Toni Lynn

This picture was taken last August 27th—me, standing under a waterfall in Utah, bloodied, bruised, and freshly wounded from a nasty fall on the mountain.

I had flown out to surprise my dear friend for her birthday, and in true “us” fashion, we set out to chase a waterfall together. That’s our thing—chasing waterfalls, laughing at the adventures (and misadventures) along the way, and soaking in nature’s beauty.

Only this time, I slipped and fell hard.

Choosing to Push Through the Pain

I cleaned myself up as best I could, and even though my body ached and my lip was swollen, I pushed forward. I wasn’t about to waste the little time I had with her. The view was breathtaking, the water ice-cold and invigorating, and the memory—worth the pain.

My sweet friend even offered to head back, but I quickly dismissed the idea. I wasn’t going to let a fall ruin our day together.

Looking back, isn’t that exactly what so many of us do with our pain? We get bruised, cut, or broken—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—and we push it aside. We ignore it. We convince ourselves we can power through. We don’t want to appear weak or burden anyone else, so we keep going. We hope the pain will fade if we just don’t give it too much attention. But that’s rarely how life works.

And as a first responder spouse, I see this same mindset play out constantly—both in my officer and in the families who stand behind them. Officers are trained to push through, to keep going, to compartmentalize. And spouses often fall into the same rhythm—pushing aside their own pain so they don’t “add to the load.” But pushing through always comes at a cost.

Ignoring Pain Doesn’t Make It Go Away

The next morning, I boarded a 6 a.m. flight back to Denver. That short flight felt like an eternity. My neck and shoulder throbbed relentlessly, my arm refused to move, my knee was scraped, and my lip was painfully swollen. To top it off, for the first time ever, I was stopped by TSA for a pat down. Every place the agent touched sent a jolt of pain through me, leaving me wincing with each movement.

I hobbled through the airport, fighting tears, determined to look “fine.” It wasn’t until I landed and stepped outside the Denver airport that I finally let myself cry.

My husband rushed me to urgent care to make sure nothing was broken. Nothing was. But that night, life demanded even more of me—our youngest was admitted to the PICU. Instead of resting and caring for my body, I spent the next 6 days in a hospital room, once again putting my needs on hold.

This cycle is familiar in the first responder world. Emergencies don’t wait for us to be ready. Crises don’t pause to see if we’re okay. We push through because duty calls, because our kids need us, because the community is counting on them and we are holding the home together. But ignoring pain—physical or emotional—doesn’t make it disappear.

A Year Later: The Cost of Pushing Through

Fast forward a year, and the pain in my neck has only worsened. It turns out that fall left me with a herniated disc that’s been pressing on nerves ever since, the disc thinning significantly over the last year until now my entire left arm is numb.

Today, I’m heading in for an injection, hoping to relieve the inflammation. But realistically, I know the end result will likely be surgery—a full disc replacement.

And here’s the truth: ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away. Whether it’s physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual, when we bury our wounds, they fester. We may limp along for a while, convincing ourselves we’re managing, but eventually the unresolved pain surfaces. It demands our attention. It forces us to stop.

This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of countless officers who push through trauma without processing it, and spouses who carry silent wounds of fear, isolation, and exhaustion. Sooner or later, what’s ignored finds a way of making itself known.

Healing Starts With Acknowledging the Hurt

I can’t help but wonder: what if I had admitted to my friend that day that I was truly hurt? What if I had slowed down, seen a doctor, and cared for myself right away? Maybe the healing would have come sooner.

And isn’t that true in so many areas of our lives?

What if officers didn’t have to carry the unspoken expectation to be “tough” all the time?

What if spouses didn’t feel like they had to smile through the storm and pretend they’re fine?

What if we all spoke up instead of silently suffering?

Perhaps we’d see less burnout.

Less substance abuse.

Less depression.

Fewer suicides.

Maybe healing would come sooner.

The Power of Vulnerability and Self-Care

The truth is this: pain doesn’t make us weak. Admitting it doesn’t make us a burden. What makes us stronger is honesty—acknowledging where we’re hurting and taking steps toward healing.

For officers, that may look like peer support, counseling, or taking time off to recover after critical incidents. For spouses, it might mean leaning on community, speaking with a therapist, or simply saying to a trusted friend, “I’m not okay right now.”

As I face this season of healing in my own body, I’m learning this truth again: we can’t chase waterfalls, or life, or dreams, while ignoring the wounds we carry. Eventually, they catch up to us.

So maybe the bravest thing we can do—as officers, as spouses, as human beings—is pause, admit our pain, and allow ourselves to heal.

Final Reflection

We all carry wounds—some visible, others invisible. The question is: will we keep pushing through, pretending we’re fine, or will we stop and give ourselves permission to heal?

To my fellow first responder spouses and officers: what pain have you been ignoring that’s asking for your attention? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments—your story may be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.