Breaking the “Suck It Up” Mentality: A First Responder’s Journey ThroughTrauma and Healing

I’ve been a Public Safety Telecommunicator for nearly 11 years—come November—and have

spent a total of 22 years in public safety. My journey began in 2003 as a volunteer firefighter,

where I was first exposed to tragedy, loss of life, and the destruction of homes. Some calls were

manageable; others left scars that time alone couldn’t heal.

One call, just before Thanksgiving, still weighs heavily on me. It involved a group of teens

celebrating homecoming. They took a curve too fast, rolled the vehicle, and struck a utility pole.

The impact snapped the pole, dropping live power lines onto the car. None of them were wearing

seatbelts. The front passenger’s leg was crushed between the windshield and dashboard, pinning

them on top of another passenger in the backseat.

When we arrived, everyone was still breathing. But due to the electrical hazard, we had to wait

for the power company. It took nearly an hour for them to arrive—and when they did, they shut

down the wrong circuit. That mistake cost precious time.

I stood there, helpless, watching the color fade from a young passenger’s face as their life slipped

away. Two helicopters were waiting to fly the patients to trauma centers, but we couldn’t act.

Once the power was finally confirmed off, we went to work immediately. We freed the front

passenger, but the other was already gone.

After that wreck, I had to report straight to my other job at Starbucks. I was emotionally

numb—angry, exhausted, and struggling to keep it together. My manager immediately noticed

something was off and quietly gave me space to work in the back room. I spent the next several

hours cleaning dishes, rearranging shelves, sweeping, and mopping—anything to stay busy and

avoid interacting with customers. Periodically, my manager would check on me and offer a few

kind words. That simple act of understanding meant more than they’ll ever know.

At our next fire department meeting, the chief debriefed the call. He told us that even if we’d

reached the passenger sooner, we wouldn’t have been able to save them—their neck had been

severed in the crash. That was hard to hear, but it also gave me some closure.

Still, the “what ifs” lingered. What if we’d gotten them out sooner? What if they could’ve made

it? Back then, mental health wasn’t a topic anyone talked about. We weren’t checked on, and no

one asked if we needed help. The unspoken rule was simple: You signed up for this. Suck it up.

That mindset carried into my military service. In 2004, fresh out of high school and newly

trained, I joined the Indiana Army National Guard’s 38th Military Police Company. My first

orders? Deployment—to Djibouti, Africa. After training with an infantry unit from Guam, we

arrived in-country in July.

My most traumatic experience happened a few months later in Dira Dawa, Ethiopia. Our mission

was to train local military forces in weapons handling and search procedures. One afternoon,

while visiting a local market, we realized we were being followed by a group of young men.

They stayed just out of view, but always close. When we decided to return to our vehicles, they

surrounded us. We had to push through the crowd to escape.

Since that day, I’ve struggled in large crowds. My paranoia spikes. My eyes are constantly

scanning, always on alert—looking for threats, looking for my firearm, even when I know I don’t

have one. That experience changed me in ways I didn’t understand until much later.

For decades, mental health in public safety and the military was taboo. Showing emotion was

considered a weakness. We used dark humor, denial, and long hours to bury the pain. It wasn’t

until the late 2000s that our profession began to acknowledge that trauma takes a toll.

Today, the conversation is changing. Agencies are starting to establish peer support programs,

bring in licensed counselors, and even integrate therapy animals into the workplace. It’s

progress—but we still have a long way to go.

One of the people who helped open my eyes to that change was my friend and former coworker,

Heather Blaney. When she first joined dispatch, I’ll admit I judged her unfairly. Covered in

tattoos and full of energy, she didn’t fit my mental image of a telecommunicator. But I couldn’t

have been more wrong. Heather’s compassion, drive, and dedication to improving mental health

in public safety are unmatched—and her emotional support animals, like Nugget the Skunk and

Peppe, have brought real comfort into our dispatch center.

There’s something incredibly healing about animals. They don’t judge, they don’t

question—they just know. When you’re having a rough day, they curl up beside you and offer the

kind of comfort that words can’t. Studies show that spending as little as ten minutes with an

animal can reduce stress levels, and I’ve seen it firsthand.

As public servants, we need to keep breaking away from the “suck it up” mentality. The truth is,

stress is killing us. Peer support, ESAs, therapy, and open conversation are not signs of

weakness—they’re tools for survival. Suicide among first responders is a real and growing crisis,

and it starts with recognizing that it’s okay to say, “I need help.”

If you’re struggling, reach out. You are not alone. There are others who have walked the same

path and are ready to listen. It’s time we stop suffering in silence.