“You? No way. You’re the rock.”
That’s what they say. And that’s the danger.
Another Ontario Police Officer Dies by Suicide. Again.
Another brother gone—not in the line of duty, not by a suspect’s hand, but by something far more insidious: the invisible war that too many of us fight long after our shift ends.
There won’t be national headlines. No vigils. No media specials. Just a byline for a few days… then silence. A name removed from the roster and quietly erased from public view.
That silence? It’s familiar.
It lives in every locker room, behind every joke that’s just a bit too dark, under every “I’m fine” said through clenched teeth. It’s the silence that says:
“We don’t talk about that.”
“Doug, What Does your PTSD Actually Look?”
A few days ago, a close friend—someone who truly knows me—looked me in the eye and asked something that stopped me cold:
“How would I even know if you were struggling?”
He’d just finished reading both of my books. That same morning, he saw the post I shared—another officer gone by suicide. His question wasn’t judgmental. It came from a place of care and curiosity.
I had to look away. Not because I didn’t have an answer. Because I had too many.
The Stories We Can’t Tell
For years, he’s gently asked about the calls that stuck with me. The ones that left a mark. And every time, I’ve changed the subject. Not because I don’t trust him. Because I want to protect him from what I carry. I want to protect him from me. As police officers we all see things no one should. We’ve smelled the copper of blood mixed with diesel fuel. We’ve touched bodies still warm.
We have all knocked on too many doors at 3:00 a.m. and watched lives implode when I said the words:
“They’re not coming home.”
And each time, a piece of me stayed behind. Quietly. Invisibly. But permanently.
The Mask We Wear
From the outside, I looked like I had it all together. 6’1″, 245 pounds. Former varsity football player. Strength coach. Police sergeant. Built to take hits. But this job didn’t just bruise my body. It broke me and my spirit.
And I wore that mask so long, I sometimes forgot it was even there. People still laugh when I say I’m not okay.
“You? Come on. You’re the strong one.”
And that’s the problem. We’ve gotten too good at pretending. Until we forget who we really are.
What PTSD Looks Like Behind the Badge
It’s not always loud. It’s not always dramatic. It’s certainly not like TV or the movies. Sometimes, it’s quiet.
- Skipping a family celebration because a crowd makes your chest tighten.
- Sitting with your back to the wall in every restaurant—always facing the door.
- Having that second or fourth glass of wine to take the edge off even when you know it’s wrong.
- Snapping at someone you love… then sitting alone in the dark, ashamed.
- Lying awake at 3 a.m., thinking: “Would they be better off without me?”
- Wanting to lash out violently to the person who challenges, “well you signed up for this job, what did you expect?”
That’s PTSD. And it’s real. And I’m far from alone.
Trauma Isn’t a Moment—It’s a Career
Most people experience trauma as a single event. For most EMS and Military? It’s cumulative. It’s chronic. It’s relentless. We don’t just see tragedy—we live in it.
- Fatal crashes
- Suicides—notes still clenched in cold fingers
- Children gone far too soon
- The distinct smell of death you’ll never forget because it’s burned in your nostrils.
We absorb it all.
Because that’s the job.
Until one day, we don’t feel anything anymore. And that’s when the danger really starts.
The Culture That’s Quietly Killing Us
Policing when I started in 1989 taught me to be strong. To suck it up. To drown pain in sarcasm, alcohol, dark humor, or another shift.
Ask for help? That was weakness. And when do you finally crack and speak up?
You go from respected leader—to risk file.
From mentor—to liability.
From “one of us”—to “what do we do with him now?”
Yes, today we have mental health programs.
But too often, they’re check-the-box, impersonal, and reactive. Their involved processes add to the anxiety.
So, we isolate. We self harm. We implode our relationships.
And some of us? We don’t survive it.
Zoe: My Lifeline with Four Paws
After years of struggling in silence, I finally got help—intensive cognitive behavioural therapy, a carefully monitored medication plan, and most importantly, a strong circle of friends, family, and incredible wife Michelle (retired CSI police officer) who refused to let me go. But something else changed everything.
Her name Arizona “Zoe” is my service support dog—and my constant companion in recovery. She was born in Missouri in December 2022 and began training for PTSD support shortly after.
Zoe doesn’t just calm me—she anchors me.
- She senses anxiety before I speak it.
- She interrupts panic attacks with a gentle nudge.
- She leans in when the flashbacks come.
- And that devilish grin she has, sparkle in her eyes tongue stuck out, telling me it’s time to play.
- She creates space when crowds overwhelm me.
- And she never judges, never questions—just
Some days, Zoe is the only thing that gets me out of bed. Other days, she helps me return to it with peace. She’s not just part of my mental health strategy—she’s part of my life. A living, breathing reminder that I’m never truly alone.
From Surviving to Leading
Looking back, I’m proud of my scars. Not ashamed of them. I earned every one of them:
- By showing up—day after day, call after call.
- By leading with compassion even when I was shattered inside.
- By surviving what would have crushed most—and still choosing to live.
I still fight. I still stumble. But I no longer hide it. And when “the darkness” as I call it returns, I don’t run from it. I reach for the tools I’ve built.
I reach for Zoe. I reach out to others.
Because connection is the only way through.
To My Brothers and Sisters in Blue and all First Responders:
You are not broken. You are not weak. You are human. You don’t have to carry it alone.
Help doesn’t make you less of a police officer. It makes you more of a man. More of a woman. More of a leader.
What You Can Do—Right Now
If you care about someone behind the badge, here’s what you can do:
- Stop mistaking silence for strength.
- Ask the hard questions—and stay when the answers are uncomfortable.
- Support the healing: therapy, service dogs, peer support, time off.
- Keep showing up—especially when we start to pull away.
Because some of us won’t believe we’re worth it—until you prove we are.
We Deserve More Than Survival
We deserve to:
- Laugh again
- Love again
- Lead again
- Live again
So, stop asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
Start asking, “What happened to you?”
Because behind every badge is a warrior.
Wounded. Brave. Tired. But still showing up. Still standing. Still here.
And some days, that’s the bravest thing of all.
—
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