Retired, But Not Released: A Letter to Retired First Responders

By Suzz Sandalwood | When the job forgets you but the body remembers. A heartfelt letter to the retired first responder who might think they have been forgotten

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

Hey Retiree, can we talk for a minute?

How is your heart doing? Has anyone asked you that lately? Not in passing, not as a throwaway line, but like they really meant it?

If we were sitting together right now, maybe at a quiet table tucked into some small café, I think that’s the first thing I’d want to say. Not “congratulations” or “what’s next?” or even “how’s retirement?” but just, how is your heart doing with all of this?

Because this isn’t nothing.

Transitioning from a career like yours is not just about paperwork or a last shift or a set of keys turned in. It’s about untangling your identity from something that shaped you every single day in ways most people will never fully understand. It’s about letting go of a rhythm that once kept your whole life moving. It’s about the quiet that follows.

And sometimes that quiet is welcomed. Sometimes it feels like relief. But sometimes, maybe more often than anyone admits, that quiet feels strange.

I don’t know how it’s been for you, and I won’t pretend to. But I do know that a lot of people don’t talk about this part, this space between what was and what comes next. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. It’s rarely acknowledged.

What people don’t talk about

You’ve probably had people tell you how lucky you are to retire. Maybe they’ve asked what’s next on your bucket list. Maybe they’ve joked about all your “free time.” But here’s what they don’t ask: What does it feel like to no longer be needed in the same way? There are questions not asked and things that people don’t talk about. The assumption that when you retire, you leave behind what once was cannot be true for first responders. I won’t try to sugar coat. I know what you have seen and experienced. I know how the job changed you.

Are you even able to finally exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath for two decades? I imagine your body knew this transition before your mind did. Like your nervous system doesn’t quite know what to do without the background hum of urgency. Like your purpose didn’t make the leap with you. The strange sensation of waiting for a shift you no longer have to report to. The muscle memory of alertness. The phantom hum of a radio that’s now silent. I know how much you compartmentalized just to survive. Now there’s space but that space can stir up things you didn’t even realize you’d been storing; grief, fatigue, restlessness, uncertainty.

I want you to know that all of that makes sense. It is okay to need support during this time.

Life after the last shift

If the transition has been hard, even quietly disorienting, you’re not alone. If you miss the job and also never want to go back to it, that contradiction is allowed. If you feel invisible now in a way you never did before, that’s the real cost of a system that doesn’t always know how to honour what it takes from people. You didn’t just do a job. You lived it. Carried it. Folded yourself around it. You learned to function on very little, to be ready before anyone even knew they needed you. That doesn’t leave your system overnight.

Sometimes I wonder if the hardest part about this stage isn’t the leaving and if it is the relearning you now have to do. Relearning how to rest. How to feel. How to be known outside of the job. Relearning who you are when you’re not constantly bracing for the next thing. Does this resonate?

You don’t owe anyone a polished version of your post-retirement life.
You don’t have to pretend it’s all easy or exciting or perfectly timed.

You still matter. I hope you know that. Not because of what you did, or how many years you served, but because of who you are underneath all of it. You’re not forgotten. You are still part of this community, even if your role has changed. And if no one has taken the time with you to say that, I will.

Maybe no one told you what retirement would really feel like. Maybe they didn’t have the words. Maybe they didn’t know how to ask the right questions. But you deserve more than a farewell. You deserve a soft landing. And a space where the fullness of your experience can be held and honoured.

Who am I now?

When you've been immersed in a culture that didn’t just shape your days, but shaped your identity, where being strong, ready, and dependable wasn’t just valued, it was required, stepping away can feel like stepping into the unknown. And in that unknown, you might find yourself asking quietly, Who am I without the job?

We celebrate retirement like it’s a finish line, but for so many, it’s the start of an uncharted journey. And that journey deserves just as much care, just as much honour, just as much attention as everything that came before it.

Thank you.
For what you gave.
For what it cost
For the moments no one saw, and the ones you never talked about.
For the years you spent holding the line, often at the expense of your own peace.
For staying, when it would have been easier to walk away. You were never just your job and you still aren’t. I hope that you can believe this one day.

With deep respect, compassion, and the kind of reverence this transition truly deserves,

Suzz

Next Week in the 911 Community Blog

The Loneliness After the Noise: A Case Study

Next week, I’ll introduce you to “Richard,” a retired first responder. While this story is a fictional composite built from many real conversations, it reflects the common, often unspoken experience of life after the job ends. We will continue to explore the isolation that can follow retirement, the sudden loss of structure and identity, and examine further what it means to feel disconnected from a world that once needed you every day.

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 personal experience in first responder, addiction, and grief communities. | Connect with the author: https://suzzsandalwood.com

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