Mind Over Mayday

Tag: vulnerability

  • Breaking the Stigma: My Journey Through Crisis to Wellness

    Breaking the Stigma: My Journey Through Crisis to Wellness

    The pager vibrates, the tones drop, the trauma alert is heard overhead, and the adrenaline rush kicks in. For first responders and healthcare workers, this cycle is the rhythm of life. We’re the ones who answer the call, who rush in when others run out. We’re the caregivers, the problem-solvers, the ones people count on during their worst days. But what happens when the caregivers need care themselves? What happens when the very people who are trained to be strong for others find themselves struggling? For far too long, the answer has been silence—silence driven by fear, stigma, and the unrelenting pressures of our professions.

    I know this silence intimately. For years, I lived it. I’ve been the one who brushed off my own struggles, convincing myself that asking for help would be a sign of weakness, or worse, proof that I didn’t belong in this line of work. There’s an unspoken rule in our world: “If you can’t handle the job, get out of the business.” It’s a mantra designed to weed out those who don’t belong, but it’s also a trap. It keeps too many of us—good, capable, compassionate people—from acknowledging our humanity. It kept me from acknowledging mine.

    The demands of this life don’t help. Twelve-hour night shifts, back-to-back calls, and an endless stream of people who need us—there’s rarely time to eat, let alone to seek out therapy or other forms of care. And when we do manage to carve out the time, the resources are often scarce. Mental health care tailored to the unique needs of first responders and healthcare workers is hard to come by. The general resources available are often ill-equipped to address the cumulative trauma and high-stakes pressures we face. It’s easier to push it all down, to tell ourselves, “I’ll deal with it later.” But later never comes—until it’s too late.

    That’s what happened to some of my colleagues. I’ll never forget the heartbreak of attending their funerals, standing shoulder to shoulder with others who wore the same uniforms, all of us asking the same agonizing question: Why didn’t they reach out? But I knew the answer. They didn’t reach out for the same reasons I hadn’t. The stigma. The fear of judgment. The crushing weight of shame.

    Those losses were a turning point for me. They forced me to confront the reality that even the strongest among us—the ones who seem to have it all together—can struggle to a devastating degree. I realized that if I wanted to continue doing the work I love—and to be the mother, friend, and colleague my loved ones deserved—I had to start taking care of myself. I had to stop seeing my mental health as an inconvenience or a weakness and start treating it as the foundation of everything else in my life.

    It wasn’t easy. In the beginning, I felt an almost unbearable sense of shame. Asking for help felt like admitting failure. But I’ve come to understand that it’s the opposite. Asking for help is one of the bravest things we can do. It’s an acknowledgment that we’re human, that we’re not invincible—and that’s okay. It’s okay because we matter. You matter. I matter. We’re irreplaceable in the lives of those who love us, and we’re irreplaceable in the work we do. But to keep showing up—for our families, for our patients, for our communities—we have to put on our own metaphoric oxygen masks first.

    Today, I’m no longer ashamed to say that I see a therapist, that I take psychiatric medications, that I’ve prioritized my mental health, or that I’ve set boundaries to protect my well-being. It’s not selfish. It’s survival. And it’s the only way I can continue to do this work without losing myself in the process.

    To my fellow first responders and healthcare workers: I see you. I know the weight you carry, the sacrifices you make, and the strength it takes to do what you do. But I also know that strength isn’t about pushing through no matter what. True strength is recognizing when you need support and having the courage to ask for it. It’s knowing that you can’t pour from an empty cup, and taking the steps to fill it—even when it feels impossibly hard.

    My Personal Story

    In 2023, nine months after giving birth to my daughter, I experienced a complete breakdown of my mental health. Despite the joy of welcoming her into the world, I was overcome by crippling anxiety. Scenes from my work in EMS bled into my personal life, filling my mind with horrifying images of my daughter in catastrophic situations—falling down a flight of stairs, being ejected from a vehicle, or succumbing to SIDS. These spiraling thoughts, compounded by sleepless nights, mood instability, and destructive behaviors in my relationships, pushed me into a downward spiral.

    Adding to the pressure of new motherhood—even as a mother of two—I felt I should be able to handle everything. I feared being judged as a bad mother, an incapable professional, and a burden to my family. I isolated myself, neglected my well-being, and lashed out at those I loved most. I stopped eating regularly, and the stress-induced starvation caused me to lose nearly 70 pounds in just nine months. I was physically and emotionally depleted, tempted to relapse, and teetering on the edge of complete collapse. Eventually, I reached my breaking point, culminating in a mental health crisis that led me to seek intensive treatment.

    I entered New Freedom Academy, a 30-day intensive treatment facility in Canterbury, New Hampshire, which turned out to be my lifeline. The campus was stunning—a serene environment with manicured grounds and beautifully maintained facilities that fostered healing. Clients stayed in comfortable dormitories and shared meals in a cafeteria catered by a private chef, featuring vegetables grown on-site. Daily activities included classes and therapy sessions in a bright and inviting hall, yoga and meditation led by outside instructors, and opportunities to explore the peaceful grounds. The program wasn’t a locked facility, which gave me a sense of autonomy, but it provided the structure I needed to begin my healing journey.

    Each day was carefully structured, with approximately five hours of group therapy modeled like classes. Topics ranged from substance abuse and codependency to self-love, CBT, DBT, and health and wellness. I met with a nurse practitioner to manage my medications, a licensed trauma therapist, and a case manager to coordinate care for my discharge. The staff, many of whom had personal experiences with recovery, created a space of genuine empathy and connection. It was transformational to know that I was not alone and to bond with others from diverse backgrounds—including veterans, professionals, and elderly individuals struggling with isolation.

    It wasn’t easy being separated from my daughter, but the staff reminded me that taking this time for myself was an act of love for her. Throughout my stay, my recovery community and family supported me from a distance, sending letters and gifts and arranging video calls with my daughter. What initially felt like a failure turned into one of the most empowering decisions of my life. I left the facility with a renewed sense of hope, better tools to cope with my mental health, and the realization that seeking help is an act of strength, not weakness.

    Returning home wasn’t the end of the journey but the beginning of an ongoing process. I worked with a psychiatrist to fine-tune my medications—a painstaking but worthwhile effort that required honesty and patience. I continued therapy, incorporating Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), a technique designed to help reprocess traumatic memories. In EMDR sessions, I was guided by a therapist to recall distressing events while focusing on a series of bilateral stimuli, such as moving my eyes back and forth or following hand taps. This process helped reduce the intensity of my trauma-related emotions and reframed my experiences in a less harmful way. It was difficult but profoundly effective.

    I also took steps to rebuild my physical health after months of weight loss and neglect. I focused on a well-balanced diet, reduced caffeine intake, began journaling, and started taking supplements to address high cortisol and oxidative stress levels in my body. I returned to running, meditation, and spending time in nature. I leaned on my recovery community, attending meetings and reconnecting with loved ones. And I started this blog as a way to process my experiences and inspire others to prioritize their mental health before it’s too late.

    Slowly but surely, I began to feel stronger. My journey is far from over, but I know I’m on the right path. I’ve learned that to give my best to the people who depend on me—my children, my patients, my colleagues—I must first give that care to myself. And if sharing my story can encourage even one person to seek the help they need, then every step of this journey has been worth it.

    The Mission

    The stigma won’t disappear overnight, but it starts with us. It starts with sharing our stories, breaking the silence, and reminding each other that it’s okay to not be okay. You don’t have to carry it all alone. There’s help out there, and there’s no shame in reaching for it. Finding and affording the right care can be hard, but it is possible if you deeply explore what is out there with the same fervent effort you dedicate to your career- because ultimately your performance at work, and the longevity of your career, depends on your wellness, and the ability to show up as the best version of yourself. 

    If you’re struggling, please know this: You are not alone. Your life matters. And the world is a better place with you in it.

  • The Challenge of Asking for Help: And the Consequence of Remaining Silent

    The Challenge of Asking for Help: And the Consequence of Remaining Silent

    First responders and healthcare workers are often seen as the people who run toward danger, chaos, and pain when others turn away. We are the caregivers, the fixers, the steady hands in a storm. But what happens when the caregivers need care themselves? What happens when the healers need healing?

    For a long time, I believed I had to be invincible. The unspoken rule in our world often feels like this: if you can’t handle the heat, get out of the firehouse, ambulance, or hospital. You don’t show weakness. You don’t admit to struggling. You push through. And if you can’t, there’s a pervasive sense that maybe you shouldn’t be in this field at all.

    These beliefs are not just whispers in our heads—they’re reinforced by the environments we work in. The long shifts, unpredictable hours, and the emotional weight of the job leave little time to process what we experience, let alone seek help. And when we do consider reaching out, we face limited resources, long waitlists, and a troubling lack of mental health services tailored to the specific needs of first responders. On top of it all is the fear of judgment: Will my coworkers see me as weak? Will my supervisors think I’m not cut out for this job?

    I’ve been there. I’ve carried the shame of needing help and told myself I didn’t have time to seek it. For years, I believed that asking for care would mean I wasn’t strong enough to keep doing the job I loved. It took the suicides of several colleagues—dear friends and mentors who I admired deeply—for my perspective to change.

    When Sawyer Coleman and Scott Latulippe died by suicide, it shook me to my core. I served with the Maine EMS Honor Guard at their funerals, and it was a challenge to remain stoic in my role when the gravity of their deaths moved us all to tears. These were people many looked up to, people who were thought of as unshakable. People who others relied on, whose families and close friends remember as being positive, humorous, and calm in the midst of even the most traumatic of calls. And yet, they were quietly battling mental health struggles that ultimately led them to making devastating and permanent decisions. Their deaths forced me to confront the reality that even the strongest among us can be brought to our knees by the weight of this work. It was a wake-up call—not just for me but for so many others in our field. It made me realize that ignoring our mental health doesn’t make us stronger; it makes us vulnerable in the most dangerous way possible.

    We need to ask ourselves some hard questions: What good am I to my patients, my coworkers, or my family if I’m running on empty? How can I continue to serve others if I refuse to care for myself? The answers are painfully clear. We are irreplaceable to the people who love us. Our children and families need us. Our colleagues rely on us. And to show up for them, we have to show up for ourselves first.

    That realization changed everything for me. I stopped seeing self-care as selfish or weak and started viewing my mental health as essential to my career. I began to prioritize my wellness in ways I never had before—therapy, support groups, time to decompress, and creating boundaries around my work and personal life. I also became vocal about these changes, hoping to break the stigma and encourage others to do the same.

    It hasn’t been easy. There are still moments of doubt and guilt. But I’ve learned that vulnerability is not a weakness; it’s a strength. Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re fighting to stay in the fight. It means you’re choosing to protect your ability to care for others by caring for yourself.

    The work we do as first responders and healthcare professionals is vital. But so is our well-being. If there’s one thing I want my colleagues to understand, it’s this: You are not replaceable. You matter—not just to your patients and your team but to the people who love you. Filling your cup first isn’t just an act of self-preservation—it’s a gift to everyone who depends on you.

    If you’re struggling, please know you’re not alone. There’s no shame in needing help. In fact, seeking it might just be the bravest thing you ever do. And if sharing my story can make even one person feel less alone or encourage them to take that first step, then every word I’ve written here has been worth it.

    Let’s continue to care for each other—and ourselves. Because this work, this life, this mission—it’s worth it. And so are you.

  • Recovery in the Trenches: Navigating Sobriety in the Medical Field

    Recovery in the Trenches: Navigating Sobriety in the Medical Field

    When I stepped into the world of emergency medicine, I carried more than just a trauma bag and a drive to help others. I also carried my history—a story of survival, sobriety, and relentless hope. As a person in recovery, working in the medical field has been both a profound challenge and an incredible opportunity for connection.

    The Challenges of Recovery in the Medical Field

    Working in emergency medicine means constantly being surrounded by chaos, trauma, and moments that would shake anyone’s resolve. For someone in recovery, the stakes can feel even higher. We see patients at their worst—overdoses, withdrawal, and the physical toll of addiction. It’s impossible not to see pieces of my past in their eyes, and that can stir up emotions I thought I’d buried long ago.

    The medical field also has its own culture, one that doesn’t always prioritize mental health or sobriety. Stress is often managed with substances like alcohol, and “blowing off steam” after a tough shift can quickly spiral into unhealthy habits. For me, navigating this environment while staying true to my sobriety has required strong boundaries and an unwavering commitment to my recovery.

    Then there’s the stigma. While I openly share my story in spaces where it can help others, I know not everyone in the medical field understands what it means to be in recovery. Sometimes, I’ve felt like I had to prove that my past doesn’t define my present. But instead of being a limitation, my history has become a source of strength.

    Turning Challenges Into Opportunities

    One of the unexpected gifts of being in recovery is the ability to connect with patients on a deeply human level. When I encounter someone battling addiction or struggling through withdrawal, I don’t just see their chart or their diagnosis. I see their humanity. I see their potential.

    For example, when treating a patient who’s overdosed or in the grips of substance use, I don’t shy away from the conversation. If the moment feels right, I might say, “I’ve been where you are. It doesn’t have to end here.” Those words can be a lifeline, not just because they’re comforting, but because they come from someone who has walked the same path. I’ve seen patients’ eyes light up—not with shame, but with hope.

    These moments of connection are some of the most fulfilling parts of my job. They remind me that recovery is not just about staying sober; it’s about being of service. Every interaction is an opportunity to plant a seed, to remind someone that they’re not alone, and that change is possible.

    Self-Care as a Lifeline

    Recovery in the medical field has taught me the non-negotiable importance of self-care. Long shifts, emotional cases, and physical exhaustion can be dangerous for anyone, but for someone in recovery, they can be a slippery slope. I’ve learned to prioritize my mental and physical health—whether that’s through my morning and evening routines, regular therapy, or connecting with my support network.

    I’ve also found it essential to stay grounded in my “why.” Why did I get sober? Why did I choose this career? Reflecting on these questions keeps me aligned with my values, even on the hardest days.

    Breaking the Stigma

    If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people in recovery bring unique strengths to the medical field. We know how to rebuild after hitting rock bottom, how to empathize without judgment, and how to find resilience in the face of hardship. Yet, stigma around addiction and recovery still exists, even in healthcare.

    By sharing my story, I hope to break down that stigma—not just for my patients, but for my colleagues. Recovery isn’t a weakness; it’s a testament to strength, perseverance, and the human capacity for change. The more openly we talk about it, the more we can create a culture where vulnerability is met with support instead of shame.

    A Life of Purpose

    Being a person in recovery working in the medical field is not without its struggles, but it’s also a life filled with purpose. Every shift, I have the chance to be a light in someone else’s darkness, to offer hope when it feels like all is lost. And in doing so, I keep my own recovery alive.

    For anyone else in recovery considering or working in healthcare, know this: Your past doesn’t disqualify you. It prepares you. The empathy, resilience, and strength you’ve built are exactly what the world needs. You are proof that healing is possible, both for yourself and for the patients you serve.

    Recovery is a journey, not a destination. And for me, this journey continues in the trenches—one patient, one connection, and one day at a time.

  • How to Use Trauma-Informed Dialogue to Support Someone Who’s Struggling

    How to Use Trauma-Informed Dialogue to Support Someone Who’s Struggling

    When someone you care about—whether a friend, family member, colleague, or fellow first responder—is struggling, your words and approach can make a huge difference. Trauma-informed dialogue focuses on creating a safe, nonjudgmental space where they feel heard, supported, and understood. Here’s how to implement this compassionate approach:

    1. Prioritize Safety and Trust

    • Start with empathy: Begin by acknowledging their struggle without judgment or assumptions. For example:

    “I’ve noticed you seem a bit off lately, and I wanted to check in. How are you doing?”

    • Be consistent and reliable: Show up when you say you will, listen without interruption, and maintain confidentiality to build trust.

    2. Use Nonjudgmental Language

    • Avoid blame or shaming statements like, “You’re overreacting” or “Why can’t you just let it go?”

    • Instead, try: “That sounds really difficult. I can understand why you’d feel that way.”

    • Remember, trauma responses aren’t about being “weak” but are the brain’s way of coping with overwhelming stress.

    3. Practice Active Listening

    • Give them space to speak: Sometimes, they need to process their thoughts out loud. Avoid jumping in with advice right away.

    • Reflect what you hear to show understanding:

    “It sounds like you’re feeling overwhelmed and unsure where to start. That makes a lot of sense.”

    4. Avoid Triggers

    • Trauma can make certain words, tones, or topics feel threatening. Pay attention to their body language and emotional cues.

    • If they seem agitated or withdrawn, adjust your approach. Use calm, reassuring tones and focus on the present moment.

    5. Focus on Empowerment, Not Fixing

    • Instead of saying, “You should…” or “Here’s what you need to do…”, try asking:

    “What do you think would help right now?”

    • Validate their strengths: “I know this is hard, but I’m amazed by how strong you’ve been through everything.”

    6. Know When to Step Back and Offer Resources

    • If their struggles are beyond what you can handle, gently suggest professional support:

    “I’m here for you, but I wonder if talking to someone like a counselor or therapist might help. I can help you find someone if you’d like.”

    • Offer resources without pressure, such as crisis lines, peer support groups, or wellness programs.

    7. Follow Up

    • Support isn’t a one-time conversation. Check in periodically:

    “I’ve been thinking about you. How have things been going?”

    • Even small, consistent actions—like sending a thoughtful text—show that you care.

    Why It Matters for First Responders

    First responders often face unique challenges, including cumulative stress and exposure to traumatic events. Trauma-informed dialogue acknowledges these pressures without minimizing them. It’s about saying, “I see you, I hear you, and I’m here for you,” in a way that respects their experience and humanity.

    By using trauma-informed dialogue, you’re not just helping someone feel supported—you’re creating a foundation for trust, healing, and resilience. Together, we can break down the stigma around seeking help and foster a culture of compassion and understanding.

    You’re never alone in this journey. Let’s make sure no one else feels they are, either.

    Still feeling lost? Here is a sample conversation that puts trauma informed dialogue into practice…

    Scenario: Two EMTs, Chris and Taylor, are chatting after a shift. Chris has noticed Taylor has been quieter than usual and seems stressed.

    Opening the Conversation

    Chris:

    “Hey Taylor, you’ve seemed a bit off the last few shifts. Everything okay?”

    Taylor:

    “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

    Chris:

    “I get that—this job takes it out of you. But I don’t know, it seems like more than just being tired. I’m here if you want to talk.”

    Acknowledging and Validating

    Taylor:

    “I don’t know, man. It’s just been a lot lately. That call last week with the kid… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

    Chris:

    “Yeah, that was a tough one. Those kinds of calls stick with you. It’s completely normal to feel like this.”

    Taylor:

    “I keep wondering if we missed something, you know? Like, what if there was something more we could have done?”

    Chris:

    “That’s a heavy weight to carry. I’ve felt like that before too—second-guessing everything. But from what I saw, you did everything you could. That kid had the best chance because of you.”

    Using Active Listening

    Taylor:

    “I know you’re probably right, but it just doesn’t feel that way. And then every time I try to sleep, it’s like I’m back on that call.”

    Chris:

    “That sounds rough. Not being able to shake it and having it mess with your sleep—it’s no wonder you’re feeling drained. It makes sense that this would be sticking with you.”

    Taylor:

    “Yeah. And I can’t really talk about it at home. It doesn’t feel right to bring that stuff home, to talk about something like that with my wife who doesn’t need that image in her head too.”

    Chris:

    “That’s tough, I know the feeling. But you can always talk to me. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

    Focusing on Empowerment

    Chris:

    “Have you thought about what might help you feel a little better? Sometimes talking to someone outside of work, like a counselor, can help sort through all of this.”

    Taylor:

    “I don’t know. I’ve never done that before. Feels kind of… weak, you know?”

    Chris:

    “Trust me, I’ve been there. I thought the same thing, but talking to someone helped me work through stuff I didn’t even know was weighing me down. It’s not about being weak—it’s about taking care of yourself so you can keep doing this job.”

    Offering Support

    Chris:

    “If you want, I can help you find someone to talk to. I know a few resources that specialize in first responders. No pressure, just an option.”

    Taylor:

    “Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it.”

    Chris:

    “That’s all I ask. In the meantime, let me know if you want to grab coffee or vent about anything. There’s also a support group I go to sometimes, once a month, if you’d ever want to go with me. No matter what, I’ve got your back.”

    Taylor:

    “Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it. It would be nice to grab coffee outside of work sometime, and let me know when that group is. I’ll give anything a try at this point.”

    This example highlights trauma-informed dialogue by creating a safe space, validating feelings, avoiding judgment, and empowering the struggling colleague to consider next steps. It’s a realistic approach to starting meaningful conversations about mental health in the workplace.

    If you’re unsure of how to start a conversation with someone who is struggling, reach out to mindovermayday@gmail.com and you will receive personalized advice compiled by myself and my own mentors. Note: we are not licensed therapists or counselors, just fellow first responders on a mission to help other first responders in crisis.

  • From Darkness to Purpose: How I Found My Calling Through Sobriety

    From Darkness to Purpose: How I Found My Calling Through Sobriety

    I still remember the sound of the bottle opening—the sharp hiss of pressure released. It was my signal to exhale, to let go of the stress, to numb the fears I couldn’t face. It began innocently enough, a glass of wine here, a drink there, just to take the edge off after a long day. I was juggling so much at the time: graduate school, single motherhood, and a leadership role at the University of Maine, managing nearly 60 senators representing every graduate program. The weight of it all was enormous, but I was proud of how well I seemed to handle it—at least on the surface.

    Then came 2020.

    The Covid pandemic didn’t just disrupt the world around me; it unraveled the fragile thread holding me together. As a leader during such an uncertain time, I felt a responsibility to remain calm and composed. But inside, I was breaking apart. To cope, I began drinking more—just enough to calm my nerves. It felt harmless at first, even justified. After all, wasn’t everyone finding their own ways to deal with the stress?

    What I didn’t realize was how quickly alcohol had taken hold of my life. What started as an occasional escape became my crutch. Then, seemingly overnight, it became my master. I couldn’t sleep without it. I couldn’t wake up without it. The shakes, the headaches, the constant anxiety—it all demanded I drink just to function. And yet, I was still showing up, still leading, still pretending everything was fine.

    But it wasn’t fine.

    My dependence on alcohol grew in the shadows, invisible to those around me. I was isolated in leadership, feeling like I had no one I could turn to for support. So I turned to the bottle instead. Alcohol became my confidant, my escape, and my prison.

    In just a few months, my life crumbled.

    The responsibilities I had once carried with pride became unbearable. My credibility eroded as the people around me began to see the cracks in the façade. I lost opportunities I had worked so hard to earn. I lost the respect of others, but worse, I lost respect for myself.

    At my lowest point, I found myself sleeping in my car. I had gone from a self-supporting single mom in graduate school and leadership to a homeless woman with nothing but a pile of shattered dreams. My rock bottom wasn’t just a moment; it was a freefall into despair.

    But here’s the thing about rock bottom—it’s also a foundation.

    My recovery started with small, painful steps. Admitting I needed help. Reaching out to people I thought I had alienated forever. Facing the shame and guilt I had drowned for so long. I had to rebuild my life piece by piece, brick by brick, with nothing but the will to survive and a faint hope that maybe—just maybe—I could do better.

    In sobriety, I began to discover not just who I was, but who I was meant to be. My life had been saved—many times, in many ways—by the hands of first responders and healthcare workers. Their compassion and courage became a beacon for me, lighting the way forward. I decided I wanted to give back to the very field that had saved me.

    I became an EMT, then a firefighter, and later found my place in healthcare, working in an emergency department. For the first time, I felt like I was part of something greater than myself. I had found my calling—a purpose that made my pain feel meaningful.

    This work doesn’t just encourage my sobriety; it demands it. I could not perform this job effectively if I weren’t committed to maintaining my recovery. The same tools I once ignored or dismissed—self-awareness, stress management, healthy coping strategies—are now essential to my success. Every shift is a reminder of how far I’ve come and why I must keep moving forward.

    I’ve replaced the bottle with better tools: mindfulness, connection, and a deep commitment to serving others. Instead of running from my emotions, I’ve learned to process them, to face the hard days head-on, and to find strength in vulnerability.

    The irony isn’t lost on me that the career I once feared would judge me for my past has become my greatest ally in staying sober. In helping others, I’ve also helped myself.

    Today, I am not just sober—I am alive, awake, and thriving. I am proud of the person I’ve become, but I never forget the woman I was. She’s the reason I fight so hard to stay on this path.

    If you’re reading this and struggling, I want you to know it’s never too late to rewrite your story. Recovery is possible. A life of purpose and joy is waiting for you on the other side.

    Because sometimes, the worst chapters of our lives are the ones that teach us how to write our best.

  • The Healing Power of Being Vulnerable

    The Healing Power of Being Vulnerable

    As first responders, we are often taught to be strong and unwavering in the face of chaos. We are trained to handle the worst moments in people’s lives, keeping our composure when the pressure is on. While this strength is vital in our line of work, it can sometimes lead us to neglect a powerful tool for healing: vulnerability.

    For many of us in high-stress professions like EMS, it’s easy to think that showing vulnerability is a sign of weakness. We may fear that revealing our struggles or sharing our emotions might jeopardize our professional reputation or the trust others place in us. But here’s the truth: vulnerability is not a weakness; it is a profound strength that allows for growth, connection, and healing.

    The Strength in Vulnerability

    Vulnerability doesn’t mean being weak or incapable—it’s about being open and honest with ourselves and others about our challenges. It means acknowledging that we are human and that we face emotional, physical, and mental struggles, even in a job that requires us to be “on” all the time.

    I’ve had my own experiences with vulnerability. In my journey, I’ve learned that the moments when I have been open about my own mental health struggles, my fears, and my insecurities are the moments when I’ve experienced the most growth. It’s when I allowed myself to be vulnerable—whether by talking to a trusted colleague, a mentor, or even writing down my thoughts on my blog—that healing began to take place.

    Unfortunately, not everyone in this field is encouraged to embrace vulnerability. I’ve witnessed many colleagues shrug off their experiences, adopting the mindset that showing any sign of weakness is unacceptable. Too often, people turn to substances like alcohol to numb their emotions instead of opening up to others. The pressure to “tough it out” can create a toxic environment where the mentality becomes, “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the field.”

    This environment not only inhibits personal growth but also perpetuates a cycle of isolation and self-destruction. When vulnerability is seen as a weakness, it becomes harder for people to reach out for help when they need it the most. I’ve seen this firsthand—the silent struggles that so many face because they fear being judged or misunderstood.

    Healing Through Connection

    One of the most powerful aspects of vulnerability is how it fosters connection. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, we invite others to do the same. This mutual openness can be transformative.

    Throughout my career, I’ve been fortunate to find trusted peers and mentors who are always there for me when I need them. These are the people who have shown me that there is strength in vulnerability, and that we don’t have to carry our burdens alone. I know that when I pick up the phone to call, they’ll be on the other end of the line, ready to listen and offer support.

    Surprisingly, many people are more open to talking through our struggles, and sharing their own experiences than we might think. The truth is, people would rather drive many miles, talk for hours, and offer their support than have to attend your funeral. This kind of connection is not only meaningful—it’s lifesaving.

    In my journey, I’ve learned that the power of a simple conversation cannot be underestimated. Sometimes, all it takes is someone else’s willingness to listen and share their own experiences to make us feel seen and understood. We heal when we come together, when we recognize that we are part of a larger family, and that our struggles are shared.

    Embracing Vulnerability to Build Resilience

    I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about pushing through in silence or pretending everything is fine when it’s not. True resilience is rooted in vulnerability—the ability to admit when we’re struggling and to seek the support we need. It’s about understanding that strength comes not from being invulnerable, but from facing our difficulties head-on and allowing ourselves to be supported by others.

    By embracing vulnerability, we can begin to unravel the layers of stress and trauma that come with our work. We can break free from the mindset that we have to handle everything alone and start recognizing that seeking help, sharing our emotions, and expressing our struggles makes us stronger, not weaker. When we embrace vulnerability, we not only improve our mental health but also deepen our connection with our colleagues and loved ones.

    Encouraging Others to Be Vulnerable

    If you’re reading this and finding it hard to imagine being open about your struggles, know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to take the first step toward vulnerability. You don’t have to do it all at once, but start with small moments of openness. Share your thoughts with a colleague you trust, talk to a therapist, or simply give yourself permission to feel without judgment.

    Remember, being vulnerable is not a sign of weakness. It’s an act of courage. By allowing ourselves to be seen, to share our emotions, and to seek support, we pave the way for healing and growth—not just for ourselves but for the entire first responder community.

    We are in this together. And together, we will heal.