Big Hearts, Heavy Burdens A Message to Those Who Serve

In the military and in law enforcement, we carry more than gear, radios, or rank, we carry the weight of what we’ve seen, what we’ve lost, and who we’ve tried to save. The statistic “22 a day” is often mentioned when talking about veteran suicides, but those of us who’ve lived it know it’s not just a number. It represents sons and daughters, moms and dads, husbands and wives, people who once stood tall in uniform and now struggle silently in the shadows.

For those of us in law enforcement, those tragedies hit twice. Once, because it’s a fellow service member who gave so much for this country. And again, because too often, we’re the ones dispatched to those calls, the ones who see the aftermath, make the notifications, and carry that memory home with us. It leaves a mark that doesn’t fade easily.

 I’ve spent many years serving my country and my community, in the U.S. Army and Law Enforcement. In the military, I served as an engineer, running a battalion-level operations center for several years. The job came with pressure, responsibility, and the need for mental resiliency that few people truly understand. Every decision carried weight and every mission carried a story.  Overcoming traumatic experiences in that environment isn’t easy. The military teaches us how to complete the mission, but not always how to recover afterward. You’re trained to be tough, to keep moving, to put the mission before yourself. But when the uniform comes off, the noise stops, and the silence moves in, that’s when the real battles can begin. When I transitioned back into civilian life and back into law enforcement, I quickly learned that the weight we carry doesn’t just disappear. It shifts. It takes on a new shape and it finds new ways to test you.

 Law enforcement officers and first responders are issued what is often call a “tacklebox.” That tacklebox represents all the training, tools, and tactics we receive to handle every situation, from traffic stops to violent crimes to mental health crises. But alongside that tacklebox, every one of us is also issued something else, an empty five-gallon bucket. Each time we experience trauma, see tragedy, or carry someone else’s pain, a little bit of that water fills the bucket.

 We don’t notice it at first. It sloshes around quietly in the background while we keep working, helping, serving. But eventually, it gets heavier. The bucket starts to fill faster than we can pour it out. And if we never stop to empty it, to talk, to decompress, to heal, that bucket eventually overflows. That’s when officers and veterans begin to break down. It doesn’t always happen all at once. It’s a slow buildup a weight that grows until even the strongest among us start to feel it pressing down.  For some, that weight leads to depression, anger, or isolation. For others, it can lead to the darkest outcome believing the world would be better without them. But I want to say this clearly: you are never truly alone, and you are never beyond help.

As the Chief of Police for New Lexington, I’ve made mental health one of the priorities of our department. I believe in an open dialogue policy. That means my officers know they can come to me at any time, in any place whether it’s in the station, at a coffee shop, or sitting in a cruiser and we’ll talk. Not just about work, but about life. About what’s weighing on them. About what’s in their bucket. It’s not about hierarchy or rank. It’s about humanity.

I never want one of my officers to feel like they have to suffer in silence. The same goes for my fellow veterans. The more we talk, the lighter the load becomes. Sometimes, it’s not about solving a problem right away it’s about being heard, being understood, and knowing someone else is there in the fight with you.

A few months ago, doctors told me I had a slightly enlarged heart. At first, I worried about what that meant physically. But the more I learned, the more I realized that it’s not uncommon among veterans and first responders. And honestly it made me think. Maybe there’s something symbolic about it. We do have big hearts. We have to. It takes a big heart to raise your hand and say, “Send me.” It takes a big heart to walk into someone else’s tragedy and try to make it better. It takes a big heart to see the worst in people but still believe in the best of humanity.

But even a big heart can grow weary. Even a strong heart needs rest. That realization helped me understand something deeper about service that having a big heart isn’t just about how much we give; it’s about how willing we are to care for it when it’s hurting.

 Families carry their own kind of weight. The husbands, wives, parents, and children of those who serve often see the signs before anyone else does the sleepless nights, the distant stares, the irritability, or the silence. To those family members reading this: please know that your care and concern matter more than you may realize. Sometimes, your voice is the one that cuts through the noise and reminds your loved one that they are seen, valued, and needed. Ask the hard questions. Say the simple words “Are you okay?” or “Let’s talk.” You don’t have to have all the answers; you just have to be there.

 For those of us who wear the uniform, understanding that our families bear part of our burden. They are the unsung heroes standing behind us, supporting us through long nights and heavy days. We owe them our honesty and our effort to get help when we need it.

 Healing doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a process, one that requires patience, courage, and connection. For me, faith has always been a steady anchor in the storms of life. I’ve found that when I can’t carry the weight on my own, I can lean on something greater than myself on faith, on prayer, and on the belief that tomorrow can be better than today. That belief, combined with the support of family, friends, and professional help, has carried me through the darkest of times.

 If you’re struggling today whether you’re a veteran, a police officer, a firefighter, a dispatcher, or anyone carrying unseen pain please remember this: you are not alone. Help is not a weakness. It’s a weapon against the darkness.  Call #988. Reach out to a battle buddy, a chaplain, a fellow officer, or a friend. Whatever it takes, don’t stay silent.

To everyone reading this, whether you wear a uniform, once did, or love someone who does please remember that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to feel the weight. It’s okay to talk about it. What’s not okay is believing that you’re alone in it. We may have big hearts because we serve, but that also means we carry big burdens. The good news is that we don’t have to carry them alone.

So if today feels heavy, take that first step. Start the conversation. Empty a little bit of that bucket. Because your life matters. Your story matters. And this world is a better place with you still in it.

About the Author

Chief Douglas Gill serves as the Chief of Police for the Village of New Lexington, Ohio. He is a U.S. Army veteran who achieved the rank of Master Sergeant during his military service, including deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. As a Army engineer and battalion operations leader, Chief Gill understands the weight of responsibility and the mental resiliency required in service. He leads his department with an open dialogue policy, encouraging honest conversations about mental health among his officers. Chief Gill is also a strong advocate for veteran and first responder mental health awareness