My Story

I began my career in Fire and EMS straight out of high school, at a time when the service looked and felt very different.

I remember my first structure fire—firefighters operating inside, relying on experience, trust, and each other. Brotherhood wasn’t a slogan; it was lived. Crews worked well together, and senior members were patient, especially with new firefighters like me. When I made mistakes—and I made plenty—the response was teaching first. There was some well-earned razzing along the way (including one memorable encounter between a heavy rescue and the side of the station), but it was corrective, accepted, and rooted in belonging.

I was fortunate to work alongside exceptional paramedics—clinicians who were patient, kind, and deeply invested in mentoring. Many of the lessons they taught me still shape how I practice and teach today.

As my career progressed, I felt confident and grounded. I  understood my role and fit in well. When I was promoted to Rescue Lieutenant, the expectations were different, the responsibility heavier, and the margin for error smaller. I had developed a structured system for patient care that made sense to me: every call needed one clearly defined leader, followed by order—history, data, and deliberate decision-making. I preferred to interview the patient myself while the rest of the crew focused on vitals and skills, believing this ensured nothing was missed.

But it was new. Different. And not always well received.

When others defaulted to how they had always done things, I became frustrated. I struggled to understand why my lead wasn’t being followed. Over time, I developed a reputation for strong clinical recognition—EKGs, patient patterns, subtle findings—but also for being rigid, overly particular, or difficult when someone crossed into what I perceived as my role.

It was a counterbalance I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Only later did I step back and take a deeper look at myself—my personality, my wiring, and how I process the world. I came to understand that I am an introvert with ADHD-related tendencies. That realization wasn’t negative; it was clarifying.

With reflection came perspective. I recognized that while my system worked well for me, my leadership approach didn’t always account for how others processed information. What I once framed as a leadership problem was, in part, a self-awareness gap.

As an educator at the fire academy, I began seeing the same patterns in students—quiet, thoughtful individuals often mislabeled as disengaged or problematic. They weren’t lacking ability. They were misunderstood.

And that’s where the gap became clear.

There is little space in Fire and EMS education or leadership development that acknowledges neurodivergent personalities. The profession often promotes a single leadership style, assuming it fits everyone. I don’t believe it does.

That belief is why I created The Reflective Responder.

This platform exists to give voice, language, and structure to firefighters, paramedics, EMTs, and students who think deeply, process differently, and lead quietly. It’s about helping responders understand themselves, refine their approach, and turn reflection into a professional strength—not something to suppress.

Because competence doesn’t require being loud.
Leadership doesn’t require fitting a mold.
And depth has always had a place in this profession—even if we haven’t always named it.