After my shift, I sat in my car and cried harder than I ever had on shift. That yellow band on his wrist—the one that said LiveSTRONG—wasn’t just a slogan anymore. It became a promise. A memory. A reminder of how fragile this whole thing really is, and how lucky we are to still be breathing. I wear mine for him now.

We talked like old friends. About fishing, marriage, family. It was the kind of call that doesn’t get logged in the highlights, but stays with you far longer than any trauma ever could. Writing this was my way of saying thank you—to him, and to the moments that pull us back to what really matters.

Writing this post was my way of naming the quiet dread and awe that those rooms carry. Because no matter how many times I go in, I always ask myself the same question: Will they walk out… or won’t they?

I wrote this one on the heels of a call that, frankly, lit a fire under me. Most days in EMS, you eat the dirt and move on—you let people talk down to you, question your judgment, and bury you in paperwork for doing the right thing.

I wrote this one after hearing the story from a buddy of mine—one of those medics who’s been around long enough to carry equal parts wisdom and wild tales. This wasn’t my call, but I wish it had been. It had everything: chaos, comedy, cuffs, and just enough unpredictability to remind you why every shift starts with "expect the unexpected."

This post is lighter, but still true to the job: the quiet heartbreaks, the bodily functions, the moments that make us human underneath the uniform. And the dog story? Yeah, that one still gets me.

It was a strip club on a summer Friday night, where the glitter was real and the professionalism... tested. I wrote this one because sometimes, amid the chaos and heartbreak, you just have to laugh. Because if you don’t, this job will eat you alive.

That damn strip of black electrical tape we all carry, tucked in our gear or lockers, waiting for the worst kind of news. It’s tradition, it’s honor, it’s grief rolled into something silent and symbolic. I remember putting that tape across my patch with hands that didn’t feel like mine

The man we found had just shot himself in the head—and then, by some horrific twist of neurology, managed to fire five more rounds into his own leg.