Supporting First Responder Families Who Are Grieving in the Shadows of Service

By Suzz Sandalwood | Supporting first responder families in the emotional and existential challenges of rebuilding a life after their loved one dies by suicide or in the line of duty.

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

Image courtesy of MotionArray ATW Stock

Some grief runs so deep that it can only be expressed through the guttural wails of falling to your knees.

As I sat down to write this post, I found myself pulled into a space of deep reflection, questioning how best to express the unique and often unseen struggles that first responder families face when their loved one dies in the line of duty or by suicide. I struggled with how to convey the truth that most loss is tragic, most grief is heartbreaking, and yet some circumstances, like these, carry layers of complexity that can make the grieving process feel even more isolating and challenging.

As someone who has known deep loss and teaches grief literacy, I have always been outspoken about how grief should never be compared because each person's experience is deeply individual and sacred. I found myself wondering how this post would be received by those who may not have experienced the loss of a first responder. Would they feel that their own grief was being diminished? Would it seem as though I was suggesting that first responder families deserve some kind of special recognition or attention because of their loss?

We cannot compare loss but we can understand the uniqueness of life experience

This was never my intention and I want to be sure that comes across clearly. What I want to convey here is not that one grief is more valid or more painful than another, but that there is a particular complexity in the grief of first responder families that is often overlooked. The world they live in, shaped by duty, sacrifice, and sometimes trauma, means that when they lose a loved one, it isn't just about the absence of a person, it’s about the loss of a whole identity, a community, a way of life. Their grief is complicated by factors like the stigma of suicide, the shock of losing someone in a job that is supposed to keep them safe, and the ripple effects through a network of fellow responders who are also mourning. This grief, while no less real or painful, can often be disenfranchised and it’s not always recognized or fully understood by those outside that world.

My hope is to encourage a broader understanding, not just for those grieving in this particular way, but for all of us to acknowledge and make room for the different ways grief manifests. Each person’s journey is unique, and it’s important that we honor and hold space for the diverse paths that families walk when faced with loss. There are loss experiences that are so painfully deep, that some wonder how they will survive. They may wonder how they will find the willingness to move forward and nothing anyone can say can make them believe it will be okay in those new and raw painful moments. These experiences are not tied to any specific culture, family system or tethered to any profession. This is a completely human response to deep loss.

When identity weaves into the narrative of loss

Grief, in its essence, is deeply personal and something unique to each individual and beyond comparison. Yet, for first responder families, the experience of loss can carry its own distinct weight. From the moment someone enters the world doing this job, their identity begins to shift in many ways, and that transformation extends to their families as well. This shift is not just about the job; it becomes part of who they are. In many ways, this mirrors what we see in collectivist cultures, where identity is more rooted in the group than the individual. For first responder families, personal needs often take a backseat to the mission, something they come to understand, live with, and often, quietly embrace. It is about survival in a world where the demands of the job come first. They adapt, carry burdens that others might not see, and offer support without expectation of it in return. This dynamic isn’t a flaw; it’s a necessary way of being in a world where balance is constantly at odds with duty.

It’s not uncommon for families to experience a constant undercurrent of anxiety, not knowing what any given day might bring. Ask any spouse, parent, sibling, or even an older child of a first responder what their top fears are, and I can almost guarantee that death, whether in the line of duty or by suicide, will be one of them. Families know the risks that come with the profession. Many have attended funerals, mourned with others who have lost loved ones to the job, and quietly live in the shadow of that same fear for their own. They navigate their daily lives knowing that, at any moment, their worst fear could become their reality. And still, they push forward, often in a way that is not always seen or fully understood by those outside the first responder world. The weight of that quiet fear, and the grief that comes with it, is something that informs their lives in ways that are both powerful and heartbreaking.

When a first responder dies in the line of duty or by suicide, the family is left with the disintegration of a carefully constructed identity. The roles that once defined them as family, the ones who understood the weight of the job, no longer apply. And the question that lingers is not just how do I move forward? but who am I without you? This can be especially true for spouses.

Widowed and wondering who am I now?

In my work, I’ve supported grieving spouses of first responders who have died by suicide or in the line of duty while they struggle to put words to a loss that is not just about death but about identity, belonging, and a way of life that no longer exists. Grief is never just about absence; it is about the space left behind, the disorientation that follows, the sense of self that must be rewritten, and sometimes not knowing how or even wanting to. The death of a loved one, especially in such a tragic and complicated way, rips the threads of daily life that held everything together. For the spouses I work with, it’s not simply about a loved one’s physical absence, it’s the sudden disappearance of the partner they knew, the future they planned for, and the roles they had come to accept in each other’s lives as a first responder family. This loss can shatter their sense of normalcy and plunges them into an unknown and often isolating space.

You cannot bright-side some pain and while we want to instill a sense of hope, it is a delicate balance between trusting the grieving process as a natural human experience and supporting others by meeting them where they are at. I have sat on the phone or on a video screen with spouses whose painful sobs had me tearing up. It is impossible to stay unaffected in those moments, as the rawness and depth of their emotion break through in ways that are both humbling and heart-wrenching. There is no place in our professional code of ethics that says we cannot cry with our clients, and while I am very mindful of keeping my own responses and feelings grounded in order to do my job effectively, I also recognize that part of my job is to humanize experiences. Sometimes the best way to do that is to show that I am human too. It is in those moments that the connection often becomes stronger, that the therapeutic bond is solidified not by my words but by my willingness to be present, to witness their pain and get in the arena with them.

I know in these moments there is nothing I can do to change what they are feeling. The pain and confusion they are experiencing cannot be erased or undone, and it’s not my job to take it away. Comfort can often come from simply being there and being fully aware of the weight of what they are carrying. I will often say things like “It’s okay to keep crying, let it out of your body, I am right here with you, and you are not alone.” In simple words, I remind them that they are allowed to feel, that their grief is valid, their pain is worthy of being held, and that their identity as a grieving first responder spouse does not need to forever define them.

Life after loss; an existential crisis

In grief theory, we often talk about the dual process model; the idea that people oscillate between confronting their loss and rebuilding their life. For first responder spouses, this process is far more complex. The rebuilding is not just about forming new routines, it is about reconstructing an entire sense of self that was built around another person’s service. Some spouses can feel lost in a world that once felt like home but now sees them as an outsider. Others struggle with the dissonance of wanting to step away from the first responder culture but feeling tethered to it by love, history, and obligation. The grief is not just emotional; it is existential. It asks them to think about who they are, without the blueprint they may have followed for years. The spouses left behind are not just grieving their loved one. They are grieving a way of life that no longer includes them and the first responder culture does not always know what to do with the ones left behind. The gap that exists between the survivor and the community can feel insurmountable.

The story of life and loss continues

There’s no simple way to move forward after a loss like this. There is no universal guide or checklist for healing. Grief isn’t linear, and it can’t be rushed. This is true for all deep loss. The road ahead is often slow, messy, and filled with moments of rediscovery. For families of first responders, especially those who have lost a loved one in the line of duty or to suicide, the world they knew can feel unrecognizable. In time, they can learn to navigate a reality that doesn’t look the same, and find new ways to belong, not just to a role or a legacy, but to themselves.

I believe that those grieving can come to see that love and grief are not opposing forces. They can coexist, each shaping how they learn to move forward, whatever that path looks like. I’ve witnessed families integrate loss into their lives in ways that, while incredibly difficult, can ultimately lead them to a new version of themselves, one where they can find moments of contentment, peace, and yes, even joy. It may not feel possible today, but eventually, they can find a way to reconcile the love they still carry with the grief that has changed their world and in doing so, they can create a new identity, not defined by tragedy, but by the courage and willingness that emerges from it.

Next Week in 911 COMMUNITY

As we continue to acknowledge the significant risks that come with first responder jobs, particularly the heightened risk of suicide, there is an encouraging shift happening within the community. More and more new recruits are starting their careers with a proactive approach to their mental health. By getting a baseline for their emotional and psychological well-being right from the start, they’re taking control of their mental health early on.

This movement is helping to break the stigma surrounding mental health in the first responder world, and it’s empowering individuals to prioritize their well-being from day one. This shift is an important step toward creating a culture where mental health is just as valued as physical health, and where self-care is seen as an essential part of the job. I will share more about this next week.

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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