I never expected to run for public office. But looking back, it makes sense that my life kept circling around service and the people who carried responsibility in the service to others.
At 18, I was a young Marine stationed in Washington, D.C., surrounded by leaders, public servants, and the countless people who kept government running behind the scenes. Later, I served at Camp David, protecting the President and handling duties tied directly to national security.
A very defining moment came on September 11, 2001, when I witnessed the attack on the Pentagon. Like many from my generation, that day put me on a path to further investigate who we are as a nation, what we stand for, and why so much has been lost by those who stepped forward to preserve it.
My life since then has taken me through many of the life experiences we all face. I’ve had successes, setbacks, and seasons that tested every part of who I am. I don’t pretend to be perfect. Life has taught me that character isn’t built by avoiding challenges — it’s built by how we respond when they come. You learn, you grow, and you carry those lessons forward.
This March marks ten years since I moved here, and this place has become home in every sense of the word. The landscape, the people, the small acts of kindness, the way neighbors show up for one another — it all feels real and familiar. It reminds me of how I was raised and the kind of community I’ve always wanted to be part of.
I may have grown up in San Jose, but I was raised in the outdoors. From the time I was young, being outside wasn’t just recreation — it was where I learned responsibility, discipline, and self-reliance. Hunting, fishing, backpacking, riding horses, and spending long days in the mountains weren’t just hobbies; they were how I understood work, limits, and respect for what you’ve been given.
Some of my clearest memories stretch from deep-sea fishing out of Monterey to chasing upland birds above Sacramento, climbing the backside of Mount Whitney at fourteen, and finding remote waters where the lakes were clear as glass and the trout reminded you that the land existed long before we did. Those experiences taught me patience, humility, and how small you are when you stop trying to control everything.
The men in my family shaped how I view land and responsibility. They rode fence line in Texas, picked cotton around Bakersfield, worked as mechanics, train engineers, and postmasters. Their stories weren’t about status — they were about showing up, taking care of what was in front of you, and leaving things better than you found them.
By the time I was thirteen, I wanted to be around ranch life and horses. I earned a spot in the summer riding program at Alum Rock Stables by showing up every day — riding my dad’s 21-speed five miles each way, bucking hay, cleaning stalls, caring for tack, and eventually guiding trail rides. No shortcuts. No entitlement. You earned trust by doing the work. Those years taught me discipline, humility, and accountability in ways no classroom ever could.
The outdoors reinforced a balance I still live by: take only what you need, respect what you harvest, and protect what sustains you. Stewardship isn’t political to me — it’s practical. It’s about understanding consequences, limits, and responsibility. You don’t get to ignore the impact of your actions when you live close to the land.
That grounding stayed with me through every chapter of my life. It shaped how I serve, how I make decisions, and how I think about responsibility — not in theory, but in reality.
This place isn’t scenery to me. It reflects values I learned long before I ever considered public office. And those values — responsibility, restraint, and respect — are ones I carry with me into everything I do.
From the time I was eight years old — probably after watching my first episode of Cops — all I wanted to be was a police officer. It wasn’t about the arrest. It was about standing between someone and the threat in front of them. I believed in helping people, standing up for what’s right, and being someone a community could rely on. To me, leadership meant setting an example and creating chances for people to change their lives for the better. That sense of service guided almost every choice I made growing up.
After high school, I knew college wasn’t the right path at the time, but the desire to serve never went away. That’s what led me to the Marine Corps, where I learned what Honor, Courage, and Commitment truly mean. The Corps taught me discipline, accountability, and what it feels like to carry responsibility for others — service before self. Those lessons shaped my understanding of integrity and public duty long before I ever entered the criminal justice system.
Serving others has never been just a job to me — it’s been the thread running through every role I’ve taken on. Whether in uniform, in my community, or in my work as a criminal defense investigator, I’ve tried to step forward when it matters and do the work that makes a real difference, even when it comes with personal risk or consequences. I was taught to act for the right reasons — not because something is popular and not because it’s what the powerful would prefer.
Some of those lessons came from home. My parents served faithfully in our church and our community, and I grew up helping wherever I could. In high school, I entered a police and fire academy program where we volunteered, removed graffiti, and earned ride-alongs with San Jose PD. I worked hard and was recognized as the hardest worker in the program. But that experience also opened my eyes. The officer who mentored us was later convicted of sex crimes against children. It was the first time I saw clearly that the same flaws and crimes found in society also exist inside the agencies meant to protect us — a lesson that taught me early to trust, but verify.
Over the years, service has taken many forms. I’ve volunteered with veterans’ organizations, served as Commandant of the Marine Corps League, delivered firewood to families through the Wood Angels, transported people from jail to rehab so they had a real chance at a second start, and sat with families during their darkest hours so they didn’t have to face those moments alone.
I believe one of the most meaningful reasons we exist is to serve one another — and that each of us has unique gifts to offer. No form of service is greater than another. What matters is that we show up when people need us, and that we love others more than ourselves.
I entered law enforcement for the same reasons most good officers do — to help people, to protect them, and to make a difference in the communities we serve. I believed deeply in fairness, justice, and in the idea that officers should be examples for our youth. I took that responsibility seriously and tried to let my conscience, not convenience, guide my decisions.
During my time in the academy and the departments I served, I earned multiple commendations — including the Top Practical Award, recognition for handling a hate crime that made national news, and a personal letter of recommendation after investigating a burglary and recovering every piece of the victim’s property. I was also recognized for my role in the response to the on-duty death of Officer Larry Lasater, a fellow Marine who began his law enforcement career around the same time I did. Those moments mattered to me because they showed that treating people fairly and doing the job with integrity truly makes a difference.
But early in my career, I also saw the parts of policing most people never see. As a school resource officer, I uncovered serious issues — drugs, alcohol, and racially motivated behavior — that needed to be addressed. I handled each case professionally and fairly. But when the investigation reached students with deep local connections, I was told to step back. Had those kids come from different families, the response would have been very different. I couldn’t accept that.
Later, at another department, I was asked to open an investigation into a private citizen as a political favor. Again, I refused — because it wasn’t lawful and it wasn’t ethical. When I raised concerns about profiling and policing practices that didn’t reflect true community-based policing, I wasn’t met with honest conversation. Instead, I was quietly pushed aside.
Eventually, my commitment to doing the right thing over doing the convenient thing led to retaliation. I was walked off the job on the anniversary of my hire date. I spent the next year in litigation, and in the end was offered full back pay and benefits in exchange for resigning. I accepted so I could move forward with my life and stay focused on my values — not on the internal politics happening inside a department.
Leaving law enforcement wasn’t a failure. It was the moment I realized something important:
I care more about earning the trust of the community than fitting into a system unwilling to uphold the values I signed up to protect.
I still have a deep respect for the profession. There are incredible men and women serving with integrity every day, and they deserve support, training, and strong leadership. But my experience showed me that true public safety depends on honesty, accountability, and the courage to do what’s right — even when it’s unpopular. Those beliefs have shaped every chapter of my life since.
After leaving law enforcement, I took a very different path. I attended Le Cordon Bleu in Sacramento and earned a diploma in Culinary Arts. I later owned a ranch where I raised, bred, and processed livestock — goats, Berkshire pigs, poultry, and more — and became involved in the farm-to-table movement. Those years grounded me even further in the belief that service takes many forms, and that responsibility, humility, and hard work matter in every chapter of life.
My life and career took a sharp turn a few years after leaving law enforcement. An old Marine Corps injury — not combat related — finally caught up with me when a piece of bone broke off inside my hip. That single moment led to nearly five years of surgeries, setbacks, and recovery, including two total hip replacements. I went from being active and capable to struggling just to walk.
For almost a year, the VA left me in that condition, prescribing morphine and oxycodone while I waited for meaningful care. Eventually, an orthopedic surgeon saw what was happening and scheduled emergency surgery within two weeks. But the damage had already been done. Those years took more than my physical ability — they stripped away my independence, my work, and the life I had built.
Eventually, the physical limitations from my surgeries made it impossible to keep my ranch operating, and that chapter of my life came to an end. The complications ultimately led the VA to rate me 100% Permanent and Total for my service-connected conditions. But that wasn’t an ending. It was a reset.
What followed wasn’t a plan — it was survival, followed by rebuilding.
With almost nothing left and my life turned upside down, I came to Amador County. I found a home I could actually afford, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a real chance to rebuild. I first came to the Wood Angels as someone who needed help — and later became someone who could give it. Delivering firewood to families in need helped me regain strength, purpose, and a sense of who I was before everything broke apart.
After moving to Pioneer, I became involved in Amador County’s veterans’ community. What started as a way to stay connected turned into something much bigger. I was eventually asked to serve as Commandant of the local Marine Corps League detachment — a role I never expected, but accepted with pride. Together, Marines, veterans, and volunteers more than doubled our membership and organized the largest Marine Corps Birthday Ball the county had ever seen. That success wasn’t about me. It happened because people trusted one another and worked as a team.
As I regained my footing physically and mentally, I began looking for a way to serve that aligned with both my experience and my conscience.
Around that same time, a respected Marine in our community introduced me to a retired police chief, fellow veteran, and POST leader whose work helped write the very learning domains I studied in the academy. He encouraged me to earn my private investigator license and told me he would help me get started if I did the work. He kept his word.
My first clients were inmates facing charges out of Mule Creek. Serving an easily judged population didn’t bother me. I approached the work with the same principles I had always believed in — Lady Justice, due process, and the idea that the Constitution applies to everyone, not just the popular or the powerful. One case at a time, the work grew into what I do today.
That work brought my life full circle: from enforcing the law to defending constitutional rights; from surviving hardship to serving my community again in a way I never expected but now can’t imagine living without. Only after rebuilding did I fully understand how deeply my beliefs about justice and service were shaped — not just by my own experiences, but by the legacy of service in my family.
My great-grandfather fought in the trenches of World War I and suffered the effects of mustard gas until his death. My grandfather served in World War II and Korea and kept personal photos documenting the devastation that followed the atomic bomb. As a young Marine, I watched the names of our fallen scroll across the news from Iraq and Afghanistan, and I’ve seen friends come home from war only to lose their battles afterward.
That legacy — and those losses — guide how I see people who are facing the criminal justice system. I don’t see someone to discard. I see someone who still deserves the chance to change. If even one life can turn around, then the sacrifices made to secure our freedom were not made in vain.
Going through years of pain, disability, and recovery taught me empathy I never expected to gain. I was prescribed daily morphine and oxycodone for years, and overcoming that dependency was its own battle — one many veterans and community members face quietly. It taught me compassion for people who struggle not because of bad choices, but because life hit them hard.
Today, most people are surprised to learn I have two artificial hips and lived through that chapter. I’ve worked hard not to let disability define me. The Marine Corps taught me a simple truth — improvise, adapt, overcome — and those words carried me through years of struggle and continue to guide how I serve others.
Starting over taught me humility, resilience, and perspective. It showed me how fragile stability can be, how essential community truly is, and why leadership must be rooted in lived experience rather than distance. Strong communities aren’t built by titles or policies alone — they’re built by people who lift each other up, one small act at a time.
I grew up in a home where faith, family, and service weren’t just talked about — they were lived. My dad was my Sunday school teacher, a deacon in our church, and the person our pastor called on to lead hymns or step in to preach when needed. Watching him showed me early that leadership starts with humility and that the most meaningful work in life rarely comes with recognition.
My upbringing was strict — the classic “Bible and the belt” home — but it also taught me about grace, mercy, and second chances. Over time, I learned that real change in a person rarely comes from punishment alone. It comes from compassion, accountability, and the belief that people can grow when someone is willing to stand with them.
My parents weren’t perfect, but they taught me right from wrong, how to take responsibility, and how to treat people fairly. Those lessons didn’t come from long speeches — they came from watching my dad work hard to support our family and my mom stay home to raise me, my brother, and my sister. As an adult, I have a deeper appreciation for how much sacrifice that took, and how many families today wish they had that same opportunity.
Those early years shaped who I’ve worked to become — someone who shows up, keeps his word, and does the right thing even when no one is watching. They taught me that strong communities aren’t held together by government programs, but by everyday people doing small acts of service: checking on a neighbor, helping stack firewood, shoveling snow from a driveway, or lending a hand when life knocks someone down.
My faith followed me into the Marines, through my years in law enforcement, through the hardest parts of my disability, and into the work I do today. And I’ve found that same spirit here in Amador County — honest people, strong families, and a community that shows up for each other without being asked. It reminds me of the way I grew up.
As a candidate for District Supervisor, my faith is my own. I don’t speak about it to win support or convince anyone of anything. I speak about it because it shapes how I view responsibility and how I make decisions. My faith doesn’t make me judge others — it reminds me that I’m not the judge at all. Every American has the right to their beliefs, or to no belief at all. The same Constitution that protects mine protects theirs, and I will always stand for that.
Family has been the center of my life since the beginning. Losing my dad to cancer changed me and reminded me how deep a father’s love can run. My mom still lives in the home I grew up in, and she remains an example of service before self. My siblings and I have taken different paths, but we stay close.
Here in Amador County, I’ve built a family of my own. My fiancée works for our local school district and brings peace, strength, and joy into my life. Her support for the work I do — and her belief in the values I stand for — means more to me than I can put into words.
My daughter serves in the U.S. Army as a Military Police officer stationed in Germany. I named her Justice because truth, fairness, and accountability were values I wanted her to grow up with. Watching her choose her own path of service has been one of the proudest parts of my life.
And like many families, ours continues to grow. My fiancée’s daughter and her boyfriend recently welcomed a baby girl, and becoming a grandfather has added a new layer of purpose — a reminder of the future we are responsible for and the example we set for the generations coming behind us.
Family means everything to me — not because we’re perfect, but because they shaped the man I’ve become. They’re the foundation beneath the values I carry into every part of my life. Those values — faith, family, and community — are what guide how I will serve here in Amador County.
School and I didn’t get along when I was young. I wasn’t the kid who wanted to sit still in a classroom — I wanted to work, learn by doing, and be outside. But even then, I had a clear idea of what I wanted from my life. When I was moving from middle school to high school, I petitioned the district to let me attend a police and fire academy program outside my home school. It was my first deliberate step toward becoming a police officer and one of the earliest signs that when something matters, you prepare for it.
I graduated high school early so I could start working full-time. I split my time between Alum Rock Stables and a materials yard, stacking and loading brick and learning to run equipment. Those jobs taught me discipline, responsibility, and how to show up as a young adult — lessons no classroom could have taught me.
Even though traditional schooling wasn’t my strength back then, I’ve always understood the importance of education, training, and preparation. Every major step I’ve taken has started with learning everything I could so I could do the job well and hold myself to a higher standard.
In the Marine Corps, that meant boot camp, the School of Infantry, Security Forces training, and the instruction required to be trusted with national security responsibilities. In law enforcement, it meant the police academy and continuous training specific to the job. When I started my ranch, I attended Le Cordon Bleu in Sacramento — not so I could run a restaurant, but to better understand how to raise animals responsibly and with the end product in mind.
Years later, when I became a criminal defense investigator and started Semper Fi PI, I earned my bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice from Saint Leo University to bring true expertise to my work. And today, as I prepare to serve this community in a new way, I’m enrolled in the Executive Master of Public Administration program at Syracuse University’s Maxwell School of Citizenship. That program has strengthened my understanding of policy analysis, public budgeting, managerial leadership, and the tools required to serve effectively as a District Supervisor.
I may not have followed a traditional path through school, but I’ve always believed that when something is worth doing, you prepare for it. You seek out the knowledge, training, and experience necessary to do it well. That’s the standard I’ve lived by my entire life — and it’s the same standard I will bring to serving Amador County.
Meet Nathan Moeller
A Life Shaped by Service