For the retired officer who are finally paying the price.
Dear Officer,
Recently, a retired officer reached out to me. Not because he had it all figured out. Because he
didn’t.
He was struggling. He knew it. And after a career spent running toward everything everyone else
ran away from, he did something that probably didn’t come naturally — he asked for help.
That took more courage than most people will ever understand.
But I understood it. Because I spent 24 years at a police department. Not as a sworn officer — as
civilian staff. And before you decide that means I don’t get it, let me tell you what one of those cops
told me somewhere along the way. He said I was a hybrid. Not quite fully sworn, but no longer just
a civilian either. I earned my place in that culture, and I wore that proudly for the rest of my time
there.
Twenty-four years means I saw things. Not from the street — from the inside. I watched officers
give everything they had, shift after shift, year after year, absorbing the worst of what humanity has
to offer and showing up the next day to do it again. I watched some of them retire and just disappear.
Not literally. But the person who walked out the door on their last day wasn’t always the same one
who showed up the day they pinned on that badge.
Marriages fell apart. Drinking filled the silence. Isolation became the default. Men and women who
had spent decades being the ones everyone else called in a crisis had no idea how to make the call
themselves.
I saw it. I never forgot it. And I will always have a special place in my heart for every cop I worked
with.
So when that retired officer reached out, I wasn’t surprised. I was glad. Because reaching out was
the bravest thing he could have done.
Here’s what nobody tells you when you retire from law enforcement: the job doesn’t leave
when you do. You hand in your badge, your radio, your uniform — but you don’t hand in
what you saw. What you carried. What you absorbed over decades of showing up for the
worst moments of other people’s lives.
Most retired officers experience some degree of PTSD. Not some. Most. The range varies, but the
experience itself is practically universal. This is what the job does. Period. And nobody talked about
it enough while you were on the job, and there is damn near nothing waiting for you when you leave
it.
That needs to change. And it starts with you being willing to say out loud: “I’m not okay. And I need
some help getting there.”
First responder culture runs deep. You were trained to handle it, push through it, compartmentalize
it, and show up the next day ready to do it again. That approach kept you functional for twenty,
twenty-five, thirty years on the job. It made sense. It worked — until it didn’t. And now those same
walls that protected you on shift are keeping you isolated in retirement when you don’t have to be.
Decades of absorbing trauma leaves a mark. That’s not opinion. That’s biology. The stigma isn’t
worth your health. It isn’t worth your relationships. It isn’t worth one more night of not sleeping, not
talking, not letting anyone in.
You’ve carried heavier things. You can put this one down.
And when you do — even just a little — something opens up. That’s what the retired officer who
reached out to me discovered. In the middle of his own struggle, he started connecting with other
officers going through the same thing. Not as a counselor, not as an expert — just as someone who
got it. Someone who could sit across from another cop and say I know exactly what you mean and
mean it in a way that nobody outside that world ever could.
And something shifted.
Not because his own pain disappeared. It didn’t. But because showing up for someone else gave him
something to do with what he was carrying. It gave it purpose. Helping others doesn’t fix you — but
it moves you. And sometimes moving is exactly what healing needs.
You don’t have to have it all together to show up for someone who is struggling. You just have to be
one step further down the road. You just have to be willing to pick up the phone.
Find your people. The ones who get it without explanation. The ones you don’t have to perform
strength for. They’re out there — retired, struggling, and probably just as reluctant to reach out as
you were. Reach out anyway. Support groups and peer networks built specifically for first
responders exist, they’re growing, and the people in them showed up because they were strong
enough to stop pretending.
Get into therapy if you aren’t already. Find someone who specializes in first responders or trauma.
Get the sleep back. Get the relationship back. Get yourself back.
And if you feel the pull to help others who are where you’ve been — follow it. That instinct is not a
distraction from your healing. It might be exactly the point of it.
You spent a career taking care of everyone else. You answered every call. You showed up every
single time.
It’s your turn now.
Ask for help. Accept it when it comes. And when you’re ready — pass it on.
Still in your corner,
Bridget
Resources for Retired Officers:
CopLine — 1-800-267-5463 | copline.org 24/7 confidential hotline answered by retired law enforcement officers who get it.
The Wounded Blue — thewoundedblue.org Peer support, outreach and community for active and retired officers. You are never forgotten and never alone.
National 9-99 Police and Sheriff Foundation — 999foundation.org Psychological, emotional, physical and financial support for officers and their families.