Compassion Over Judgment Within First Responder Community

Photo courtesy of DanSun Photo Art

The tones drop. Dispatch announces another overdose. You feel your partner sigh beside you, maybe roll their eyes. You’ve been here before, same neighborhood, same name, maybe even the same day. The comments start flying: “Why do they keep doing this to themselves?” or “Don’t they know better by now?”

I know those feelings. I’ve said those words. After twenty years in EMS, I know the frustration of running the same call repeatedly. I know the exhaustion of bringing someone back, only to see them again in a week. And for a long time, I believed the same thing many of us were taught to believe… that addiction is a choice, a weakness, a moral failing.

But then fentanyl stole my daughter, Mya. The day Mya died, everything I thought I knew about addiction shattered. Suddenly, the “addict” wasn’t a stranger in the back of my ambulance. She wasn’t just another call number or another case report. She was my baby. My girl who loved music, who laughed until she cried, who teased me about saving butter wrappers and begged me to make chicken enchiladas every day. She was 23 years old, with a future ahead of her, until one pill poisoned with fentanyl ended her life.

Now, when I hear those tones drop, I don’t just hear “another overdose.” I hear someone’s child. Someone’s Mya.

This is what I wish first responders could see. Behind the frustration, behind the repeated calls, behind the chaos…there is a human being, and more importantly, there is a family who loves them. Judgment will never save them. But compassion might.

Addiction Has a Face

For years, I worked shifts where addiction was just part of the scenery. It was woven into the fabric of EMS life… the calls at 2 a.m., the Narcan sprays, the patients we labeled as “frequent flyers.” We treated the medical emergency, but too often, we forgot to see the person. And then, addiction had a face. It had my daughter’s face.

Mya was not the picture most people imagine when they think of addiction. She wasn’t living under a bridge. She wasn’t someone you’d cross the street to avoid. She was beautiful, full of life, and she loved her family deeply. She laughed at inside jokes, she sang loudly in the car, she loved her brothers and sisters and spoiled her cousins. She had dreams and plans, just like any other young woman. But addiction does not discriminate. It doesn’t care how much you’re loved, what your GPA was, or what kind of house you grew up in. Addiction reaches into every family, every community, every zip code.

When Mya died, I realized just how blind I had been as a Paramedic. For every overdose I ran, there was a mother like me waiting by the phone, praying this wouldn’t be the call that ended their child’s story. For every patient I pulled back with Narcan, there was a family somewhere begging for one more chance. Addiction has a face. And it’s not the stereotype we’ve been trained to see. It’s Mya. It’s your neighbor. It’s the firefighter you work with, the veteran you honor on Veterans Day, the teenager down the street.

If first responders could see addiction the way I do now, maybe we’d pause before we pass judgment. Maybe we’d soften our tone, change our words, and remember that saving a life means more than restarting a heart…it means giving someone the dignity they deserve in their most vulnerable moment.

The Language of Judgment

If you’ve worked in EMS, fire, or law enforcement for any length of time, you know the lingo. The shorthand we use to cope. The humor that isn’t funny, but we use it anyway to lighten the weight of what we see. I’ve been guilty of it too.

We all know the phrases: “Frequent flyer.” “Junkie.” “Narcan king/queen.” “They’re just going to do it again.” Those words slip off our tongues in break rooms, in rigs, at the nurse’s station. They become part of the culture. And at the time, it doesn’t feel cruel…it feels like venting. It feels like the gallows humor we rely on to survive in this line of work. But here’s the truth I’ve learned the hardest way possible… those words don’t just stay in the room. They live inside us. They shape how we treat people. When we call someone a “junkie,” we stop seeing them as a patient. When we label them a “frequent flyer,” we stop seeing them as a person.

We stop asking why they keep coming back. We stop wondering what trauma or pain brought them here. We stop offering compassion, because we’ve already decided they’re not worthy of it. And whether we realize it or not, patients feel it. They hear the tone in our voice. They see the roll of our eyes. They sense the disgust when we walk in the door. I’ve had patients tell me, “I didn’t want to call, because I know how you guys look at me.” Imagine the fear of dying alone outweighing the fear of judgment from the very people sworn to save your life.

I think back on the countless times I probably made a patient feel that way. I wonder if Mya ever felt it, not from me, but from others who saw her through the lens of addiction instead of humanity. Did she hear someone call her a lost cause? Did she sense someone’s annoyance as they started her IV? Did she feel small, ashamed, unworthy of care? That thought haunts me. Because now I know: our words can kill just as easily as the drugs can. If someone feels judged or unwanted, they may not call 911 the next time. And the next time might be the time they don’t wake up.

We cannot afford to let our words build walls. As first responders, our words should open doors. They should carry dignity, not disdain. They should remind people that they matter, that we see them, that they are more than the choices they’ve made or the disease they fight. Every word we speak in uniform carries weight. We can either reinforce stigma…or we can dismantle it. We can either feed shame… or we can plant hope. And the truth is, compassion doesn’t take longer than judgment. It doesn’t slow down a call. It doesn’t cost a dime. It just requires us to pause, to check ourselves, and to remember: What if this was my child on the floor?

Photo courtesy of DanSun Photo Art

Why Compassion Is a Clinical Tool

In EMS, we’re trained to focus on what works. What brings the heart rate down, what stops the bleeding, what gets oxygen into the lungs. We want interventions that have measurable outcomes…drugs, procedures, protocols.

But here’s the part that gets overlooked: Compassion is an intervention. It may not come in a vial or a monitor, but it changes outcomes in ways that are just as critical as any medication.

When patients feel judged, they shut down. They lie about what they’ve used. They refuse transport. They leave against medical advice. They hide details that could be lifesaving. But when patients feel compassion, they open up. They will tell you what they actually took. They admit how many pills, what kind of powder, how much they injected. That information can mean the difference between the right treatment and the wrong one. A patient who trusts you… is a patient you can treat more effectively. It might sound backwards… because we assume kindness will just “enable” someone to use again. But the research shows otherwise. When people feel respected and humanized during a crisis, they’re more likely to follow up with care.

Think about it. If the last time you called 911 you were shamed, would you want to reach out again? Or would you rather avoid it, even if it meant risking your life? I’ve spoken with families who said their loved one refused to ever call 911 again after a bad experience with EMS. That’s terrifying. Because that next call might have been the one that saved them.

Addiction calls can be tense. Patients are scared, families are frantic, bystanders are angry. When first responders show up with judgment, it escalates. People get defensive. Voices get louder. Safety goes down.

But when we show up with calm compassion, it de-escalates. Families breathe easier. Patients become more cooperative. The whole scene shifts.

Sometimes the most powerful tool on scene isn’t the Narcan, it’s the way you say, “You’re going to be okay, we’re here to help.”

Compassion isn’t just for the patient…it’s for us. Carrying judgment and anger on every overdose call eats away at us. It fuels burnout, cynicism, and resentment. It makes the job heavier than it already is. But compassion lifts some of that weight. It allows us to connect instead of detaching. It gives us a reason to keep showing up, even when the calls feel endless. It reminds us that this work matters. Compassion can be the difference between leaving a shift bitter and leaving a shift with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you made a difference.

Here’s the truth: judgment doesn’t save lives. It just makes us feel momentarily superior. But compassion? Compassion changes the outcome. It builds trust, lowers defenses, increases safety, and plants seeds of hope that might one day take root. If compassion were a drug, every EMS agency in the country would stock it on the rig.

The Science of Addiction

When you’ve carried someone on a cot for the fifth time this month, it’s easy to think: Why don’t they just stop? Why don’t they just quit? I used to think the same thing. Until I started digging into the science after I lost Mya. Addiction isn’t about bad choices. It’s about a brain that has been rewired against its own survival.

Our brains are built with a reward system designed to keep us alive. When we eat, laugh, fall in love, or accomplish something, our brain releases dopamine; the “feel-good” chemical that motivates us to do it again.

Drugs like opioids, meth, or cocaine hijack that system. They flood the brain with dopamine in amounts natural rewards can’t match. Over time, the brain adapts…it stops making its own dopamine, and normal pleasures no longer register. To the addicted brain, survival doesn’t feel tied to food, water, or family anymore. Survival feels tied to the next fix.

When someone says, “Why don’t they just stop?” it’s like asking a drowning person to “just breathe air.” The brain of someone with addiction craves the drug as intensely as the rest of us crave oxygen.

Mya once explained it to me in a way I’ll never forget. She said, “Mom, have you ever gone swimming in the deep end to get a toy, and you’re down there just a little too long? That panic hits you…you need to get back up to the surface, you’re desperate for air, and your chest burns because you can’t hold it anymore. That’s what withdrawal feels like. That’s how bad I need to use again. Every single time.” That’s not weakness. That’s not a lack of discipline. That’s the drowning brain begging for oxygen… only for someone struggling with addiction, the “oxygen” is the drug their body now believes it needs to survive. This isn’t weakness. It’s physiology. It’s survival mode misfiring.

One of the hardest truths for families (and responders) to accept: relapse is not failure. It’s expected. It’s part of the disease. Think of it like diabetes. If a diabetic’s blood sugar spikes, we don’t throw up our hands and say, “Well, they failed at being diabetic.” We adjust treatment. Addiction should be seen the same way. Relapse means treatment and support need adjusting…not that the person is hopeless.

In the last decade, fentanyl has turned addiction into Russian roulette. Just one counterfeit pill can kill. Potency is so high that many users never even get the chance to “hit rock bottom”.  The drug kills them long before they’re ready to seek help. This means that every overdose call matters. Every Narcan administration matters. Every word you say to that patient when they wake up matters. Because you may be the only barrier standing between them and a deadly final dose.

Addiction almost never starts in a vacuum. For many, it’s rooted in trauma, mental illness, chronic pain, or a desperate attempt to numb something unbearable. As first responders, we see it all the time… the veteran with PTSD, the teen who’s been abused, the firefighter who uses alcohol to quiet the nightmares.

If you can shift your mindset from “Why are they doing this?” to “What pain are they trying to escape?” you’ll start to see addiction not as a series of bad choices, but as a desperate survival strategy that has spiraled out of control.

Addiction is a disease. A real, diagnosable, treatable disease. Just like heart disease, diabetes, or asthma, it requires medical care, support, and management. And just like those other diseases, shaming the patient doesn’t cure them… but treatment, compassion, and persistence might.

When we understand addiction as a disease of the brain, not a failure of character, we shift from frustration to empathy. From judgment to compassion. From dismissing the patient to actually giving them a fighting chance.

Photo courtesy of DanSun Photo Art

The First Responder’s Role

When the tones drop and you’re sent to an overdose, you may think your role is simple: keep the patient alive, give the Narcan, clear the call, and get back in service. But the truth is, your role is so much bigger than that.

For many people struggling with addiction, you are the first and sometimes the only healthcare professional they’ll see. They may not trust doctors. They may not have insurance. They may not walk into a clinic or a hospital. But they will see you when their life is on the line. That makes you the gatekeeper. You’re not just treating an airway, you’re shaping whether this person ever reaches out for help again.

Every overdose call, every withdrawal call, every “sick and vomiting” call connected to drugs is an opportunity to plant a seed. It may not grow right away. They may still use tomorrow. They may still relapse next week. But that moment of compassion you give them may be the thing they remember when they’re finally ready to reach for recovery.

I’ve had people come up to me years after an overdose and say, “I remember the medic who didn’t judge me. I remember the cop who said, ‘I’m glad you’re still here.’ That was the first time I thought maybe my life was worth something.” The power of your words in those moments cannot be overstated. Saying, “You’re lucky we got to you in time,” can feel like shame. Saying, “I’m glad you’re still here,” can feel like hope. It takes the same amount of breath. But one shames, and one saves.

Handing out a Narcan kit isn’t enabling…it’s giving someone another chance to live long enough to find recovery. Offering a resource card isn’t pointless…it might be the very card they reach for when they hit rock bottom. Treating them with dignity, even when they’re at their lowest, models what recovery is supposed to look like! People seeing their worth when they can’t see it themselves.

I know what some of you are thinking: “But we see the same people over and over again. When is enough, enough?” Believe me, I’ve thought that too.

Here’s the truth: you don’t have to fix their addiction in one shift. That’s not your job. Your job is to keep them alive long enough for them to have the chance to choose recovery. And sometimes, it takes ten calls before someone finally accepts help. Sometimes it takes twenty. But if you give up on them, that next call might not come… because they’ll be gone.

You hold more power than you realize. You can be the wall that reinforces stigma, or the bridge that leads someone toward help. You can be the reason they never call again, or the reason they’re still alive to try one more time.

Every encounter is more than a call. It’s a chance to choose compassion over judgment.

What I Wish My Colleagues Knew

I’ve sat in the same ambulances, the same ER bays, the same firehouse kitchens as many of you. I’ve heard the jokes, the sighs, the frustration when another overdose call came in. And for years, I nodded along. I thought the same things: They’ll never change. They’re wasting our time. We should be out saving “real” patients. But losing Mya shattered that version of me.

Now, when I hear those words, I don’t hear dark humor anymore. I hear daggers. I hear what my daughter might have felt if someone said them in her presence. I hear how it would have cut her down in a moment when she was already fighting to hold on.

What I wish my colleagues knew is this: that’s someone’s baby you’re talking about. That’s someone’s daughter, someone’s son. That’s a kid who once played T-ball, who stayed up late watching Disney movies, who begged their mom for a bedtime story.

When you roll your eyes at the patient on the floor, you’re rolling your eyes at a lifetime of love behind them. You’re rolling your eyes at a parent who hasn’t slept, who is pacing the floor and praying for a call that never comes, praying for another chance that they may never get.

When Mya died, I thought about all the times she might have heard words like that. Did a medic sigh when they walked into her room? Did a nurse mutter under their breath when she showed up again? Did she feel like she was just a burden…not worth saving? That question guts me.

Because the truth is, Mya was worth everything. She was worth every Narcan dose, every transport, every single effort to keep her alive until she could find freedom. She was not disposable. She was my world. And every patient you encounter is someone’s world.

I know the burnout is real. I know the frustration of feeling like you’re just spinning your wheels with the same patients. But if I could stand in front of every first responder in America, I’d tell you this: you don’t have to carry their whole recovery… you just have to carry compassion for the moment you’re with them.

What I wish my colleagues knew is that compassion is not weakness. It’s not “going soft.” It’s strength. It’s choosing to see the human when everyone else sees the “addict”. It’s remembering that the uniform on your back carries the weight of hope and hope is sometimes the only thing standing between life and death. So, when you show up on that next overdose call, I beg you: see my daughter in them. See Mya. And treat them the way you would want someone to treat her if she were still here.

Breaking Stigma Inside the Uniform

Here’s the hard truth most of us don’t like to admit, addiction isn’t just happening in alleyways or to “those people” we get called out for. It’s happening in our own ranks. I’ve worked alongside medics, firefighters, police officers, and nurses who struggled silently with alcohol, pills, or worse. I’ve watched colleagues white-knuckle their way through PTSD, night terrors, and grief. I’ve seen the quiet handoffs in the parking lot, the flask in the locker, the pain pills that were never really “for their back injury.”

We wear the uniform, we put on the badge, and we carry this image of strength. But the truth is, the trauma we absorb on the job eats away at us, and too many of us self-medicate to survive it.

We are not immune. In fact, we’re at higher risk. The calls we see, the bodies we carry, the cries of parents we’ll never forget, it doesn’t just roll off our backs. Sleep deprivation, shift work, and constant stress wear us down. The culture of “suck it up” leaves no room for vulnerability. So, we turn to what’s available: alcohol, painkillers, stimulants. Some of us turn to silence. Too many of us turn to suicide. And here’s the kicker, the same stigma we throw at our patients lives inside our own walls. How many of us would openly admit to our crew that we’re struggling? How many of us would raise our hand and say, “I’m drinking too much. I’m popping pills I wasn’t prescribed. I’m not okay.” Almost none. Because we know what happens next…the whispers, the judgment, the fear of being seen as weak or unfit for duty. So, we hide. And in hiding, we spiral.

If we cannot show compassion to ourselves and our brothers and sisters in uniform, how can we ever offer it to the people we’re called to save?

Breaking stigma has to start in the house. In the ambulance bay. In the briefing room. It starts when one medic turns to another and says, “Hey, I’ve noticed you’re not yourself lately. You okay?” It starts when we create a culture where asking for help isn’t career-ending, it’s lifesaving.

This is why we have created Project 10-4 through Mya’s Mission. Because first responders and veterans need a place where compassion outweighs judgment. A place where financial barriers to counseling, medication, or inpatient treatment are removed. A place where we can finally say: “It’s okay not to be okay, and it’s okay to get help.”

When we build compassion inside the uniform, we’re not only saving our own, we’re learning how to extend that same compassion outward to the people we serve.

Here’s the truth: if you think addiction can’t happen to you or your partner, you’re lying to yourself. We’re all human. And if you can acknowledge that in your own life, maybe…just maybe… you’ll find it easier to see the humanity in the patient lying on the floor.

Compassion isn’t just a nice idea…it’s a skill you can practice, just like intubation or starting an IV. And just like any other skill, it gets easier the more you do it. Here are some simple, concrete ways first responders can show compassion on scene without adding time, cost, or extra burden to the call.

Words That Heal vs. Words That Harm

Instead of this…

“Here we go again.”

“You’re lucky we got to you in time.”

“When are you going to learn?”

“You’re wasting our resources.”

Say this…

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

“You scared us, but you made it through.”

“You matter. I hope you’ll keep fighting.”

“You’re not alone in this.”

The first set reinforces shame. The second set plants hope. Both take the same amount of breath… but one could be the reason they call for help again instead of giving up.

Body Language Matters

Patients pick up on your tone, your sighs, your eye rolls. Even if you never say a harsh word, your body tells them how you feel.

Make eye contact. Speak calmly. Kneel or crouch to their level instead of towering over them. Avoid laughing or making side comments in front of them.

Compassion isn’t just what you say…it’s how you show up.

Not every patient is ready to go to treatment that day. That’s okay. But you can still leave the door open. Hand them a card with local treatment hotlines. Tell them where they can get Narcan in the community. Say, “If you ever want help, this is where you can start.” You don’t have to argue or convince. Just plant the seed.

One of the most damaging myths in EMS and law enforcement is that Narcan “just enables them.” The truth is, Narcan saves lives… period! Without it, there is no chance for recovery. Think of Narcan the way you’d think of an AED. Would we withhold a shock from someone who collapsed in cardiac arrest because “they might not take care of their heart after this”? Of course not. Addiction deserves the same logic.

De-escalation Through Dignity

Scenes with overdose patients can get tense… families yelling, patients combative, bystanders angry. One of the simplest de-escalation tools is dignity.

Speak the patient’s name. Acknowledge the family’s fear. Keep your voice low and steady. It doesn’t just calm the scene…it protects you and your crew.

Know your Limits but Use your window

You can’t fix someone’s addiction in 20 minutes on scene. That’s not your job. But you can use that small window to show them something they might not have seen in months…someone who still believes they’re worth saving.

Compassion in the field doesn’t require extra supplies or extra time. It just requires intention. It’s replacing frustration with presence, sarcasm with dignity, and judgment with humanity. Sometimes the only thing you’ll leave behind on a call is an empty Narcan vial and a sentence they’ll remember forever. Make sure that sentence is worth remembering.

Hope Is Contagious

One of the hardest parts about working in EMS, fire, or law enforcement is that we rarely see the ending. We show up in someone’s worst moment, we do what we can, and then we hand them off. Most of the time, we never know what happens after that. Did they make it? Did they relapse? Did they find treatment? Or did they die alone in a bathroom weeks later?

That lack of closure feeds the cynicism. It’s easy to assume that no one changes, that the same faces will always circle back. But here’s the truth I’ve learned through Mya’s Mission; people do change. Recovery happens. And sometimes, the smallest act of compassion on scene is what plants the first seed.

I think about a young man named Daniel… the first grant recipient through Mya’s Mission. He was 22, the same age as Mya, and struggling deeply with addiction. There were plenty of people who probably looked at him and thought, “He’ll never make it.” But he got into treatment. He worked the program. And today, he’s thriving.

He told me once that what kept him going in those early days wasn’t just the treatment itself… it was the people along the way who reminded him his life was worth living. The ones who didn’t give up on him, even when he wanted to give up on himself. I wonder how many first responders crossed paths with him before he turned his life around. I wonder if they knew they were part of his story.

I’ve heard from others in recovery that a single sentence from a medic or a police officer stuck with them for years. Not the judgment. Not the lecture. The words of kindness. The moment someone looked at them, sweaty and pale on the bathroom floor, and said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

Those words became a lifeline. A reminder that maybe, just maybe, they were more than their addiction.

The people who make it into recovery will tell you…it wasn’t just the program. It wasn’t just the detox or the meetings. It was the people who carried hope for them when they couldn’t carry it for themselves.

And first responders are often the first carriers of that hope. You may never see the ending. You may never know the impact you had. But your compassion in those 10 or 20 minutes could ripple for years into someone’s recovery journey.

Hope is contagious. When you extend it, you give someone the chance to believe it’s possible for them too. And when enough of us spread it, we chip away at the stigma and build a culture where people struggling with addiction are met not with shame, but with humanity. You don’t have to cure them. You just have to keep the spark alive. Because sometimes one spark of hope is all it takes to light the way forward.

Mya’s Legacy, Our Responsibility

When my daughter Mya died from fentanyl poisoning, my world broke in half. And as a paramedic, my view of the overdose calls I’d run for two decades shattered with it. I no longer see “just another overdose.” I see Mya. I see someone’s child, someone’s best friend, someone’s parent, someone’s everything. And that’s what I need you to see, too.

You are more than a technician with tools. You are more than a uniform on scene. You are often the first and only person standing between life and death. Your words, your tone, your compassion…or your judgment… can shape whether someone reaches for help or gives up. You may not fix their addiction in one shift. You may not see their recovery. But you can keep them alive long enough to have a chance at it.

Choose your words carefully. See the human in front of you. Carry hope when they can’t carry it for themselves. Because compassion doesn’t just make you a better medic, cop, or firefighter. It makes you a lifesaver in the truest sense of the word.

To the Public, to Families, to Bystanders

Addiction is not a crime of character. It is not a choice to die. It is a disease that feeds on silence, shame, and stigma. And every single one of us has the power to fight it. When you see someone struggling, you don’t have to understand everything about addiction to show kindness.

If you witness an overdose, call 911.

If you carry Narcan, use it. If you know someone fighting addiction, tell them you love them, tell them you believe in them, tell them they matter. You may feel helpless, but I promise you… your compassion matters. Just as much as the medic who pushes Narcan, or the cop who kneels beside someone gasping for breath, or the firefighter who steadies a frantic parent.

A Shared Responsibility

Addiction took my daughter, but it will not take her legacy. Through Mya’s Mission, I fight every day to make sure her story teaches others what I learned too late: that judgment never saved a life, but compassion just might.

This is our responsibility…yours and mine, uniform or not. To see the humanity. To choose compassion over judgment. To remember that every person we encounter is someone’s Mya.

Because one act of compassion… one word, one moment, one choice, can be the difference between life and death. And it might just be the spark that saves a life, a family, a future.

Final Call to Action:

To every first responder, every bystander, every parent, every neighbor: Let’s carry hope, not stigma. Let’s speak life, not shame. And let’s fight this epidemic not only with Narcan and protocols, but with the most powerful tool we all already have… compassion

A Note to Departments, Leaders, and Communities

If you’re reading this and you are a first responder, supervisor, manager, or leader, and you want to bring this message of compassion over judgment to your team… Mya’s Mission would be honored to come and speak.

I share Mya’s story, not just as a grieving mother, but as a paramedic with 20 years in EMS who understands the culture, the frustrations, and the burnout. My presentations blend real stories with education, tools, and heart… because sometimes the missing piece isn’t another protocol, it’s a change in perspective.

If you have employees who are struggling… whether with addiction, mental health, or the weight of the job… please reach out. Through our foundation, we can help connect them with resources, peer-to-peer support, and even financial assistance for counseling, therapy, or treatment through our grant program. We’re here to walk beside you. To support your crews, your families, and your community.

Contact us at Mya’s Mission to schedule a presentation, connect your people to resources, or simply start the conversation. Together, we can save lives… not just in the back of an ambulance, but in the hearts and minds of those who serve and those who are struggling!