Ash Thoreau

The last couple of days have been a rollercoaster of emotions.

Earlier this week I really struggled. I had spiraled after an argument with my husband—even though we had already talked things through. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a burden to my family, like I was holding them back. The thoughts running through my head were dark. I knew they were irrational, but that doesn’t mean you can just switch them off. No matter what I did, they kept creeping back in. Work became my escape. I knew that if I stayed home, I would keep spiraling in a direction I didn’t want to go.

So, I showed up to work in tears and let the night’s calls and radio traffic slowly lull me into a false sense of normalcy. The dispatch center was like a band-aid holding me together. I could disassociate from my own thoughts and focus on other problems in the world around me.

That worked—until one of my last calls during one of my shifts.

The call came in on an administrative line, which means we didn’t get an automatic location, and the caller didn’t know exactly where they were. It was obvious right away that they needed help, and I was starting from scratch.

Using the town and a description provided by the caller, I was able to piece together where they were. I stayed on the line until my responders arrived, just talking to them about what they were going through. By the time I hung up, I felt connected to this person. I kept watching the call on my screen, hoping something would change—some kind of update about how they were doing. That rarely happens, and in this case, it didn’t.

When shift change came around, the call had long since been closed. But then my supervisor came over and quietly told me to check my email before I left.

Apparently, the caller had expressed their gratitude for me and our conversation to the responders. The responders then reached out to my supervisor to pass along the message.

The email described what the caller had said. I read it, clinging to every word. I had made a real, positive impact on someone—and suddenly, I was crying again. But this time, for the exact opposite reason.

They saved me just as much as I saved them.

I went home feeling human again. I hugged my husband the moment I walked in, and we talked like a functioning team once more. It felt like everything had clicked back into place.

After he left for work, I went to sleep. While I was out, I dreamt of one of my dogs who passed away years ago. The dream was so vivid—it felt like she was really there. I walked through a door, and she came running to greet me, yelping just like she used to when I came home from work. That sound, something I hadn’t thought about in years, came rushing back. I was so shocked to see her, I woke up. The visit was short, but precious. It was a gift.

This week reminded me that I am never fully safe from my own dark thoughts, no matter how stable I might feel. I haven’t been in that kind of darkness for years. I thought I was past it—but here I am, having survived myself again.

Maybe it was postpartum depression. I’m assuming my hormones are still out of balance after the miscarriage. If that’s the case, maybe I’ll level out again. I hope so.

But one thing I’ve always believed was proven true this week:

You never know the impact you have on others—even strangers.
Your presence in the world leaves an impression, far deeper than you realize.