One day, I’ll get the call.
The one that changes me.
The one that buries itself deep
where no one else can see.
It’ll sound like every other tone—
a number, a street,
a reason to run.
But something in it will stay.

Because I know what’s waiting —
the wreckage of someone’s worst day,
blood that won’t stop,
eyes that beg,
lungs that won’t fill.

I’ve learned
how to stay calm
when the world is ending,
how to press my hands to a chest
like it’s just muscle and bone —
not someone’s son,
not someone’s mother.

You’re trained to move fast,
To do with purpose
To act without hesitation,
But there’s no class for the quiet moments—
The ones where you sit in the silence
After the sirens fade,
And the weight of a life
You couldn’t save
Settles into your chest

There’s no lesson in the long drives
Back to an empty house,
When your heart still beats
In the rhythm of the chaos you left behind.
No one talks about the emptiness
That fills the spaces
When the adrenaline fades away
And you’re left with only yourself
To make sense of the mess.

They don’t teach you how to breathe
through someone else’s panic,
how to hold space
for a mother’s screams
and still remember protocol.

They don’t prepare you
for how heavy the air gets
when no one says it yet,
but everyone knows—
It’s time to call it.

I know this.
I’ve always known this.
You don’t do this work
and pretend you walk away untouched.

But sometimes,
being there for someone’s worst moment
is the most human thing we can do.
And I’d rather be changed
than never have offered a steady hand
when the world fell apart.

Not because I’m fearless—
but because I care.

And caring is worth the weight.