I was the first to lead, the first to step down, and the first to be remembered by a free people.

I was born on February 22, 1732, in Westmoreland County, Virginia, the son of a land speculator and planter. After my father died, I didn’t inherit the family’s grandest estate, but I did inherit land, ten enslaved workers, and a hunger to carve out my own legacy. I became a land surveyor at seventeen, marking boundaries on the edge of the colonial frontier. But ambition pulled me toward the military.

By twenty-one, I wore a Virginia militia uniform. The British sent me to warn the French off territory they both claimed. They refused. I returned with their answer—then led an attack that helped ignite the French and Indian War. I made mistakes. I surrendered. I learned. And I walked away with the kind of experience that couldn’t be taught in books.

In 1759, I married Martha Custis, a wealthy widow, and managed Mount Vernon while serving in Virginia’s House of Burgesses. But politics turned to war. By 1775, I was named Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army. For eight years, I held together a starving, freezing, threadbare army—crossed rivers in the dark, chased Redcoats through Jersey, and stood tall at Yorktown when Cornwallis surrendered. I spent barely a week at home in those years. The cause came first.

After peace came, I did what few in power do—I gave it up. I retired to Mount Vernon, thinking I’d earned some quiet. But the country was still fragile. The Articles of Confederation had failed. I was asked to preside over the Constitutional Convention. When the dust settled, they asked me to lead again—this time as the first President of the United States.

I served two terms, steady through the chaos, shaping the role with every step. And when it was time, I let go—no crown on my head, no power clutched in my fist. Just a quiet exit, and a legacy built on knowing when to walk away.

On December 14, 1799, I died at home, the same place I’d always wanted to return to. My friend “Light-Horse” Harry Lee delivered the words that stuck:
“First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.”

That’s how I hope to be remembered—not just for how I fought, but for when I chose to walk away.