Grab your coffee (or your third energy drink of the shift), and let’s talk about some hard-earned lessons that changed how I see myself, my patients, and this crazy job we do. I’m sharing this as a guy who’s been in the game for 20 years, with a little humor to keep things light, because let’s face it—we need that.

I’ve been a paramedic longer than some of you have been driving. I’ve seen the worst—car wrecks, overdoses, heart attacks in the middle of a family dinner gone wrong. I’m the guy who can crack a joke to calm a panicked patient, keep my cool when the scene’s a mess, and tape a broken soul together just long enough to get ‘em to the ER. But there are things I’ve carried—things I didn’t even know I was carrying—that were messing with me more than I realized. Stuff from way back that still shows up in how I react, how I feel, how I move through the world. And I’ve learned some things that helped me make sense of it all, things I think can help you too. So, let’s dive in—because if you’re in this line of work, you’re probably carrying some of the same weight.

Your Body’s Got a Memory That Doesn’t Quit

You ever have one of those moments on a call where your heart’s racing, your palms are sweaty, and it’s not just the adrenaline? Maybe it’s a kid crying in the back of the ambulance, or a spouse yelling in the waiting room, and suddenly you’re not just a paramedic—you’re a kid again, hearing your own house turn into a battlefield. Your brain’s yelling, “Snap out of it!” but your body’s stuck in a memory you didn’t ask to relive.

I used to think I was overreacting when that happened. But here’s the thing: our bodies remember everything. Long before we could even talk, our nervous systems were taking notes—learning from every touch, every tone, every moment of safety or chaos. If you grew up in a rough spot, like I did, your body might’ve wired itself for survival, not connection. So when I freeze up when someone’s too kind, or my chest tightens at a raised voice, it’s not me being weak. It’s my body saying, “This feels like that time things went bad, and I’m trying to keep you safe.”

We see this in our patients all the time. That guy who swings at you when you’re trying to start an IV? He’s not just a jerk—he’s scared, and his body’s reacting faster than his brain can think. The kid who won’t look you in the eye? She’s not rude—she’s learned that the world isn’t safe. Knowing this changes how we show up. It’s not about “fixing” their behavior—it’s about seeing the story behind it and giving them a little grace.

For me, this was a game-changer. I grew up in a loud house—yelling, chaos, the works. I thought I’d left it behind, but my body didn’t get the memo. Now, when I feel that old panic creeping in on a call, I don’t beat myself up. I take a deep breath and think, “Okay, I hear you. What’s this about?” It’s not failure—it’s my body telling its story, and I’m learning to listen.

Your Brain Builds Itself Step by Step (and Sometimes It Gets Stuck)

This one’s a little science-y, but bear with me—it’s worth it. Our brains grow in layers, like building a house. First, the foundation—that’s the survival part, keeping your heart beating, your lungs breathing, and your fight-or-flight on speed dial. Then comes the emotional part—feelings, attachment, movement. Finally, the top layer—that fancy thinking part that helps you plan, reflect, and not say something dumb in a team meeting. But if something shakes that foundation early on—like chaos or neglect—the whole house can feel wobbly. You can’t think your way out of a panic attack if your survival brain’s still screaming, “We’re not safe!”

This explains so much about our patients—and about us. Ever try to talk a freaked-out patient into calming down, only to get nowhere? That’s because their survival brain’s in the driver’s seat, and it doesn’t speak “logic.” It needs safety, rhythm, calm. Same goes for us. I used to think I could just “think” my way out of feeling on edge after a bad call. Turns out, I was wrong. My brain needed something simpler first—like deep breathing, a walk, or even banging out a few push-ups in the station.

I’ve learned that rhythm can help—like music, movement, or even just pacing. It sounds weird, but it works. After a rough shift, I’d blast some classic rock in the ambulance, or pace the bay until I felt human again. That wasn’t me being strange—it was my brain trying to find its balance. Now, I lean into it. I’ve got a playlist that’s basically my secret weapon, and I’m not above a little air guitar in the parking lot. (Don’t tell the boss.)

For our patients, this is huge. Next time you’re with someone who’s spiraling, try slowing your voice, keeping your movements steady, or even tapping a rhythm while you talk. It’s not magic—it’s just meeting their brain where it’s at. And for yourself? Find what calms you. Your brain’s been waiting for it.

We Heal Through Connection (No Solo Missions Here)

We’re built for connection—it’s in our wiring. From the moment we’re born, our brains learn from the people around us. A steady, calm presence teaches us the world’s safe. A chaotic one teaches us to stay on guard. When someone’s nervous system is calm, it helps ours calm down too—it’s like they’re an anchor we can hold onto.

I didn’t have a lot of “calm” growing up. My house was loud, unpredictable, and not the good kind of chaos. I learned to handle things on my own—classic lone wolf style. But I’ve come to see that healing doesn’t happen solo. It happens when someone sees you, really sees you, and doesn’t run away. For me, that was my old captain. After a bad call, he’d pull me aside and just listen. He didn’t try to fix me—he just gave me a safe place to land. That changed me more than I can say.

In our work, we get to be that safe place for others. The patient who’s sobbing in the stretcher? The family member who’s falling apart in the waiting room? We’re not just there to push meds or start lines. We’re there to be human. To say, “I see you, and I’m staying right here.” One steady moment can change everything for someone.

And we need that too. Find your people—your crew, your therapist, hell, even your dog (mine’s a better listener than most humans). We don’t heal alone—not me, not you, not our patients. We’re all in this together, whether we like it or not.

Behavior’s Just a Way of Speaking Without Words

You ever deal with a patient who’s “difficult”? The one who cusses you out, or shuts down, or does the exact opposite of what you need? Yeah, me too. Used to drive me up the wall. But here’s a different way to look at it: behavior’s just a language. Every outburst, every withdrawal, every “bad attitude” is trying to say something. I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t feel safe.

This hit me hard. Growing up, I was the quiet kid—too quiet. Teachers thought I was shy; really, I was terrified of being noticed. I’d learned that being invisible was safer. Fast-forward to my 20s, and I was the guy who’d shut down when things got heavy. My ex used to say I was “emotionally unavailable.” Turns out, I was just saying, “I’m not safe enough to let you in.”

Now, when a patient’s acting out, I don’t take it personal. I think, What’s this trying to tell me? Maybe they’ve been let down by the system. Maybe they’ve never felt safe. Instead of getting frustrated, I try to offer what they might need—calm, respect, a little space. It’s not about “controlling” them. It’s about listening to what they’re really saying.

Same goes for us. Next time you snap at a coworker or zone out during a family dinner, don’t just brush it off. Ask, What’s this about? It might be your body saying, “I’m overwhelmed,” or “I need a break.” Listen to it. You’re not a machine, even if the job makes you feel like one.

Your Body Can Lead the Way to Feeling Better

Here’s something that surprised me: you don’t always have to talk about your pain to heal it. Don’t get me wrong, talking helps (shoutout to my therapist, who’s earned every penny). But sometimes, words aren’t enough—or they’re too much. I’ve learned that the body can be a way to heal the mind. Things like walking, dancing, or even tapping out a rhythm can help your nervous system calm down and make you feel safe again.

I started noticing this in my own life. After a brutal shift, I’d go for a run—not to stay in shape, but because it was the only thing that stopped my brain from spinning. Or I’d crank up the radio and sing (badly) in my truck. Those weren’t just habits—they were my body’s way of finding peace. Now, I’m intentional about it. I’ve got a morning routine—coffee, stretching, and some Springsteen—that’s like hitting the reset button on my nervous system.

For our patients, this is a big deal. A lot of folks we see can’t process their pain through words—they’re too raw, too guarded, or just too tired. But we can still help. Keep your voice steady. Move slowly. Maybe even tap a rhythm on the stretcher rail while you’re talking. It’s not about “fixing” them—it’s about giving their body a chance to feel safe.

Understanding Your Past Changes Your Future

Here’s the last piece, and it’s a big one. There’s power in understanding where you’ve been—not just the good parts, but the messy ones too. When you look at your past and really see it, not to dwell on it, but to make sense of it, it helps your brain put the pieces together. It’s like giving your story a place to live, so it doesn’t keep sneaking up on you.

I avoided my past for years. Grew up with a dad who drank too much, a mom who was barely there, and a whole lot of “figure it out yourself.” I thought I’d moved on—good job, decent life, no complaints. But then I’d lose it over something small, or feel like I didn’t belong in my own life, and I’d wonder, Why am I like this? Turns out, I wasn’t “broken.” I just hadn’t given my past a chance to speak.

I started opening up—first to a buddy, then a therapist. It was tough, like pulling teeth with no lidocaine. But the more I understood my story—the fear, the loneliness, the survival—the lighter I felt. I started forgiving the kid I used to be, who did his best with what he had. And I started choosing my future, instead of letting my past choose it for me.

For our patients, this is why we listen. When someone’s telling you their story—even the hard parts—they’re not just venting. They’re healing. And for us? Find someone safe and start sharing. Your story deserves to be heard, not buried.

Why This Matters for Us

So, why am I laying all this out? Because we’re the ones on the front lines. We see pain every day—not just in our patients, but in ourselves. We carry their stories, and we carry our own. These lessons showed me that those stories don’t have to weigh us down. They can make us stronger, wiser, kinder—if we’re brave enough to face them.

As medical folks, we’re not just patching bodies. We’re holding space for souls. Every calm word, every steady hand, every moment we stay present—it matters. It’s not just medicine; it’s healing. And it starts with us. When we understand our own stories, we show up better—for our patients, our families, ourselves.

So, next time you’re on a call and you feel that old panic creeping in, or you’re beating yourself up for not being “tough enough,” pause. Take a breath. Think about what your body’s trying to tell you. You’re not failing—you’re human. And that’s the real strength of this work.

Here’s to us—the ones who keep showing up, scars and all. We’re not just surviving. We’re healing. And that’s the real magic of what we do.

Stay safe out there, and keep your playlist ready for the rough days.

•  Your friendly neighborhood paramedic, humbled and still learning