I Pressed On

Over the past couple of weeks, three police officers in Canada, from three different police organizations, have died by suicide. That number is much higher in the United States.

It’s common that very little information is shared publicly about their deaths.

I understand why.

For years, I have been cautious about writing about suicide. I have friends who are psychologists, and I have heard the warnings about suicide contagion, the concern that the way we talk publicly about a death can affect someone who is already vulnerable.

So, like many people, I largely chose not to talk about it at all.

But perhaps silence isn't the answer either.

Research and guidance around suicide prevention have evolved. Talking about suicide does not, by itself, cause someone to take their life. Asking someone directly if they are thinking about suicide does not plant the idea in their head. In fact, it can reduce anxiety and help someone feel understood.

What matters is how we talk about it.

We should not romanticize suicide. We should not sensationalize a death or portray suicide as an inevitable response to suffering. But there is growing evidence that stories about surviving a suicidal crisis, seeking help, finding hope and making it through difficult periods can actually have a protective effect.

So today, I am going to talk about it.

But this isn't really a post about the officers we have recently lost.

It isn't directed toward their families, friends or colleagues, nor toward anyone who has lost someone they love to suicide.

This is for the person who is still here.

The person who is struggling. The person for whom life is hard right now or has been hard for a long time.

I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, counsellor or social worker. I am simply someone who has spent a career around trauma. I have sat with people experiencing suicidal thoughts.

And in some of my darkest moments, I have had fleeting thoughts of my own that frightened me enough to push them quickly from my mind.

I have also watched families and friends post the "last photo" of someone they loved after that person died.

Sometimes, looking at the picture afterward, you convince yourself you can see it in their eyes. A sadness. A heaviness. Something just beneath the surface.

Other times, you see nothing at all.

They are smiling, laughing, standing beside the people who love them.

And I sometimes wonder whether, after someone is gone, the lens through which we see their life changes. Suddenly, the struggle seems obvious because now we know how the story ended.

But for the person living it, perhaps it wasn't obvious at all. Maybe it just hurt.

Policing and pain

Life contains pain and suffering for everyone. But policing exposes people to a particular kind of it.

Police officers routinely have a front-row seat to some of the worst moments of another person's life. Death. Violence. Abuse. Children being hurt. Families destroyed. People at their absolute worst.

Then there are the other wounds. Watching someone you believe caused terrible harm walk away. Being second-guessed years later for a decision you made in seconds during a chaotic incident.

Public criticism. Internal investigations. Court decisions. Career disappointments. Relationship breakdowns. And through much of it, police culture has historically rewarded one particular skill:

Push it down.

Keep going. Get back in the car. Take the next call. Don't let anyone know that something is getting to you. Because admitting that you are struggling can feel dangerous in a profession where being viewed as capable, dependable and resilient is part of your identity.

We even casually use the phrase career suicide when talking about admitting the wrong thing or making the wrong decision.

Think about that for a moment.

Pain deserves attention

There is a Buddhist teaching often paraphrased as:

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

I don't interpret that to mean we simply choose whether or not to suffer. I think it means that pain is part of being human, and that how we respond to pain matters. What I find interesting is how differently we treat physical and emotional pain.

If you break a bone, you fix it. If you have an infected tooth, you treat it. If you have pneumonia, you take medication. Nobody tells you to quietly endure it. Nobody expects you to simply be stronger.

But when the pain is inside our mind, grief, loneliness, despair, fear, trauma, we can somehow convince ourselves that this is a burden we are supposed to carry alone.

I know something about that.

There have been periods in my life when I could not find joy. I could be standing in a room full of people and feel completely alone. A professional once asked me a seemingly simple question:

"What would bring you joy?"

I cried.

Because I couldn't answer. And then I felt ashamed that I couldn't answer. From the outside, I had every reason to be grateful for my life. My life wasn't perfect and neither was my health, but compared with the suffering of many people in this world, I knew I was fortunate.

So why couldn't I feel it?

Then one day I decided to do something different. I went looking for joy.

I started paying attention

I treated finding joy the way I would treat recovering from a physical injury. Slowly. Deliberately. One small movement at a time.

I decided I would move slowly through an ordinary day and give joy every possible opportunity to find me.

I woke up.

My two dogs came running to greet me, tails wagging, absolutely convinced that seeing me was the greatest thing that had happened all morning.

Joy.

I went into the kitchen and cleaned it.

No joy.

The coffee maker beeped. I poured a cup and walked outside. The sun was up. I looked east, closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. Then I took the first sip of coffee.

Joy.

I sat quietly. Birds were chirping.

Joy.

I went back inside and opened the refrigerator to make breakfast. There was plenty of food.

Joy.

My phone chirped. A friend wanted to know if I could go for a walk sometime that week. Someone was thinking about me.

Joy.

I took my dogs for a walk. My legs worked. My body carried me. I had enough strength to walk for more than an hour.

Joy.

Do you see it? None of these things changed my life. None of them fixed the problems that were making me unhappy.

But they reminded me that my pain wasn't the only thing happening in my life.

That distinction became important. There were still good things happening around me. I had simply become unable to see them.

Joy doesn't have to be enormous

We sometimes reserve the word joy for life's biggest moments.

Christmas morning. Birthdays. Weddings. Promotions. Vacations. Celebrations.

But joy isn't reserved for extraordinary days. It is available on completely ordinary ones.

A dog wagging its tail. Warm coffee. Sunlight. A text message. A full refrigerator. A working body. Someone asking how you are. Someone laughing at your joke. Someone happy that you walked into the room.

You may be in pain right now. Life may be hard. Work may be hard. What you have seen may be hard. Talking about any of it may feel even harder. But give yourself some time. Move slowly through a day.

Pay attention. Give joy the opportunity to brush past you. You don't have to suddenly become happy, you don't have to fix your entire life today. You don't even have to know how everything gets better.

You just need to get to the next moment.

And then the one after that. Maybe today all you find is one tiny grain of joy. That's enough. Tomorrow, look for another.

Eventually, those moments can begin reminding you of something that pain sometimes makes very difficult to see:

Your life contains more than what is hurting right now.

I was still unhappy when I went searching for joy that day. That's important. Joy and happiness aren't the same thing.

I didn't magically fix my problems. I simply discovered that even while I was unhappy, I could still experience something good. And sometimes that tiny opening is enough to let a little light back in.

If you are struggling

If you need to rest, rest. If you need to cry, cry. If you are angry, be angry. If you need to laugh, find the person who always makes you laugh.

And if what you are carrying has become too heavy, tell someone.

You don't have to explain it perfectly. You don't need the right words. You don't have to understand why you feel the way you do before asking someone to sit beside you in it.

Especially if you wear a uniform.

You have probably spent years responding when complete strangers needed help. You have gone into homes, stood on highways, entered dangerous situations and sat beside people experiencing the worst day of their lives. You never expected them to have everything figured out before you arrived.

Give yourself the same grace.

Ask for help. Mostly, though, I want you to know this:

You are not alone.

Not in this profession.

Not in your thoughts.

Not in your pain.

Not in your struggle.

There are people walking around you every day carrying things you cannot see. And there are people who have stood exactly where you are standing now and eventually found their way forward.

Maybe you don't feel hopeful today. That's okay. Borrow some hope from someone else for a while. Let them believe for you until you can believe again yourself.

And tomorrow morning, move a little more slowly. Notice the dog. Taste the coffee. Feel the sun. Answer the text. Listen to the birds. Find one small thing.

Joy.

Then find another. Because even when you cannot see it yourself, your presence matters to people around you. And this world is better with you still in it.

There is a quote, the author unknown:

"If you rearrange the letters in Depression, you get: I Pressed On."

So press on. Not all at once.

Just for today.

You Don't Have to Carry It Alone

*************

If something in this article feels familiar, you do not have to wait until you are in crisis to reach out.

You don't need to be suicidal. You don't need a diagnosis. You don't need to have figured out exactly what is wrong. Sometimes the first step is simply talking to someone who understands.

Canada

9-8-8: Suicide Crisis Helpline Call or text 9-8-8, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, anywhere in Canada. You can reach out if you are thinking about suicide, struggling to cope, or worried about someone else.

www.woundedwarriors.ca Wounded Warriors Canada provides mental-health programs and support for trauma-exposed professionals and their families, including police officers, firefighters, paramedics, public-safety communicators, corrections officers, Canadian Armed Forces members and Veterans. Programs include operational-stress education, counselling, trauma treatment, couples and family support, and resiliency programs.

www.bootsontheground.ca Boots on the Ground Peer Support for First Responders-Confidential and anonymous peer support from people who understand first-responder work. The service supports serving and retired police officers, firefighters, paramedics, nurses, corrections personnel, dispatchers, military members and Veterans.

24/7 Peer Support Line: 1-833-677-BOOT (2668)

www.veterans.gc.ca Veterans Affairs Canada Assistance Service Free and confidential psychological support for Veterans, former RCMP members, their families and caregivers. You do not need to already be receiving Veterans Affairs Canada services to use the VAC Assistance Service.

24/7: 1-800-268-7708

United States

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline Call or text 988 for 24/7 crisis support anywhere in the United States.

www.copline.org COPLINE- A confidential hotline specifically for current and former law-enforcement officers and their families. Calls are answered by trained retired law-enforcement officers who understand the culture, trauma and pressures of policing.

24/7: 1-800-COPLINE (1-800-267-5463)

U.S. Veterans Crisis Line- For Veterans, service members and those who care about them. You do not need to be enrolled in VA benefits or health care to use the service.

Call 988 and press 1Text 838255

And asking for help doesn't erase your strength, your service or everything you have already survived.

Sometimes it simply means you've carried something alone for long enough.

Make the call. Send the text. Talk to someone.

And then tomorrow morning, look for that first small moment.

Joy.