I never thought I’d say this, but here I am—done. After years, after decades, after countless claims and late nights, I finally quit my job as a VA rater. And it wasn’t easy. Not because I loved the work, but because I thought I could make a difference. I honestly believed that if I just kept my head down, did right by my fellow veterans, and pushed through the stress, it would be enough.
I’m a veteran myself. The Army shaped who I am. After I got out, I worked in other VA-related positions before eventually becoming a rater. I thought, this is it—this is where I can help. I imagined I’d be the person who read the files, listened, paid attention, and gave veterans what they deserved.
But being a rater is a different kind of battlefield. The work never stops. You’re measured by a points system—how many issues you rate, how complex they are, and how quickly you process them. There’s constant auditing. And those audits? Often subjective. One reviewer sees an error; another doesn’t. I had a friend who was a reviewer and constantly disagreed with the “errors” called on my claims, but the record still showed I was wrong. That’s just how it works.
Then there’s the workload. Overtime wasn’t even always allowed. But to meet the expectations, many of us—me included—worked “free overtime.” That meant logging in outside the 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. window, finishing claims deep into the night, and not hitting submit until the next day when it counted. That was the unspoken norm.
But it didn’t end at the office. I took it home. I would lie awake wondering if I rated a claim right, or worse, if I messed one up and hurt a veteran. Examiners often botched evaluations. I’d see exams missing major details, meds ignored, braces not mentioned, and range of motion never measured. Then I’d have to choose: send it back and delay the claim, or somehow make it work. I wasn’t just doing paperwork—I was firefighting.
My best days were the ones when I could grant 100% P&T. That’s when it felt worth it. But those days were rare. The stress started piling up. I became a subject matter expert. People leaned on me for help constantly. Other offices, other divisions, my team. And slowly, my life outside work unraveled.
My wife asked me to quit. More than once. I didn’t listen. Now she’s gone too.
I checked into VA inpatient care recently. Every doctor, every friend, and every family member told me the same thing: leave the job. And I finally did.
I’m not here to say every rater is a hero. They’re not. But a lot of us care. A lot of us are vets trying to help other vets. And I worry deeply that more people will quit or get pushed out, and the system will suffer even more.
Me? I’ll find peace somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. I was happier making less money in uniform.
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