Mom, I'm Trying, But I'm Tired

That is the most honest place I can start, because anything less would feel like I'm pretending. And I've spent most of my life being the steady one, the strong one, the one others look to when everything is falling apart. So when I say I'm tired, it's not defeat-it's truth.

You were my strength. The foundation of who I became. You raised me to be the kind of man who shows up. Not just someone who could handle hard work, but someone who understood responsibility. Someone who did what was right even when it was difficult. Someone who didn't back down when others needed him. Everything I am in that way started with you.

My mother passed away in 2014, yet I still find myself reaching for her in moments I don't fully understand. Not because I don't accept that she's gone, but because some voices never stop guiding you, even when they're no longer physically here. I still talk to her in my head when things get heavy. When life doesn't make sense. When my mind is louder than the world around me. When I need grounding that I can't seem to find anywhere else.

I've spent my life in law enforcement- a career built around responding to emergencies, stepping into chaos, and bringing order where there is none. I've been trained to think clearly under pressure, stay calm when others are not, and take control of situations most people will never have to witness. And I can do that part.

I can walk into someone else's worst moment and function. I can take a scene that is breaking apart and slow it down. I can talk to people in crisis (whether it's fear, anger, panic, grief, or a mental health emergency) and help guide them toward stability. I've done it on countless calls. I've seen what people look like when they feel like they are at the end of everything, and I've learned how to meet them there without judgment.

As a CIT-trained officer, I've been taught how to recognize mental health crises in real time. I understand the difference between behavior and distress. I understand that what looks like resistance is often fear. What looks like anger is often pain. What looks like chaos is often a mind trying to survive something it cannot explain. I've used that training more times than I can count, and I believe in it deeply.

But nothing in any training manual prepares you for what happens when the crisis is inside your own body. Because there is a difference between understanding mental health and living in a nervous system that won't stand down.

There is a term most people have heard but few truly understand: fight or flight. It sounds simple, almost clinical. But living inside it is anything but. It is your nervous system staying on high alert long after the danger has passed. Your body keeps preparing for a threat that isn't there. Your heart races before your mind has a chance to catch up. Every unexpected sound, every change in someone's voice, every unknown can feel like something your brain needs to assess. You become wired for survival instead of peace. Sleep doesn't always restore you. Silence doesn't always feel restful. Even when you're physically safe, your body hasn't gotten the message.

In law enforcement, every call eventually clears. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. There is structure. There is closure. There is a report. There is a return to service. But your nervous system doesn't always recognize that the emergency is over. There is no radio traffic telling your body to stand down. No supervisor marking the call complete. No switch that flips from survive back to safe. So the alertness stays. Day after day. Year after year. Eventually, living on edge doesn't feel abnormal anymore, it feels like your baseline.

In 2020, I lost a friend and fellow soldier to suicide. That loss changed something in me that I don't think I will ever fully put into words. It wasn't just grief. It was a collision of emotion, responsibility, confusion, and anger. It was the kind of loss that doesn't leave your mind quietly. It stays. It echoes. It reshapes how you see everything that comes after. That moment forced me to stop looking at mental health as something distant or abstract. It became real. It became urgent. It became personal.

And I made a decision that day that I still carry with me: I would not ignore mental health crises. If someone is in front of me and they are struggling, I will not walk past it. I will not assume someone else will handle it. I will not wait for it to get worse. I will engage. I will listen. And I will do what I can in that moment. Because I've seen what happens when no one does.

But over time, I've also learned something just as important. You cannot carry every crisis you encounter. And you were never meant to.

One of the hardest truths in this profession is that we're trained to function in emergencies but not always trained to process them. We're taught how to respond, how to control, how to stabilize, how to document, and how to move on. What we're not always taught is what to do with the accumulation of everything we've seen.

Because it adds up. The fatal crashes that never leave your memory. The suicides you respond to. The overdoses where you arrive too late. The domestic calls that carry emotional weight long after the scene is cleared. The mental health crises where you do everything right and still wonder if it was enough. None of those moments disappear just because the call ends. Eventually, something inside starts carrying all of them at once.

That is where I've found myself at times. Not broken. Not defeated. But tired in a way that's difficult to explain unless you've lived it. There are days I feel it physically. My body acts like something is about to happen, even when nothing is. My thoughts race ahead of the moment. I stay alert in places where there is no reason to be. Even in quiet, my mind keeps scanning instead of settling. It's like living with an engine that idles too high and never completely shuts off.

And I've learned you can still function like that. You can still go to work. You can still take calls. You can still show up for others. You can still be effective in your role. But internally, something is always running. And over time, that becomes exhausting in a way sleep simply cannot repair.

I think this is one of the most misunderstood realities for first responders and military members. From the outside, people see strength. They see capability. They see control under pressure. They see people who can handle what others cannot. What they don't always see is the cost of living in survival mode for years at a time.

We become so accustomed to operating in crisis that we forget what it feels like to fully step out of it. When survival becomes your baseline, peace can feel unfamiliar. Silence can feel uncomfortable. Rest can feel unsafe. Stillness can make you wonder what you've missed.

That is what makes a chronic survival response so dangerous. Fight or flight is designed to protect us in moments of real danger. But when it never fully switches off, something meant to save your life slowly begins to wear you down.

I am still working through this. Still learning how to slow my mind when it doesn't want to slow down. Still learning how to let my body understand that not every moment is an emergency. Still learning how to step out of survival mode instead of living inside it. I don't have it all figured out, and I'm not going to pretend that I do.

But I am still here.

Still showing up.

Still trying.

Even on the days when it feels heavy. Even on the days when I don't have it all together.

Because quitting is not something I'm willing to consider. I am not giving up.

I am going to make my mother proud of the child she raised. Everything she poured into me still lives in how I carry myself. In how I treat people. In how I respond when others are struggling. In how I refuse to look away from pain, even when it would be easier to do so. She taught me what it means to be steady. What it means to work. What it means to stand firm when life is hard.

And I am still trying to live up to that. Not perfectly. But faithfully.

Even in my tiredness. Especially in my tiredness.

So I will keep going. I will keep showing up. I will keep doing the work in front of me. And I will keep trying to become the kind of man she raised me to be.

Because I still want to make her proud. And I still believe I can.

Mom, I'm trying. And for today, that has to be enough.

By : Chief Doug Gill