06/01/2026
Us firefighters were trained to run into a fire. As EMT/rescue operators, into car wrecks, and suicides, overdoses, stabbings, medical issues, and DV events. We are a pretty tough bunch, you would think. Not prone to asking for help, because we usually worked with a team.
Kinda like a military squad. Small, somewhat nimble, and effective. Except we dragged a heavy hose which limited our nimbleness. That team was your support - to a degree.
That whole asking for help thing? Well, if an officer called for a CISD meeting, it wasn’t quite “voluntary,” or an “ask.” If you know what I mean. It was “heavily suggested” you go. Especially if you were the one that demonstrated the need. And what a joke that was. Had someone not demonstrated that need? No CISD. You learned it was better to not demonstrate. Team or no team.
Unless of course, you simply break down. Completely. I could only carry “not demonstrating” for so long.
We all knew that going to professional mental health help meant I got to spend 15 minutes (not too unlike a doctor) with a stranger who likely had no idea what my life was like. That took seconds to figure out, right? Maybe I got medication, and a follow up appointment. How many weeks out? Well, Doc was going on vacation to the bucolic Midwest for a month, and then you had other commitments, and since it was only M-F for the Doc whereas as a volunteer firefighter, you worked M-F, that meant a loss of income or paid time off for another 15 minutes of wasted time. More like three months, if not more.
Meanwhile I slept light and lousy, I had stomach issues, s*x was the farthest thing from my mind, headaches if I tried working out, community theater to be involved with, training every Tuesday, and eating like any animal that eats garbage. Not like a healthy human.
The medication wasn’t for any of that, so I didn’t fill it. I felt these issues, They were in my body. In my guts and bones. The craziness of it all seemed more felt in my body, in my chest, than anywhere else. Talking about it? First, why would I want to revisit the worst s**t of humanity and my own life? I was already there. Second, this problem wasn’t one of misunderstanding.
I wasn’t talked into it. What made me think talking would get me out of it? Whatever it was. Especially with someone who had no idea what my life, my work, my experience was like.
Some of us just suck it up, and find relief in peer to peer counseling that changes little internally, or another beer, or another sport to be involved in. Others retire because they know the administration BS that others have encountered that sidelined them and the disability claim that didn’t see results for 8 years after the career was ruined. Better just to retire and have the district deny 10 years of your service to deal with your issue, which you now can identify.
Mostly. At least it ISN’T me going crazy. It’s actually a natural reaction to life’s s**t events. And it still sucked.
I had no idea what to do about it.
What I needed is what I became. I have my street creds, and the official creds from the education process. What I offer is the time, the expertise of healing what we have gone through that others have no clue about.
That loss of control we fight.
That emotional overwhelm that makes us feel crazy.
The issues in the body, and in the psyche.
As a somatic trauma therapist, I bring an experienced background that is relative, a thorough training that, like a firefighter, keeps up every year, a range of tools that are effective and proven by use, the cultural competency and session times that matter. Not that 15 minute nonsense.
The goal isn’t to manage symptoms. The goal is to have none.
If this sounds like something you want, I’m hosting a two hour workshop on Saturday morning, July 25, from 9 to 11 AM PST. DM me your email and I’ll put you on the list. It’ll be small. Just 11 of us.
