There’s a silence most people never hear.
It’s not the kind of silence that comes with a peaceful morning or a still night in the woods. No, the silence I’m talking about is the kind that comes after the sirens fade, after the adrenaline wears off, after the final call is cleared and the uniform is back on the hook. It’s the silence of the soul, raw and stripped bare. It’s the quiet after the call.
This silence doesn’t soothe. It haunts.
After years of running into burning buildings, of holding broken bodies, of looking into eyes that knew death was near, you start to carry the noise inside you. So when the outside world finally goes still, that’s when it gets loud inside your head.
The heart races even when the danger’s gone. The mind replays what you saw in slow, painful detail—over and over, like it’s trying to make sense of something that never will. The spirit? It feels scorched. Like something sacred burned away in the heat of too many tragedies.
People think you grow numb to it. That you build a wall and shut it all out. And maybe for a while, that’s true. You learn to laugh when it hurts. You learn to compartmentalize, to separate the trauma from the task. But walls crack. Jokes run out. And one night you find yourself sitting alone at 3AM, heart pounding, eyes wide open, the screams still echoing even though they stopped hours—or years—ago.
That’s the part they don’t show in the movies. That’s the part no amount of training prepares you for.
For me, crowded places are the hardest now. Something about being shoulder to shoulder with strangers, hearing children cry, feeling the noise of life around me—it’s too much. My nervous system has been conditioned to scan for threats, to predict outcomes, to anticipate the worst. Too many calls. Too many deaths. Too many moments when someone was fine one second, and gone the next.
It’s like I’ve seen too much life unravel, and now I can’t look away.
Even joy feels dangerous sometimes. Vulnerability makes my hands shake. And on the really bad days, I find myself searching for exits even in restaurants. Just in case.
This isn’t about weakness. It’s about weight.
The kind of weight you can’t put down. You just learn how to carry it better. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you find ways to let some of the light back in.
That’s what this memoir—The Quiet After the Sirens—is really about. It’s not just a story of trauma. It’s a story of endurance. Of learning to sit with the silence. Of trying to reclaim parts of myself that were swallowed by years of chaos, grief, and survival. It’s about facing the ghosts, not to fight them, but to finally make peace.
I’m still on that journey. Still figuring out how to breathe in a world that feels too loud, too fast, too fragile. But I’ve come far enough to know healing is possible—even if it’s not linear, or easy, or complete.
If you’ve ever felt hollow after the hardest days, if you’ve ever sat in the quiet and wondered if anyone else hears what you hear—you’re not alone. This book is for you, too.
Quick Note:
I know I’ve been a little behind on National Poetry Month. Life has been moving fast—beautifully, chaotically fast. Between prepping for my own commencement ceremony and visiting colleges with my daughter as she prepares to take her next big step this August, time has been tight.
But I promise—I’ll be sharing a few more poems in the coming days. Thank you for your patience, your support, and for walking this path with me.
Stay grounded. Keep breathing. And when the quiet comes, know that healing can begin there too.
— Richard White
Read my Short Story “Blaze” Here