Oh, He Was Just Tired—Of Carrying Everyone Else’s Damn Trauma

Succumbed.

Yeah, that word hits different when it’s someone you admire. Someone who ran into the fire when the rest of us ran out. A firefighter. A responder. One of the "strong ones."

So let’s ask the real questions.

Was he weak?

Cowardly?

Selfish?

Did he “commit” some kind of moral crime?

Did he break some sacred code by not being able to carry one more ounce of invisible weight?

Or did he just finally lose the fight to a mental injury nobody could see?

Because that’s what this is.

Not a sin.

Not a character flaw.

Not some shameful secret to be whispered about at funerals like he let us down.

He didn’t “commit suicide”—he succumbed to the psychological aftermath of a job that constantly expects you to hold it all together while walking through hell on earth.

But even in death—especially in this kind of death—he’s still being judged. Still being questioned. Still being whispered about like he didn’t die in the line of duty.

Make no mistake: he did.

And we owe it to him—and every other responder walking that same tightrope—to change the damn narrative.

Stop calling them weak.

Start calling it what it is: a line-of-duty death from a battle wound we don't see.

If we had the guts to really talk about this, maybe fewer of our heroes would have to die in silence.

Stay safe.

Stay loud.

And for the love of everything sacred—start treating mental injuries like the real injuries they are.

–Richie

(Still shaking. Still here. Still not afraid to say the hard stuff.)

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