204. Navy Captain's (Ret.) Full Circle | SEAL Family Foundation Now Lifeguard and CEO

William Fenick

In Episode 204 of the Transition Drill Podcast, retired Navy Captain William "Bill" Fenick opens up about his unconventional and inspiring career path, beginning as a teenage lifeguard and evolving through nearly three decades of military service, followed by leadership roles in the nonprofit world. Raised in a Navy family, William shares how early exposure to service and purpose shaped his worldview, even when he didn’t recognize it at the time. He discusses how unexpected events, including being fired from his first job and later laid off from a nonprofit, became turning points that pushed him toward reflection, reinvention, and rediscovery. Bill speaks candidly about forging his own identity within the Navy, stepping out from his father’s legacy, and learning to trust alignment over ambition. After retirement, a DISC assessment revealed his core strengths, ultimately leading him back to lifeguarding, a role that, decades later, still fulfills his deepest sense of mission. Through his story, Bill highlights the importance of knowing yourself, remaining flexible, and embracing the transitions that life inevitably brings. This episode offers veterans, service members, and professionals of all backgrounds a powerful reminder that clarity often comes from looking inward, and that purpose can be found where you least expect it.

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Before the Navy uniform, before 28 years of distinguished service, and before overseeing public affairs for some of the military’s most elite commands, William Fenick was just a teenager with a whistle around his neck and sun on his shoulders. His first real taste of purpose came not from a military academy, but from being a lifeguard. That job was where he first learned how responsibility and service could intersect. Years later, he would recognize that lifeguarding had been his first mission-based environment. It was just one few people, including himself at the time, saw as a potential career.

Raised in a Navy family, Bill was immersed from childhood in a culture of duty, movement, and structure. His father served for 27 years, a Naval Academy graduate and decorated officer who also happened to be an adventurous outdoorsman. His mother was a career nurse, another model of dedication and discipline. Bill grew up watching his parents not only serve others, but find deep meaning in that service. He and his brothers moved frequently, living in places like Virginia Beach, California, and the Philippines. The one constant in all these relocations was water. Whether it was oceans, pools, or lakes, water became his sanctuary. It made sense that lifeguarding would become his first job, and for a time, his greatest passion.

William excelled in that role through high school and into college. It gave him independence, a paycheck, and a sense of authority. But despite the joy it brought him, he never considered it a viable career path. The late 1980s were not a time when lifeguarding was viewed as a profession to build a life around. For William, it was fun and meaningful, but temporary. His family never discouraged him from chasing his interests, but their examples loomed large. When your father wears a uniform and commands sailors, and your mother heals people in a hospital, it subtly shapes what you believe counts as real work.

Even when he returned to lifeguarding briefly after an unexpected job loss in his early twenties, it still did not register as a long-term path. The culture he was raised in encouraged aiming for big careers and bigger institutions. That mindset led him to apply for Officer Candidate School in the Navy, a move that he saw at the time as temporary. He expected to serve for a few years and then move on. He had no idea that what started with lifeguarding would evolve into a decades-long service career and eventually come full circle.

What makes William's story resonate is that the job that aligned most naturally with his values and spirit was the one he left behind first. In a world that often teaches us to look forward and aim higher, he reminds us that sometimes the first thing we ever loved may have been the most honest version of ourselves. 

When Bill Fenick lost his civilian job working for a family-run business in Manhattan, he was caught off guard. The job had felt stable. He had been working hard, contributing, and operating under the assumption that his role was secure. But without warning, he was let go. There was no severance plan, no roadmap forward. He found himself in the same situation that many face during moments of transition: out of work, low on savings, and unsure of what came next.

So he returned to something familiar. He grabbed his lifeguard gear and went back to what he enjoyed. It was a return to comfort, not retreat. Lifeguarding was something he knew how to do, and more importantly, something he enjoyed. The sun, the whistle, the camaraderie, the responsibility over something bigger than yourself. It felt right. While standing on that deck, he had time to reflect on his options. He was not chasing a big career move. He was recovering, regrouping, and seeking clarity. In that space, he made a decision that would change the course of his life.

William applied to Officer Candidate School exam. He had grown up in a Navy household, and while he had not considered military service growing up, the structure and purpose of that world had always been part of his upbringing. It felt familiar and secure, and he saw it as a chance to mature, to regroup, and to build something solid. He did not go in with dreams of a 30-year career. His mindset was simple: serve for a few years, grow as a man, then figure out what’s next.

When Bill was accepted into Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, it marked a dramatic shift. The lifeguard was about to become a commissioned naval officer. In an unexpected twist, his very first assignment in OCS was not standard watch duty. Instead, he volunteered to become the regimental lifeguard. Every morning, he taught fellow candidates how to swim, helping those who were struggling to pass the required swim test. In this setting, his past experience aligned perfectly with the new mission. The pool deck once again became his place of service, but now within the military framework. It was another sign that lifeguarding had always been more than just a summer job for him. It was his original foundation of service.

What followed was the beginning of a military journey that would take Bill around the world. But it all began not with a grand plan, but from a place of loss and reassessment. He chose action over stagnation, returning to what he knew and using that clarity to take a leap. In doing so, he turned a moment of vulnerability into a lifetime of impact. For anyone standing at a crossroads, unsure of the next move, Bill’s early transition into the Navy is a powerful reminder: sometimes going back to basics is not regression. It is the starting point of something far greater than you imagined.

As Fenick moved into his naval career, a tension began to emerge, one that many children of legacy families quietly wrestle with. His father, a decorated Naval officer, had cast a long shadow. Bill respected that legacy, but he also felt the weight of it. As a young officer, he made a deliberate choice to chart his own course, not by rejecting his father’s influence, but by consciously stepping opposite of it.

When given a choice for duty station, Bill purposely selected locations where his father had never served. It was not an act of rebellion. It was about building a sense of self within an institution that already felt like home. He needed to make his own name, earn his own stripes, and develop confidence in his own ability to lead without being compared to the man who had raised him. That separation helped him grow. It gave him the space to stumble, adapt, and succeed on his own terms.

But even with a growing resume and expanding leadership roles, there came a moment where the path forward grew uncertain. He was at a crossroads: continue in the Supply Corps where he had built familiarity, or take a risk and pursue a lateral transfer into something new. That something new was the Public Affairs community. It was a world he barely understood, yet it held a certain pull, communications, crisis management, storytelling, media strategy. It was both a leap into the unknown and a return to his natural strengths.

Submitting a lateral transfer in the Navy comes with risk. Once you make the request, your current community may begin to see you as a short-timer. At the same time, acceptance into the new community is never guaranteed. Many who apply are not accepted. Bill knew this, but he moved forward anyway. He trusted that the alignment he felt was worth the gamble.

The transfer was approved. William was sent to school for advanced training in public communication. He earned a master’s degree from American University and was eventually assigned to roles within some of the Navy’s most demanding public affairs environments. Over time, he became a trusted voice during moments of crisis and change, advising senior leaders and helping guide the public image of the Navy at home and abroad. Including duty rotations in DC, William ended his career assigned to Naval Special Warfare as the Director of Communications.

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When William Fenick retired from the Navy in 2014 after 28 years of service. He was not planning to get out at the time, but the Navy offered him a position in Washington, D.C. After discussing it with his wife, he declined and decided to retire. William did not have a plan for what came next. What he did have was a clear sense of purpose. Throughout his military career, whether in logistics or public affairs, William had found fulfillment in supporting others. He was not drawn to spotlight roles or titles. His pride came from serving behind the scenes, ensuring the mission stayed on course. That same mindset guided his next steps. He stepped away from uniformed service, unsure of what the civilian world would ask of him, but committed to remaining useful.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. At his retirement ceremony, a man approached him with a simple proposition: “Let’s talk Monday.” That man was connected to the nonprofit Navy SEAL Family Foundation, supporting Navy SEAL families, and the board was searching for a steady, experienced hand to bring structure and strategy to their young organization. Bill had never worked in the nonprofit sector before, but he understood people, mission alignment, and how to navigate complex systems. He accepted the position and became the foundation’s first executive director.

The learning curve was steep, but familiar. Nonprofits required many of the same disciplines as military commands—governance, communication, resource management, and above all, trust. Bill led the foundation for seven years, helping it grow from a passionate startup to a mature, respected organization with national reach. His focus remained steady: serve the families with dignity, avoid the trap of overexposure, and always prioritize the mission.

Later, he transitioned to a larger nonprofit role with the USO, a legacy institution with a different scale but similar challenges. Once again, he found himself called to lead. He cleaned up internal systems, built new teams, and strengthened the organization’s community ties. It was meaningful work that extended his service beyond the military and allowed him to use decades of leadership in new ways.

Then came another unexpected turn. During what seemed like a routine meeting, Bill was informed his position had been eliminated due to restructuring. There was no warning, no transition plan. Just a polite request to turn in his badge, clean out his office, and move on. In that moment, Bill faced a civilian version of the very transitions he had helped others navigate for years.

What followed was not panic, but reflection. He took time off. He leaned into family. And eventually, he began to ask himself deeper questions about what truly gave him peace and purpose. Just like when he lost that first civilian job decades earlier, Bill found clarity not in rushing forward, but in returning to his foundation. Service had never been about the uniform. It had always been about the mission. Now it was time to find a new one.

In the months that followed his unexpected job loss, William found himself in a new kind of transition. This time, there was no structured military pipeline to follow, no chain of command to consult, and no timeline for the next move. What he had was space. Space to reflect, space to reconnect, and space to ask himself the kind of questions that do not come with quick answers. He had always taken pride in being mission-driven, but now the question became, what mission truly aligned with who he was at this stage of life?

During that period of quiet exploration, a friend suggested something unexpected: take a DISC assessment. Bill had mentored others for years and was familiar with personality tools in concept, but he had never seriously applied one to himself. Curious, at the urging of a friend, he completed a career-focused DISC assessment, he answer surprised him. One of the top career matches for his personality profile was lifeguard.

It hit him hard. Lifeguarding had been his first job, his first experience of responsibility and team culture. It was something he had loved deeply but abandoned early in pursuit of a “real” career. Now, decades later, an objective tool was pointing him back toward the job that had first made him feel alive. It was more than a suggestion. It felt like validation.

Encouraged by his wife and intrigued by the possibility, Bill decided to test the waters—literally. He re-certified as a Red Cross lifeguard, completed updated training, and began working part-time at the Navy’s submarine base pool in San Diego. His shifts started early, often before sunrise. He worked alongside a diverse group of people, including Navy divers in training, retirees doing lap swim, and service members preparing for fitness tests. It was quiet, focused, and full of small moments that brought him peace.

What might have seemed like a step backward from the outside was, to Bill, a powerful act of alignment. He was not just punching a clock or filling time. He was reconnecting with something elemental—water, purpose, and community. The same traits that had made him successful in the Navy were now being applied in a completely different setting, and yet the impact felt just as real.

This return to the pool deck was not about nostalgia. It was about rediscovery. About proving to himself and others that worth is not defined by rank or title, but by presence and intention. Bill often says that if he had taken the same assessment years earlier, he might have made different choices. But he also knows that the journey, with all its twists and resets, gave him the wisdom to appreciate this chapter more fully.

In addition to going back to his passion of lifeguarding, William also started his own company, Government Assessment 24x7. These assessments offer a personality test that categorizes individuals into four behavioral styles: Dominance, Influence, Steadiness, and Conscientiousness. His goal is to get these assessments into the TAPs Program and the VA System, as well as into the first responder communities.

For many veterans, transition can feel like a loss of identity. Bill’s story flips that script. Sometimes the path forward is found by looking back, not to relive the past, but to finally honor what it taught you about who you really are.

After decades of serving in uniform, leading nonprofit organizations, and rediscovering his passion through unexpected turns, Bill Fenick has come to understand one universal truth: transition is not a singular moment. It is a continuous process that unfolds across an entire life. Whether you are retiring after a long military career, separating after a few enlistments, or facing a sudden change you never saw coming, the principles of successful transition remain the same—know yourself, build your tribe, and stay open to reinvention.

One of the most important lessons Bill shares with fellow veterans is that identity should not be limited to a job title or military rank. You are not your uniform. You are not just your MOS or your warfare specialty. Those are tools, not definitions. The real work begins when you ask yourself who you are without the structure, the mission sets, and the daily routines. That question can be uncomfortable, especially for those who have spent years sacrificing personal desires for professional obligations. But leaning into that discomfort is where clarity begins.

Bill encourages service members preparing for transition to look beyond tactical steps like updating a resume or building a LinkedIn profile. Those things matter, but they are only as strong as the foundation beneath them. Instead, start with internal discovery. Take assessments. Reflect on what environments make you feel energized, what values guide your decisions, and what activities bring you a sense of peace. Too many veterans skip this step and chase opportunities that look good on paper but leave them feeling misaligned.

He also emphasizes the importance of finding your new tribe. The military offers a built-in support network, one that often disappears overnight upon separation. Replacing that camaraderie takes effort. Whether through volunteer work, faith communities, professional organizations, or even hobbies, reconnecting with people who share your values is essential for long-term wellness. Bill found his tribe again on the pool deck, surrounded by others committed to service, fitness, and quiet leadership.

For those who feel stuck or unsure, he offers a simple but profound reminder: the fact that you have already completed a successful transition into military life means you are capable of doing it again. You left home. You adapted to an unfamiliar culture. You developed discipline, learned new skills, and served something greater than yourself. Those same qualities are transferable. They are your assets.

William’s story is not about chasing prestige. It is about staying aligned with purpose, even when that means returning to something you once thought was behind you. His journey proves that fulfillment often comes from unlikely places, and that self-discovery does not stop after retirement. It only begins.

For every veteran standing at a crossroads, unsure of what comes next, Bill offers this: be honest about what drives you. Be brave enough to pivot when needed. And trust that transition is not an ending, it is an invitation to live more authentically than ever before.

William Fenick’s journey is a reminder that purpose does not always follow a straight line. Whether wearing a uniform, leading a nonprofit, or holding a whistle at the edge of a pool, his commitment to service has remained steady. His story invites us to reconsider what success truly means and challenges us to reflect on whether our current path aligns with who we really are. Transition is not something to fear, but an opportunity to grow, realign, and rediscover. No matter where you are in your journey, Bill’s example proves it is never too late to start fresh with purpose.

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