Case file: James Carter, 38, firefighter. I thought I had it. He’d been quiet at our group session, but I’d chalked it up to the shift. "Just tired," I told myself. I’d seen the exhaustion before. My job was to be the steady one, the one who knew how to fix it. So I pushed him to "just keep going," to "channel it into the gym." I skipped the follow-up call I’d scheduled. Too busy, I told myself. He’s strong. He’ll be fine.
He didn’t. Three days later, he was gone. Suicide. The note said, "Too heavy." I’d been the one holding the heaviest part. I’d missed the tremor in his voice when he said, "I can’t do this anymore." I’d been too focused on being the solution to hear the question.
The aftermath? I stopped sleeping. I’d sit in my office, staring at the empty chair where he’d sat, replaying every word I’d not said. I called his widow. I couldn’t even say "I’m sorry." I’d failed him. I’d failed the job. I’d failed the trust he’d placed in me.
Here’s what works now: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not being the unshakable rock. It’s admitting you’re drowning before you sink. It’s asking, "What’s one thing you need today?" instead of assuming you know. It’s letting someone else hold the weight for a minute.
I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. But survival starts with admitting you can’t carry it alone. My failure taught me that. I don’t just ask my clients, "How are you?" anymore. I ask, "What’s one thing you need right now?" And I mean it. I say it to my own team. I say it to myself.
Because the bravest thing I’ve ever done? Asking for help. — Lois Brown, still serving