Photo by Steve Baer | FireDog Photos
Pregnancy can force firefighters to redefine strength when proving yourself and protecting yourself clash
There’s an unspoken rule when you’re a woman in the fire service: You don’t just get to be capable. You have to prove it. Over and over again. Don’t get me wrong — culturally we’ve made strides in the right direction, but there’s always room for improvement.
A lot of it comes down to the type of personality the fire service attracts. We’re called to the profession by our need to serve, protect, and — more than we like to admit publicly — challenge ourselves and push others. It’s that exact trait that often creates an internal battle between proving yourself and protecting yourself in an inherently dangerous industry.
You learn early that strength isn’t optional — it’s your currency. How you move, how you lift, how you show up on calls, how you handle long nights and heavy loads — it all becomes part of your identity. You don’t ask for help. You don’t slow down. And you definitely don’t want to be the reason someone questions whether you belong. You build yourself into someone who can’t be questioned in their position as a firefighter, emergency responder, or officer.
And then you get pregnant.
The rules change, but no one hands you a new playbook. You’re still in the same firehouse. Still wearing the same uniform, or at least trying to squeeze into the same uniform, but the expectations and perception of your capabilities change, spoken or not. The identity shift as a civilian is difficult in itself, but as a first responder, you don’t have the luxury of a normal sleep schedule, putting your feet up when they inevitably swell, or even using the bathroom as often as needed. For the first time in your career, it’s not just about proving to yourself and your crew that you can do the job. It’s about deciding what matters: being perceived (including by yourself) as capable of protecting others, and protecting yourself and the new life you’re carrying.
Redefining Capability
There’s a moment — and if you’ve lived it, you know exactly what I’m talking about — where you hesitate. Not because you can’t do something, but because you (and maybe your crew) start asking yourself if you should. Can I lift this? Yes. Can I push through this fatigue? Probably. Can I keep up like I always have? Most days. But should I?
That question doesn’t come naturally to most of us. We weren’t built for this job to ask, *“What’s the safest option?”*We were built to ask, *“What needs to get done?”*Pregnancy forces you to live in the space between those two questions. And it sucks.
You’re managing two competing identities: The firefighter who has worked relentlessly to be seen as strong, reliable, and capable. And the mother who is responsible for protecting her family. No one really prepares you for that new reality. And the hardest part? Asking for and allowing help.
I’m very lucky — my group is my family. They have a healthy respect for me and don’t question if I can get the job done. In fact, they often hand me the heavy work, knowing my physical capabilities. As a family, they also love and want to take care of me, including working with me on the fireground and in training to keep me out of IDLH atmospheres, moving crews around so I wouldn’t have to stairchair, move a patient, or carry extra equipment.
Between Strength and Self‑Preservation
Knowing if or when you should come off the line is a monumental challenge. Doctors? They don’t know what you do as a firefighter. There are plenty of paper resources (shout out to the IAFF) available to give to your OB. Doctors can tell you’re more physically fit than the average civilian, but they will always tell you not to work, not to do what you love, because of the inherent risks of being pregnant while firefighting. The truth is, there is no hard-and-fast rule; it’s about knowing yourself and your body, and then communicating that to your officers and your doctor.
It really comes down to you and listening to your body. To be honest, it wasn’t the physical aspect. I was convinced I was still capable. It was the guilt of knowing my crew was putting in extra hours on the ambulance or picking up chores for me because they care about me and the health of my pregnancy. They taught me that protecting myself — and my baby — is not a weakness. It’s not stepping back. It’s not losing my edge. It’s not giving anyone a reason to question me. It’s making a calculated, intentional decision in a career built on risk.
I’m not becoming less of a firefighter. I’m becoming more aware of what it actually means to last in this career. My battalion chief reminded me repeatedly, “You have your whole career ahead of you to catch that fire, to break your back saving someone, to outlift the guys …” The whole journey of pregnancy and maternity leave is less than a year of my life. It’s an opportunity to take care of myself and to take care of the little one who really needs my protection.
And maybe, for the first time, I’m learning that strength doesn’t just look like pushing through. Sometimes it looks like pulling back — on purpose. Like the old service announcement on the airplane, “put your mask on before helping someone with theirs.” I’m still fully capable of helping others; it just looks different now.
I didn’t lose who I was in the process. I just had to redefine what the calling to protect means to me.
