There’s a moment after the sirens stop.
After the CPR ends.
After the screaming fades.
It’s the moment when the uniform comes off, the boots hit the floor, and the world expects you to be normal again.

But inside, the noise hasn’t stopped.

The sirens still wail.

Emergency Medical Services (EMS) is a career defined by chaos, by trauma, and by the sacred responsibility of holding life—and death—in your hands. It’s also a profession where silence becomes a survival skill.

We don’t talk about what we see. Not really.
We crack jokes in the bay.
We high-five after a rough call.
We say, “I’m good,” even when we’re not.

Because somewhere along the line, we learned to compartmentalize. To lock it all away. To bury the pain behind a wall of dark humor and shift changes. That’s how we function. That’s how we survive.

But that kind of silence? It festers.
It turns into nightmares.
It turns into drinking.
It turns into rage or numbness or that hollow stare that your spouse starts to worry about.

I have lived that silence. And I write about it.

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The Quiet After the Sirens isn’t just a memoir. It’s a reckoning.
It’s a raw, unfiltered account of what it’s like to live with the aftermath of emergency calls—when the blood washes off but the memory doesn’t. It’s about standing in the wreckage of what you once believed was strength and realizing that survival requires more than just grit.

It requires vulnerability.
It requires breaking the silence.

In the book, I share stories that I never thought I’d tell—about loss, about PTSD, about what it means to be the one who runs toward the fire, only to discover that it’s burning you from the inside.
And I wrote it for you.
For the EMT who hasn’t slept in days.
For the paramedic who doesn’t know how to talk about that one call.
For the partner who’s tired of hearing “I’m fine.”

Mental health in EMS is still treated like a taboo. We’re trained to save others, not to save ourselves. But that has to change. Because no one gets through this work unscathed. And no one should have to suffer alone.

If you’re in EMS—or you love someone who is—I invite you to look at The Quiet After the Sirens when it arrives. It’s not a comfortable book. But it’s an honest one. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help someone else find the courage to speak their own truth.

Because the quiet after the sirens shouldn’t be the sound of suffering in silence.

Chapter 11 – Excerpt

The journey isn’t easy. There are days—weeks even—when the darkness feels insurmountable, when the weight of the past threatens to crush me. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the constant hypervigilance—these aren’t mere inconveniences; they are relentless battles fought within the confines of my own mind. But even in the darkest moments, a flicker of hope remains, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished. That ember, fueled by my creative pursuits and the unwavering support of others, grows into a flame, illuminating the path toward healing.

My writing, in particular, is a lifeline. It’s a way to externalize the internal chaos, to give form and voice to the swirling emotions that haunt me. Each word I write is a small victory, a step toward reclaiming my narrative and shaping my story on my own terms. The act of writing isn’t merely cathartic—it’s transformative. It allows me to dissect my experiences, to understand them, and ultimately, to accept them.

The decision to self-publish my memoir is a monumental leap of faith. It’s a terrifying act of vulnerability, exposing my deepest wounds to the world. Yet the response I receive is overwhelmingly positive. Readers reach out, sharing their own stories, their own struggles, their own ongoing journeys of healing. This unexpected connection forms a powerful community—a network of shared experience that amplifies the message of hope and resilience.

Although I continue to witness trauma, I remain an active EMT on an ambulance. Every shift I work reinforces just how crucial it is to keep telling these stories—raw, honest, and necessary.

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📘 Learn more and order the book here:
👉 Quiet After the Sirens

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