Beyond the Call: The Unseen Impact of Suicide and Loss in First Responder Communities

By Suzz Sandalwood | The deep human cost of service, the unspoken challenges of healing, and the crucial importance of showing up for those left behind.

Written by Suzz Sandalwood | Seeking Veritas Columnist | Sankarsingh-Gonsalves Productions

Ryan Moonlight -Last Alarm January 23rd, 2015 (Image shared with permission from the family)

“Another first responder died by suicide last night”

I have lost count of how many times over the past few years I have received those messages from someone on our team or I have sent out those messages to our team. Each time, I branch off into two parts of my self; my professional self and my personal self.

My professional self immediately shifts into action, organizing how to support loved ones and colleagues left behind. It is a practical response and it is heavy work but an essential part of the job that requires emotional bandwidth and attention. Grief work requires a compassionate, empathetic, grounded approach to support those impacted. That’s true in any context, but grief work in first responder communities involves an additional set of skills that conventional approaches can’t fully address. It demands a different lens, one that acknowledges the multifaceted realities of trauma, loss and service. In these moments, the weight of it all drives me to want to do more.

The complexity of trying to make sense of the why

At times I find myself asking what are we missing? What are we not doing as a collective first responder mental health movement to prevent these deaths from continuing? I already know the answer is not so simple.

“Loss has a way of tearing apart the illusion of time, the belief that there’s always more of it… I’ve learned the hard way that life is not a dress rehearsal”

As I’ve discussed previously, the challenges within first responder mental health are deeply embedded in a combination of structural, cultural, leadership, and systemic factors inherent to these organizations. Addressing these issues requires a comprehensive, holistic approach, recognizing the complexity of the work and the unique challenges faced by first responders. The solutions are neither straightforward nor immediate, and no mental health professional, myself included, would ever reduce the responsibility for an individual’s decision to end their life to a single factor or place blame on someone. That would not be ethical or true. This issue is far too intricate, shaped by a range of contributing elements that require careful, thoughtful analysis and intervention.

My personal self, the part that is intimately familiar with loss, always hurts when I hear the news of a first responder who has died. I have felt the ache of experiencing first responder loss, suicide loss, and cumulative loss. These are never just professional experiences for me; they are deeply personal ones. That grief, the kind that settles in your core, that never fully goes away, shapes everything about how I show up in these moments and in life for others. It changes the way I see the world, some of those ways I am grateful for and in other ways I miss my rose coloured glasses. It rearranges my perspective in ways I can’t fully explain.

Loss has a way of tearing apart the illusion of time, the belief that there’s always more of it, that we can afford to put off the important things for later. Once you experience deep loss, especially of those so close to you, it can embed itself in your soul. It creates an unspoken urgency that pulses within you, a constant reminder that life is fragile and unpredictable. It forces you to reckon with the truth that nothing is guaranteed, not time, not health, not the people we love. It tries to inform every decision, every thought, every moment and it calls on me to create more understanding for those that are grieving. I know how quickly everything can change and that creates a desire within me, a constant drive to do, to be, to live. I speak with intention and I make certain choices with conviction because in the depths of my own loss, I’ve learned the hard way that life is not a dress rehearsal.

First responder loss in our grief illiterate society

When the news of another first responder who died by suicide inevitably comes, my heart often returns to Ryan Moonlight. He wasn’t just a firefighter; he was my close friend, a son, brother, husband, father and an amazing musician. Ten years ago, Ryan died by suicide. We spent many years prior talking about life, addiction recovery, music, dreams, and even regrets along the way. His loss is something that still resonates within me and our circle of friends; he is deeply missed and not forgotten. His death didn’t only affect those who knew him personally or worked alongside him, it rippled out, touching others in different first responder services as well. When a first responder dies, the impact reverberates throughout the very framework of the service, even for those who may not have known that individual directly. The grief that travels through these spaces can be quiet but heavy, remaining in a way that many don’t always know how to process. It can hover like a melancholy haze.

We very much live in a grief-illiterate society. In the broader public, death and loss are often avoided conversations, and in first responder culture, it can be even more taboo. The sense of obligation to remain strong for others often keeps these painful emotions at bay, but that does not make them disappear. Grief is powerful, and when we don’t give people permission to feel it, those unacknowledged emotions can come back in destructive ways. They can show up in the form of physical illness, unhealthy coping mechanisms, burnout, depression, or spiral into emotional numbness that ultimately takes a toll on the mind, body, and spirit. The need for grief literacy is vital, especially within communities like first responders. The very nature of the work requires individuals to be hyper-competent, resilient, and self-sufficient. Grief literate support doesn’t demand people move on from loss; it supports them in processing it, understanding its many layers, and integrating it into their lives in a way that doesn't diminish their humanity.

Line of Duty vs. Suicide: The Unequal Grief

Many people are not taught to sit with grief, whether their own or someone else’s. Different belief systems and values can shape an individual’s response to loss and can influence how they show up for others. It’s important that we refrain from making sweeping assumptions. Responses to grief can be outward or inward, depending on the individual. The intersections of culture, gender, and personal experiences can deeply impact how grief is expressed, processed, and understood. At the intersection of these various factors, grief can be influenced by our identities and the ways in which we relate to each other.

Some people are not comfortable with conversations around death and dying and don’t know how to be present with others in their pain, especially when that pain isn’t accompanied by a neatly packaged narrative of heroism. When a first responder dies by suicide, it can become a disenfranchised grief that is rarely acknowledged in the same heroic light as those who die in the line of duty. Their deaths are not met with public outpourings of support, nor are they honored with the same recognition. Instead, suicide death stories fade into the background, often becoming part of an unspoken, uncomfortable truth. This lack of recognition speaks volumes about how we view both trauma and heroism. There is a disconnect in first responder culture between the sacrifice these individuals make and the acknowledgment of the cost that comes with it.

The challenges of the therapeutic role

Part of the work I do is helping first responders navigate the complex emotions they carry, including the pain they’ve witnessed, the trauma they’ve absorbed, and the grief they’ve been told to move on from when one of their colleagues dies by suicide. Helping them to break through that cultural wall, to recognize that it's okay to feel and to mourn, can take some time. It takes trust through relationship building with my clients. I remind them that it is okay to grieve and hope at some point they believe me. I am working against a system that pressures my clients to suppress their emotions while I encourage them to express them. Many of these individuals are desperately seeking space to process their grief, yet the very systems meant to support them actively prevent this from happening. People inherently know how to grieve when given the time and space to do so; this is not a learned skill, but a natural human response. Yet, in first responder culture, this space for grief is often dismissed, neglected, or even stigmatized, further compounding the emotional toll on those who serve. This is a critical gap in how we support our first responders, one that needs more thoughtful intervention.

Grief following a suicide can be particularly fraught and support is not only important but often necessary. It can leave others with the burden of wondering why and the guilt of not having seen the signs or done more. Survivors in these communities can struggle with survivor's guilt, sometimes feeling they should have known, could have intervened, or should have been able to save their brother or sister in this very tight knit family-oriented profession. The truth is, many people that die by suicide are not going around telling people about their plans.

What if I am next? A question from first responders

When someone connects with me, whether over the phone or through a virtual screen, I ask directly if they have experienced thoughts of suicide. Contrary to common fears, asking about suicide doesn’t plant the idea but it can open a critical dialogue for those silently suffering, giving them the opportunity to be seen and heard. Despite these efforts, however, tragedy still occurs and it is no one’s fault. Even as mental health professionals, we may find ourselves analyzing every step, reviewing standard procedures, and wondering if there was more we could have done. This tendency to wonder is part of our nature, driven by a genuine desire to help, even in situations where outcomes are beyond our control.

When a first responder dies by suicide, the grief that follows is not just about the person who is gone. It can be about the fear that someone else in the community could be next. It’s the anxiety that gnaws at you, wondering if the pain that was hidden from view in one person is also lurking in another. The grief is collective, but it’s also laced with an unspoken tension, the fear that at any moment, you could be next to collapse under the toll of this work. It’s a fear that doesn’t get voiced openly but that fear is there and I see it when I talk to my clients.

Retirement is not a guarantee of escape either for risk of suicide like some might think. Leaving the job does not erase what has been seen and cannot be unseen. For many first responders, the end of their career can also activate a crisis of identity. The adrenaline rush, the camaraderie, the sense of purpose, it all fades into something unrecognizable. The shift from being a part of a community that shares in the trauma to being alone with your own thoughts can feel terrifying for some. It is not just those on the job that are dying by suicide, it is also those that have been off the job and sometimes for years. We have to remember to check in on those that are no longer in the line of duty and make sure they know we still see them. This is something I deeply understand as a professional and as a person who has lived experience being in pain. We cannot wait for people to reach out, we have to lean in.

Collective Human Experiences

I may be a therapist but first and foremost, I am a person who has experienced deep loss myself. This shared humanity allows me to connect with others on a deeper level, and it’s often why people seek me out. I don’t take that trust for granted. Self-disclosure, when appropriate, shows others that there is a person in front of them who isn’t going to bright-side them or tell them how to grieve. Instead, I’m here to agree that it’s awful, and let them know it’s okay if they don’t know how to shift from that awfulness yet. There is no wrong way to do grief and I remind my clients of this. In my role, I am acutely aware of the unique challenges posed by the first responder community's culture when it comes to suicide loss and grief. It's important to approach the work with deep empathy and patience, understanding that to break down the barriers to invite healing is a process and grief is not an emergency.

The painful truth is that suicides in first responder communities will continue to happen. It’s a truth we can’t ignore, no matter how much we wish it were different, and no matter how many programs or initiatives we try. The question shouldn’t be about stopping it entirely, because we know we can’t. The real question is asking ourselves how we can show up when it happens for the colleagues left behind, the ones who still have to face the everyday work, the heartbreak, and the unspoken fear of who’s next. We need to show up for their loved ones, who now have to live with the kind of grief that doesn’t make sense, that doesn’t always have closure and that doesn’t always have answers. We owe it to those left behind to show them they’re not forgotten in all of this, that their loss matters, and that they don’t have to carry this weight on their own. Even though suicide deaths are not considered a death in the line of duty, it doesn’t mean those like Ryan that died should not be remembered, or their sacrifice for the job and their community should be diminished. The loved ones left behind deserve presence, compassion and understanding.

Next Week on 911 COMMUNITY

As I continue this conversation on loss and grief in first responder communities, next week I’ll focus on the families who are left behind. These families are left to face the question: What now? How do they rebuild their lives when their own entire identity was so deeply intertwined with being a first responder family? The weight of that loss is more than just the person, they lose a part of themselves, too. And the path forward? It’s not something anyone can prepare for but it’s a conversation we need to have, because they need to know they’re not alone in this.

About the Author: Suzz Sandalwood is an RSW/MSW Therapist, Advanced Certified Clinical Trauma and Addiction Specialist and a Certified Grief Counsellor. She has extensive professional and lived experience in first responder, addiction, and grief communities. | Connect with the author: https://suzzsandalwood.com/

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