“Medic engine 5311, medical emergency, you are responding to a 2-year-old possible drowning…”

It was 2006; I was a fresh firefighter with barely a year under my belt and a newly licensed paramedic. The fire engine speeds down a busy Californian town with the lights and sirens screaming out urgency matching my adrenalin level. It was 2 pm, and as soon as we arrived at the address, a woman ran towards me the moment I stepped off the engine, her arms outstretched, reaching for me, a little limp body lay across in her arms.

I do not have words to describe a mother holding her dying child nor her desperation to hand her child over to a stranger. But I felt them. I felt a fraction of her pain deeply, as with all the other tragedies I encountered in the years to come. I felt the destitute of someone without legal status working unimaginable hours in the fields, whose identity was so fragile that if they disappeared, only their families from another country would know to mourn for them. I felt the anger of countless people losing their loved ones through the carelessness of drunk drivers. I felt the hopelessness of the homeless who call 911 so they can go somewhere warm on a cold night. I felt so deeply of a range of emotions that I didn't know existed. I felt them smack in the middle of my heart. I felt them all.  

We rode back to the fire station that afternoon in silence and checked in with each other to make sure we were alright. "Yes," was the typical response, at least on my part, because I was new, a woman, and afraid of making a fuss. Not knowing how to process anything, the tone goes off, "Medic engine 5311, vehicle fire…" no time to think anyway, and off we go again.

To quote Charles Dickens perfectly, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." The ten years spent in the fire service before fate moved me 11,000 km away to another country was a conflicting period. I loved my job, but it was unknowingly making its mark on me. I was so confident, but I had no idea who I was. People surrounded me, but I didn't know how to share what I thought was a weakness.

At the time, for someone like me, I was among the few, if not the first, to pursue a firefighting career. As an Asian woman who immigrated to the USA at 12 with a small stature, my cultural upbringing and navigating through a male-dominated workforce made me an expert in masking, a term I had only recently learned. As the stress intensified through the years, I became increasingly reliant on alcohol to cope with it all. It was a socially acceptable form to deal with life in general and so common amongst my peers. Eventually, I convinced myself I didn't have a problem even though I drank excessively nearly every day I was off work. 

When I decided to move to Australia, I gave my resignation letter with tears in my eyes and took some time off to prepare for the move. Months off from work provided a fresh pair of eyes for me to see that something was wrong with me. I tried to see a psychologist, and he diagnosed me with PTSD. Of course, I denied it. 

Fast forward to a few years later, in a new country, with no career, and no community, the PTSD in its incipient stage is now fully developed. I was cranky, irritable, anxious, depressed, and angry. I hit rock bottom when I ran out of any feelings to feel, and all there was left to do was isolate myself to lie in bed for days at a time. Dark thoughts crossed my mind often. Luckily I didn't even have the energy to act on them. I wasn't equipped with enough desire or tools to fix myself. 

Through time, a supportive family, and a lack of better options for life, I slowly learned how to surrender and gave myself space to get through it one day at a time. I became open to learning more about my past without feeling attached to them at present, a lesson, no… a GIFT from the ocean. Each day I tried to learn more about myself while evaluating my relationships with everything and everyone, especially alcohol. When not incapacitated by my demons, I dive deep into the sea for refuge and my next lesson from her. Also, through time, the darkness slowly began to lighten. 

It is such a cliche that I was a firefighter putting out fires with water, just as the ocean now puts out this fire inside me. It has been a 7-year journey with PTSD, and I remember the exact moment last year when I woke up excited to share my life with others again. 

Without needing to feel shame or mask my authentic self, I have shared my journey sporadically with people. By sharing, many have felt safe sharing their struggles with me. I wrote this to formally say goodbye to that chapter of my life, finally feeling ready to move on. Knowing I was not alone in my sufferings, I also want to remind anyone going through a similar journey that "this too shall pass." Please hang on.