understand their own situation or feel less alone. That’s what led me to start working on a book about how people get through prolonged periods of hardship without losing themselves.

ts: Every person we interview answers this same question last – mile 18 is generally considered to be one of the hardest miles in a marathon. You’re hitting a wall; you’re forced to dig deep. What’s mile 18 in your line of work or at a point in your

EF: As we approach year five of our fight for justice, it has become clear that by mile 18, the initial adrenaline of “doing the right thing” has long since worn off. The system is exhausting, isolating, and expensive, and it expects you to quit.

My college cross country coach used to say, “trust the training,” and that’s stayed with me. When I hit those mile 18 moments, I go back to that. By the time you get there, you’ve already proven you can do it. I trust the training and don’t try to rethink everything. There’s no negotiating at that point, you’ve already decided you’re going to finish. Now it’s just continuing forward, one step at a time. That mindset has carried me through two Boston-qualifying marathons—one I ran pregnant—and now through years of litigation.