Downrange Warriors: Program helps first responders deal with stresses of the job

I will be the first to admit that, until recently, I had never truly thought about the mental health toll carried by first responders.

Like many of us, I suspect, I have tended to look at our small towns through what my mother used to call “rose-colored glasses.” We wrap ourselves in Christmas tree lights and familiar routines, settle in with rom-coms on television and quietly reassure ourselves that truly frightening things happen far away, in places we can’t pronounce, not here, not to people we know.

But the truth is, our communities are not immune to violence, trauma or deep stress.

The people who stand between those realities and the rest of us are often our law enforcement officers, first responders and emergency personnel. Day after day, they step into situations most of us will never face. In many ways, they do their jobs so the rest of us don’t have to carry those experiences ourselves.

The unspeakable events that took place in Byron this past February would be more than enough trauma for any one person in a lifetime. Yet for first responders, moments like that are rarely isolated. Thankfully, few are so horrific, but they accumulate. Scene after scene. Call after call. Things that cannot be unseen or unfelt.

I came to this realization last Tuesday when I sat down with my longtime friend and former student, Shane Brost, and heard him speak openly about his own struggles. He talked about coming to terms with the reality that years of exposure to traumatic events had begun to affect his mental health and, even more concerning, how that strain quietly radiated into his marriage, his relationships with his children and those around him.

When Shane talked about why he became involved in the Downrange Warriors program, it wasn’t because he had reached a breaking point.

“I wanted to be proactive with my mental health,” he said, explaining that after ten years in law enforcement, he understood how exposure works. Not in one dramatic moment, but slowly. Repeatedly.

He spoke about how easy it is to tell others to take care of themselves while assuming you’ll be fine: “When this opportunity came up, I thought I ought to take advantage of it so I don’t become part of that statistic later in life.” There was no alarm in his voice, just awareness.

What stayed with me most was how he described learning that trauma doesn’t always announce itself.

“I can pick a dozen things and tell you they don’t bother me,” Shane said. “But then you look at the things around those events, and you realize they’re still there.”

The program, he explained, didn’t promise to make those experiences disappear. “They’re always going to exist in your history,” he said quietly. “It’s about identifying them, knowing what to do with them, and having somewhere to go with your thoughts instead of carrying them by yourself.”

Sitting across from him, I realized how much weight can hide behind someone who appears calm and capable.

When Shane talked about having his wife, Cammie, attend the program alongside him, his words softened.

“The stuff I see doesn’t stay at work,” he said. “Even if you don’t mean to, you bring it home.”

He talked about how trauma becomes shared, whether a spouse asks for it or not, and how Downrange helped them recognize limits.

“Not everything I do helps her, and not everything she does helps me,” he admitted. “But now we understand that better.”

What the process gave them, he said, wasn’t just tools, but a deeper ability to support one another. Listening, I was struck by how rarely we think about that second layer of cost, not just to the person in uniform, but to the people who love them.

That conversation led me to learn more about Shane and Cammie’s involvement with Downrange Warriors, a trauma-recovery program for first responders and their families.

When asked how they became involved, Cammie said Shane initially encouraged her to participate, though she was hesitant at first.

“I was unsure because of the time commitment,” she said. “I didn’t think the program was really meant for me as a law enforcement spouse. But as the weeks went on, I realized it was exactly where we both needed to be. It turned out to be something I didn’t even know we needed in our personal and professional lives.”

Cammie explained that they were graduating from the Downrange Warriors Reboot Recovery for First Responders program, a 12-15-week guided course focused on mental health, stress and trauma experienced by first responders and their families.

“The Downrange Warriors course has been an incredible and cherished experience,” she said. “It helped our family reframe how we view trauma and healing. It reminded me how important it is to invest in yourself, and it means so much to have a new community and network of people who truly understand.”

That same evening, December 2, I attended the graduation ceremony at the Lovell Community Center honoring Shane, Cammie and several other members of our community. While the event was celebratory, it was also deeply sobering.

Several of the people who stood to speak were people I know. And yet I had been naïve to the realities they face and, for some, the horrific scenes they have pushed deep into places few ever see. Scenes that follow them home, strain their marriages, darken their lives and often go unspoken until the toll becomes unbearable. All too often, that silence leads to severe depression or worse.

Each graduate was given a few minutes to share. One after another, they spoke about how the program had changed them, not just by giving them tools for difficult moments, but by giving them something just as critical: community.

Standing in that room, the rose-colored glasses finally cracked.

Again and again, the same themes surfaced. Shame. Secrecy. Isolation. A desire to protect a spouse, a family, an image, even at the cost of suffering alone.

Here are a few quotes that touched me from the graduates:

“The hardest part wasn’t the trauma itself; it was the shame and secrecy that came with it. You start thinking, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ like you’re the only one.”

“I really believed I should be able to fix my own problems. Coming here helped me admit I couldn’t do it alone.”

“For the first time, I said things out loud I had never said to anyone. And my mentor had lived the same thing. Nothing shocked her.”

“The meeting nights became a haven, a place where you could laugh, cry or just breathe without explaining yourself.”

“I thought I was fine after everything I’d seen. I wasn’t. And admitting that changed everything.”

“If you don’t think you need something like this, you probably do.”

With every word spoken and every tear shed, I found myself quietly embarrassed by my own naïveté. The message of the night was clear: the Downrange Warriors program is not just helpful. It is necessary.

I left the graduation with a new awareness and a deep sense of humility. Our communities owe so much to the men and women who run toward danger instead of away from it. The least we can do is recognize the cost of that service, support programs that meet those needs and remember that protecting mental health matters just as much as protecting physical safety.

Some realities may never fit neatly into small-town stories. But recognizing them, and standing behind those who face them, is where real community begins.

If you have never heard of Downrange Warriors or the services they provide to first responders and veterans, visit www.downrangewarriors.org. If you are able, consider making a donation to help them continue providing these lifesaving services. And if you are a first responder or veteran who could benefit, please know help is there and reach out.