The Weight of the Job: Why I Left Firefighting

The Call to Serve

I started firefighting in 2006, drawn to the call of service, the brotherhood, the chance to make a difference. The job held a deep sense of purpose—protecting people, saving lives, standing alongside those who would run toward danger when everyone else ran away. It was never just a career; it was a calling.

But from the very beginning, I made myself a promise:

"If this job ever requires me to question myself or my actions morally or ethically, I will walk away."

For years, I held onto that promise as a safeguard. The fire service was built on honor, courage, and sacrifice—or at least, that’s what I believed. But over time, cracks formed in the foundation of that belief.

Panic attacks began creeping in—slow at first, then suddenly suffocating. Just getting into my gear, stepping onto the truck, took everything in me. And I mean everything.

At first, I didn’t even recognize them as panic attacks. They weren’t just moments of fear or anxiety. They were full-body shutdowns—my heart racing, my chest tightening, my mind screaming at me to run. But I stayed. I stuffed it down. I told myself to keep going.

Until one day, I couldn’t anymore.

The Breaking Point

COVID changed everything.

The veil I had built around the job—the one that allowed me to see it as a noble pursuit, a calling above reproach—was ripped away. For the first time, I saw clearly: firefighting was, and had always been, a business. A business more concerned with budgets and equipment supply chains than the actual well-being of the people it was meant to serve.

And yet, despite that reality, despite the fact that the system itself prioritized numbers over people—the men and women I worked alongside showed up anyway. Every single day, they put on their gear, stepped onto those trucks, and ran toward danger with nothing but love, compassion, and determination to help their fellow citizens.

I need to be clear about that. The fire service, at its highest levels, may be a business. But the people? The firefighters who dedicate their lives to it? They are the heart of the job. They are the ones who hold the line. And they do so not for a paycheck, but because they believe in something greater than themselves.

They are why I stayed as long as I did.

But in the end, even that wasn’t enough to save me from the weight of it all.

Because it finally broke me—my spirit—and that’s when I truly felt the full weight of PTSD take over my system.

The Reality of PTSD and Moral Injury

PTSD is not just nightmares and flashbacks. It is a rewiring of the nervous system. It is feeling like you are constantly on edge, like danger is lurking in every shadow. It is the sound of a siren making your heart slam against your ribs. It is not being able to turn off the hypervigilance, the scanning, the preparation for the worst.

And moral injury? That is something even deeper.

It is not just what you have seen—it is what you have been asked to do, what you have been asked to ignore, what you have been forced to participate in. It is when your own sense of right and wrong is violated, and you are left questioning who you are.

First responders, veterans, healthcare workers—we are asked to do the impossible. We step into suffering, time and time again, until it becomes normal. And then, one day, we realize it has changed us.

We build armor around ourselves because we have to. But armor is heavy. And eventually, it becomes impossible to carry.

For me, that realization crept in over the years, becoming undeniable in the last six to ten months on the job. My brain didn’t work the same. My memory was slipping. I would walk into rooms and forget why. I became short-tempered. I projected my frustrations onto my family. I was ashamed.

I had spent so long pretending it didn’t affect me. I had buried it so well.

Until one day, I couldn’t anymore.

The Coping Mechanism of a Dark Sense of Humor

When you spend years wading through destruction, carnage, and death, you either find a way to cope or you break.

For some of us, humor becomes the shield—the pressure valve that keeps the weight from crushing us. It gets darker over time, evolving from mild sarcasm into something that would make the average person sick to their stomach. But it’s not because we’re cruel or heartless. It’s because if we ever stopped to truly grasp the magnitude of suffering we’ve witnessed, we wouldn’t be able to stand under it.

That humor isn’t a sign of detachment. It’s a sign of survival.

An Offering of Grace

To those who are still carrying the weight—please, hear me.

You do not have to suffer alone.

For too long, we’ve been told that asking for help is weakness. That vulnerability is failure. That we should just "suck it up" and move on. But I am here to tell you: that is a lie.

PTSD is not weakness. Moral injury is not failure.

You are not broken. You are a human who has witnessed unimaginable things. You have carried burdens no one was meant to carry.

And you deserve grace.

Grace to feel. Grace to struggle. Grace to heal.

If you are still in the job, if you are still carrying the weight—I see you. And I hope you can offer yourself even a fraction of the grace you so freely give to others.

If no one has told you this before: you are allowed to feel this. You are allowed to ask for help. You are allowed to take care of yourself.

I have always believed that suffering has meaning. That even in the worst moments, there is something to be gained. One of my favorite quotes from my teenage years was:

"To live is to suffer. To survive is to find meaning in the suffering."

And now? Now, I am shifting.

I am learning to see my suffering not as a curse, but as a gift. Because life isn’t fair. It isn’t just butterflies and rose petals. It is hard. It is messy. And we all lose everything and everyone eventually.

But if we embrace that—truly embrace it—then we can cherish every single moment.

And that is my mission now.

I will not let my past consume me. I will not drown in the weight of what I’ve seen.

Instead, I will use it.

I will take this pain, this depth, this suffering—and I will turn it into light.

Because I get to.

And that, to me, is everything.