12/21/2025
As we all enjoy our holiday season please think of our first responders who are all working and away from their families so we can be with ours.
CHRISTMAS ON PATROL — RESILIENCE EDITION
By Douglas P. Pflug
I remember those Christmas nights.
The world wrapped itself in laughter and light while I rolled through streets so still they almost held their breath. Houses glowed like lanterns, filled with people who had someone to hold. My headlights swept across snow-buried driveways and mailboxes bowed under winter’s weight, past windows fogged by warmth I could only feel from the outside.
In the cruiser, the silence had its own voice. The radio murmured, the coffee cooled, and my thoughts drifted to the life I’d traded to be here — the family dinners missed, the bedtime stories cut short, the quiet Christmas mornings that belonged to everyone else.
There was always another call — a welfare check, a domestic, a neighbour worried about an elderly man who hadn’t turned on his lights in two days. Each address carried its own truth: Christmas doesn’t pause the pain.
And that’s the part most people never see.
Behind the tinsel and carols, winter can be heavy. For some, it’s a season of joy; for others, it’s a reminder of what’s missing — the empty chair at the table, the silence where laughter used to live. For those working through the night — officers, nurses, dispatchers, paramedics, soldiers — it’s the quiet that gets you. The long hours. The flashing lights. The moments when you pull up to a scene and realize someone’s Christmas has just fallen apart.
We don’t talk about that enough — the mental toll that comes with service and solitude. The way the holidays can sharpen the edges of loneliness or replay the traumas you thought you’d buried. It’s not weakness. It’s human.
I’ve seen too many good people wear invisible wounds. We joke, we deflect, we tell each other we’re fine — but sometimes the hardest thing is admitting that the job doesn’t end when you hang up the uniform. It follows you home, sits in the room with you, and sometimes whispers or even screams when you’re trying to sleep.
That’s why connection matters — even one text, one call, one small act of reaching out.
Because for every house glowing with family inside, there’s someone sitting in a dark room, wondering if they still matter. The truth is, they do. You do. Every shift, every sleepless night, every time you answer the radio when it would be easier not to — it matters.
Working Christmas isn’t punishment. It’s sacrifice with purpose. It’s love in uniform. It’s the unspoken promise or oath in service that someone will always be out there when others can’t be.
3 WAYS TO PUSH THROUGH THE ROUGH TIMES
1. Talk — Don’t Bottle It Up.
Silence can turn heavy thoughts into anchors. Find one person you trust — a friend, a peer, a counsellor — and speak the truth. Saying “I’m not okay” doesn’t show weakness; it shows courage. The pressure inside only loses power once it’s spoken aloud.
2. Create Small Rituals of Peace.
You might not get the perfect holiday, but you can still create moments of calm. Light a candle before a shift. Play one song that grounds you. Write a message to someone you miss. These rituals don’t erase the hard parts — they remind you that life still holds beauty, even in the chaos.
3. Move Your Body, Quiet Your Mind.
When the weight builds, move. Walk, run, lift, stretch — whatever keeps the blood moving and the thoughts from freezing. Then pause and breathe. Even two minutes of stillness can reset your nervous system. The body carries what the heart can’t always process — movement helps it release.
So this holiday season, check on your friends. Call the ones who’ve gone quiet. And if you’re the one staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m., remember — there’s nothing wrong with needing rest, with needing help, with needing hope. The strongest people I’ve ever known are the ones who finally said, “I can’t carry this alone.”
To every first responder or member of the military standing watch this Christmas — to every soul who feels the cold a little deeper this time of year — I see you. You matter.
You are the light in the dark. You are proof that courage doesn’t always roar; sometimes it just shows up, quietly, again and again.
Merry Christmas to those who keep the world safe, even when your own heart is tired. To those feeling lonely or left out. The world may not always see you — but I do. And I thank you.
DP
