Blog Post Take One - the WHY
When people ask why I’m so passionate about peer support, this is the moment that always comes to mind: a picture of me on my last day at the department. Call sign 827—retired on 08/27.
I was smiling in that photo, but it was only surface deep. Like so many in this profession, I had become very good at wearing the mask.
Most of my career was spent on the midnight shift—quiet, unseen, while the rest of the world slept. It was a lifetime lived in the shadows, both literally and emotionally.
I come from a first responder family. My dad was a firefighter. So was my great-grandfather, grandfather, and uncles. Back then, there was no such thing as peer support. You dealt with the trauma however you could. And for many, that meant self-medicating.
I chose a different path. From 9-1-1 dispatcher to patrol officer, I was immersed in every layer of public safety. I trained dispatchers. I later taught at the police academy. I worked more overtime than I could count—there were stretches where I’d be awake 24 to 36 hours, doing a 12-hour shift and then heading straight to teach.
Being a woman in a male-dominated field added its own layers of pressure. I did love the job—truly. There are still moments I miss it. But I won’t sugarcoat it: the toll adds up. The things we see, the silence we carry, the parts of ourselves we have to tuck away just to keep moving.
There were dark times. Really dark times. I’ve had moments where I wondered if it would make any difference if I was gone. And worse—there were times I believed it wouldn’t.
Back then, reaching out for help didn’t feel like an option. Especially as a female officer, showing any kind of vulnerability could risk being labeled "unfit for duty." So you suffer in silence, thinking no one would understand. Thinking you’re alone.
But you're not.
I remember attending the funeral of a first responder. A dispatcher—someone I’d never met before—started talking to me. She’d been the one on the radio when the officer was killed. She carried an enormous weight of guilt, saying she wished she had done more. I knew that feeling. I’d sat in that chair. We talked. She cried. She hugged me and whispered, “Thank you.” No one had come to check on her. No one had talked to her about what she went through. That moment stuck with me. I never saw her again, but I never forgot her.
Now, on the other side of retirement, I see the toll more clearly. I see the signs I missed—my own and in others. I’m still learning, still healing. But now I get to do that work with Bishop by my side, helping others find their way through too.
That’s why Bishop’s Mission exists. For that one dispatcher. That one responder. That civilian team member who thinks no one sees them.
If we can be the team someone turns to when they're slipping into that dark place…
If we can help just one responder feel seen, understood, and supported…
Then every second poured into this mission is worth it.
You’re not alone. You never were. And now—we’re here to remind you of that.
