How a firefighter mom juggles being super proud and totally terrified when her sons are called to a fire, knowing all the risks professionally, but feeling all the feels as a mom
The cold, crisp January evening wraps around me in a shroud of icy serenity, the sharp sting of winter air a stark contrast to the soothing warmth that cradles me as I sink into the steaming embrace of my hot tub. For me, this ritual – soaking my weary self beneath a starry sky – is pure comfort. Stillness. A sanctuary where the weight of the day dissolves and the vastness of the universe feels close enough to touch.
My gaze lifts to the full moon, her light cascading through the bare branches of winter trees, shimmering against the freshly fallen snow. Shadows and illumination dance together, a quiet reminder of the interplay between darkness and light within us all. I breathe in the chilled air deeply, savoring its crispness and exhale slowly with a heart full of gratitude, surrendering to the rising steam as it wraps around me like a gentle, ethereal veil.
I’m focused on quieting the endless internal dialogue that loops through my mind constantly when the door suddenly swings open, and my husband asks, “Which one of the boys is on shift? There’s a confirmed structure fire.”
Without hesitation, the answer clicks. Our youngest is on duty tonight and his older brother will be his 10-75 back-up. Before the weight of that settles, my phone vibes with a text from a law enforcement friend, confirming the same news.
I quickly type a message to my sons: “Stay safe. Get the job done. I love you.” Short, direct, and packed with everything I need them to know in this moment. Words I know they’ll see only after their work is done. Quietly, I send a message to the universe, a silent plea to keep my sons and their crew members safe.
The Surge of Fear
But here’s the thing: I am not OK.
Cortisol surges through my body like a flood, an icy dread slithers down my spine. My eyes brim with tears, breath becomes shallow, muscles tense and my heart gallops. Anxiety and fear lock hands, dragging along irrational thoughts that threaten to consume me. I know this feeling well. I’ve learned to acknowledge it, then redirect it. Purposefully, I bring myself back to the present moment, initiating box breathing to ground myself.
I focus on the warmth of the water swirling around me, the bubbles rising to the surface. I lift my gaze to the night sky, searching for the Big Dipper, a steadying anchor amidst my storm. I call for Bauer and Suki, my loyal companions, and their muffled paws step through the snow to soften the edges of my unease. As they nuzzle close, I reach out, running my hands through their thick fur, allowing their calming presence to help release the tension.
This entire cycle – fear rising, breath grounding, calm returning – unfolds in less than five minutes. I let the discomfort flow through me, releasing it into the cold night air and reminding myself of what I know to be true: my boys are skilled, strong and well-trained urban professional firefighters. They are surrounded by a brotherhood dedicated to protecting one another, led by trusted, seasoned leaders. This is their profession, and they are damn good at what they do.
From Volunteer to Mother
But here’s the deeper truth I carry: Spending the last 30 years in volunteer fire/EMS, I know exactly what happens at structure fires. The tones drop, adrenaline hits and the race begins. The plume of smoke appears on the horizon, followed by the controlled chaos of arriving on scene and getting to work. Every task at a fire scene carries an inherent risk – injury, sometimes worse.
As my younger self, fresh-faced and newly minted into the world of volunteer fire/EMS, I didn’t think twice about those risks. I was filled with purpose and making a difference. It was the early ’90s. I thrived on adrenaline, the challenge and the unknown. My frontal cortex, clearly still under construction, couldn’t comprehend the reality of line-of-duty deaths. I was all in, driving fast and chasing the rush. Back then, motor vehicle accidents almost always required extrication, EMS runs were true emergencies and fires were more frequent.
Today, the landscape has shifted. Fire calls are fewer, but the risks feel heavier – fires that burn hotter and faster. Routine calls are now complicated by drugs, gangs, shootings, overdoses and the very real and growing threat of violence against first responders. It’s a sobering reality, heavy with unease. A reality I never anticipated. A reality that hit me hard as a mother.
A Shared Experience and a Dedication to Wellness
I’m sharing my thoughts today so other mothers of firefighters know they are seen and heard. As someone who carries the weight of our first responders’ mental health – being the one they turn to in their times of need – I’ve earned the nickname Mama Bear Lawlor for my fierce dedication to our first responder community.
As the county deputy coordinator for First Responder Health and Wellness, I consider myself a progressive leader, a change agent and someone deeply aware of my inner thoughts, values, and beliefs. Yet, nothing has prepared me for the unique challenge of leading in the fire service while also being the mother of two career firefighters.
I am incredibly proud of the work my sons do and the department they serve, embodying integrity, steadfastness and dedicating themselves to serving their community with courage and honor. Yet, the knowledge of the occupational risks and dangers they face is a weight I carry every day – one that tugs relentlessly at both my heart and my resolve.
An hour later, I get a quick text update: “We are good Mom. Quick knock-down. Putting engines back in service.”
I reply, “Make sure you shower with the Flame Decon, please!”
And just like that, I can feel the eye roll all the way from the fire station, 10 miles away.
