Psychological trauma in emergency services is often framed through clinical language that influences how injury, recovery, and responsibility are approached. Gaps in transition support and recognition of these injuries highlight a disconnect between the realities of operational exposure and the systems designed to support those leaving service.
The job that finally broke me involved a one-week-old baby. His name was Harry. I was first on scene and, for thirty-five minutes, we did everything we could to bring him back. NSW Ambulance was there too, working just as hard. CPR, everything we had; but, in the end, we couldn’t save him.
People often ask when things changed for me. That job was the moment the bucket tipped over, not because it was the first traumatic thing I’d ever seen in twenty years of policing, but because it was the one that finally broke through the wall I’d spent two decades building.
After that job, I took two weeks off work. The GP signed me off and said I was okay to go back. On paper, everything looked normal. In reality, it wasn’t. For the next two-and-a-half-months, I went looking for danger. I volunteered for every risky job, chased fights, and drove hundreds of kilometres but barely remembered doing it. I drank every day and had nightmares every night.
Eventually, on 10 May 2022, I asked for help. That’s one of the hardest things someone in emergency services can do. If it wasn’t for my kids, I probably wouldn’t be here today. That’s the honest truth; they are the reason I’m still alive.
Not long after that, I was diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Later, the psychiatrist confirmed I wouldn’t be returning to policing. And that’s when I discovered something that shocked me almost as much as the trauma itself: there was very little support waiting on the other side.
The problem with the word “disorder”
One of the first things that started to bother me was the language we use around trauma. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hate that term, because what I experienced was not a disorder. It was an injury caused by years of exposure to trauma.
If a police officer breaks their leg chasing an offender, no one calls it a “leg disorder”. They call it an “injury”. They treat it; they rehabilitate it. There is a clear understanding that something happened to that person in the course of doing their job.
But, when the injury is in the brain, suddenly the language changes. “Disorder” makes it sound like something is wrong with you as a person; “injury” recognises that something happened to you.
That difference might sound small, but it shapes everything that comes after. An injury is something you treat and recover from. It deserves rehabilitation and ongoing support. If we started calling it Post Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI) instead of PTSD, we would immediately begin thinking differently about how people should be supported.
When you leave the job, you’re on your own
While I was waiting to be medically discharged, I expected there would be some sort of pathway or support structure to help people transition out of emergency services when mental health injuries occur. There wasn’t.
When you join the police, you are given a full roadmap: training, procedures, manuals, and clear processes. Everything is structured and explained. But when you leave because of mental health? Nothing.
There is no exit package explaining what happens next. No clear guidance on finances, counselling options, or support for families. No roadmap for navigating the system you suddenly find yourself in. One day you’re serving the community, and the next day you’re trying to figure out how to rebuild your life.
The moment I realised how big the problem really was
For many people leaving emergency services because of trauma, the experience feels like being dropped into deep water without a life jacket. You’re just treading water, trying to work out what comes next while you’re still dealing with the injury that forced you out of the job in the first place.
At first, I just wanted to talk to other police officers who might be going through the same thing. I started a small Facebook group where a few of us could chat openly about what life looked like after a mental health diagnosis.
I didn’t expect what happened next. The group grew quickly. Then firefighters started asking if they could join. Then paramedics. Then nurses, corrections officers, and SES volunteers. People from across the country were reaching out.
That’s when it really hit me that this wasn’t just my story. It was happening to thousands of people across the emergency services sector. People who had spent their careers protecting others suddenly found themselves without a support system when they needed it most.
Eventually that Facebook group became Bellator Fortitudinem, a registered not-for-profit charity supporting current and former emergency service personnel. But the organisation didn’t create the need. The need was already there. All we did was give people a place to find each other.
Recovery doesn’t look the same for everyone
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from connecting with so many people is that recovery looks different for everyone. The system tends to focus heavily on medication and psychology sessions. Those things can absolutely help, and they are important parts of treatment.
But they are not the whole picture.
Many people find healing through things that sit outside traditional therapy; think fishing trips, hiking, four-wheel driving, painting, yoga, and even float tanks. Or simply spending time outdoors with people who understand what you’ve been through.
We see this all the time in our community. People share what works for them and others try it. Sometimes, it’s as simple as getting away from phones and noise for a few days; sometimes, it’s physical activity or just sitting around a campfire talking with people who understand the job.
These things might not fit neatly into the medical system, but they make a real difference to people’s lives. As I’ve said many times, sometimes people don’t need another tablet. Sometimes they just need space to breathe and reconnect with themselves.
Language shapes the system
Changing PTSD to PTSI might sound like a small adjustment, but language shapes policy. Disorders get managed; injuries get rehabilitated.
When something is labelled a disorder, the focus tends to shift toward containment. However, when it is recognised as an injury, the conversation changes to recovery, rehabilitation, and long-term support.
That shift would influence everything from insurance coverage to workplace policies and support services. It would move the conversation away from simply managing symptoms and toward helping people rebuild their lives.
And, for people leaving emergency services with psychological injuries, that change in thinking could make a world of difference.
We can do better
Australia asks a lot of its emergency service workers. We expect them to face situations most people will never experience. We expect them to run toward danger when everyone else is running away.
The least we can do is recognise the cost of that service.
For many people, the trauma doesn’t end when the job does: it follows them home. It affects their families and their future and, too often, they are left to navigate that alone.
Changing the language from PTSD to PTSI won’t solve every problem overnight, but it would be an important first step in recognising the reality that thousands of emergency service workers live with every day.
It acknowledges something simple, though important: when someone is psychologically injured in the line of duty, they don’t need to be labelled or managed.
They need to be supported while they heal.
