The Shit That Built Me… and Broke Me -Finale

How This Connects to the Job: Trauma, Survival, and the First Responder Life

Let’s cut the bullshit. Trauma doesn’t give a damn about your age, your zip code, or your parents’ intentions. It doesn’t care if your mom tried her best, or if your grandma was an angel. Trauma shows up anyway. It burrows into your bones and makes you walk around with a permanent knot in your chest. It makes your brain hyper-vigilant and your body tense. And if you’re like me, it makes you wonder for decades if you were ever actually human, or just some fucked-up experiment in survival.

A lot of first responders—firefighters, EMTs, police, dispatchers—we didn’t show up to the job as clean slates. We didn’t learn resilience just from climbing into an ambulance or sliding down a pole. We walked in carrying suitcases of shit we didn’t earn, and some of us have been lugging that baggage since we were five, six, seven years old.

I know I did. I spent years learning to hide who I was. Learning to shut down when the yelling, the drinking, the emotional abuse started. Learning to feel like I was nothing so I wouldn’t break under the weight of the anger around me. That’s survival mode. That’s being a kid in a house where the rules weren’t about love—they were about who could endure the next hit, the next insult, the next shitstorm.

And here’s the thing: the coping mechanisms I built as a kid? They followed me into the job. Isolation, shutting down, craving recognition but feeling like I could never earn it, constantly scanning for danger, being overly compliant to avoid another “you’re worthless” moment—all of it. That’s a perfect recipe for a first responder who shows up calm on the outside, but has a storm raging inside.

Childhood trauma shapes us. It fucks us up, but it also gives us something few others get: hyper-vigilance, empathy, and a brutal understanding of what suffering looks like. I know this now. I know that my history makes me good at this job in some ways—I see things others miss, I can sense when someone’s in pain before they speak. But it also means I carry a weight that doesn’t clock out at 7 a.m.

My ACE score? If I tally it honestly, it’s somewhere around an 8 out of 10. Emotional abuse, mental abuse, neglect, parental substance abuse, domestic instability, exposure to violence. Eight. Out of ten. That’s not a badge of honor—it’s a goddamn warning label. And it’s not something you magically shed when you move out, start a career, or put on a uniform.

Leaving the house at 22 didn’t magically make me whole. It didn’t erase the years of being told I was worthless, the constant tension, the hyper-awareness of every mood and every potential explosion. The trauma left its fingerprints everywhere: in my relationships, in my career, in how I see myself. And that’s the part most people don’t talk about. Leaving the house is just step one. The real work starts after, when you’re forced to confront all the damage and decide if you’re going to let it define you or just inform you.

And fuck, it’s hard. Some days, it feels impossible. Some days, the past still runs the show, whispering that I’m not enough, that I’m too much, that I’ll never be okay. But some days, I remind myself that I survived all that shit, and surviving all that means I’m built for this. I can show up. I can help. I can care. And I can keep trying to figure out who I am without letting that kid inside me stay buried forever.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been through your own hell—whether your trauma came from your childhood, the streets, the job, or all of it—you’re not alone. And you don’t have to keep letting it run the show. Acknowledging it, naming it, getting help, finding support, talking to someone who gets it—these things matter. They are survival tools just like the ones we learned as kids, only healthier.

Resources if shit is too heavy or you need someone to listen:

• 988 – Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (US) – Call or text if you feel like you’re about to snap or can’t handle it.

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

• Peer support programs for first responders – Many EMS, fire, and police departments offer trained peer responders. Seek them out.

• Trauma-informed therapy: Seriously. Find someone who understands ACEs, complex PTSD, and the first responder lifestyle.

You can’t outrun your past. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen. But you can stop letting it control you. You can survive. You can heal. You can take that rage, that pain, that hyper-awareness, and turn it into something that keeps you alive and keeps you helping others.

This isn’t a fairy tale. It isn’t a feel-good pep talk. This is the unfiltered, raw, in-your-face truth of what it’s like to carry trauma into a career that demands you show up, every damn day, for people who can’t fix themselves. And yeah… I’m still carrying it. I’m still working through it. But I’m still here. And so are you.