In unfamiliar places, the stakes are lower. After two decades in a profession where the stakes are often life or death, that distinction matters more than I ever expected.
When I travel, the parts of me that evolved from emergency work don’t just disappear. I still notice exits, watch how crowds move, and register subtle shifts in tone and weather.
As a fire captain, that vigilance has become second nature. At emergency scenes, people look to individuals such as me for direction when the situation is loud, chaotic and uncertain: People crying for their loved ones; homes destroyed; human life at stake. Decisions must be made quickly and clearly, with consequences that don’t fade when the crew returns to service.
For leaders in the fire service, constant vigilance is a professional requirement, but without intentional release, it becomes corrosive.
Different awareness
The job trains us to anticipate worst-case outcomes, manage strong personalities and carry responsibility long after the scene clears. Without deliberate ways to step out of that posture, the work slowly narrows your world.
That vigilance never really goes away, but on the road, for me, it stops feeling like an armor of sorts and starts feeling more like adventure and curiosity. Awareness and being present feel more like engagement and awakening instead of defense.
While hiking a ridgeline, cycling a coastal road or running through a city before it wakes up, my body is doing what it was trained to do—move, adapt, endure—but without the moral and emotional weight of command and consequence. No one’s life depends on my next decision. No one is waiting for orders. If I take the wrong turn, the worst outcome is inconvenience—maybe a longer route, but maybe a better view, too. There’s real freedom and relief in that distinction.
At work, responsibility doesn’t end when the call does. Being a fire captain means carrying the after-effects—reports to complete, decisions to defend, training plans to adjust, the emotional well-being of my crew and myself to monitor. It means balancing strong personalities in the firehouse, reading tensions before they surface and setting a tone that holds a crew together under stress. Leadership is constant, even when it isn’t in-your-face present.
Travel interrupts that current
When I’m traveling, I still make decisions, but the scale shrinks. I choose a direction. I adjust when conditions change. I trust my instincts without needing justification or documentation. I arrive somewhere under my own power. Those small successes accumulate quietly, to rebuild confidence where it’s been worn thin by responsibility.
Emergency work taught me to live with the illusion of control. You do everything right, but life still is lost. You make sound decisions in impossible circumstances and carry the sometimes negative outcomes anyway. Over time, that’s eroded something subtle in me—not my competence, but my sense of hope, because there always is another emergency. Travel gives me some of that back, not always through control or adrenaline, but through participation, being present and freedom.
Traveling with my wife and three daughters sharpens that effect even more. Away from schedules, alarms, emails and personnel issues, we move through the world together at a more human pace. Morning walks instead of rushed routines, with the sound of ocean waves replacing sirens. Shared meals that don’t revolve around shifts or recovery. Laughter that isn’t squeezed into the margins of exhaustion. Watching my girls navigate new places—with curiosity instead of immediacy—reminds me what presence looks like when it isn’t fractured by urgency.
Perspective arrives without effort
The problems that feel enormous to me at home shrink to their proper size when my biggest responsibility is helping my daughter climb onto a dogsled or deciding whether to stop for gelato before dinner. Joy becomes simpler, more physical and freer, less duty and obligation.
I’ve noticed that my best travel days mirror the structure of my best days on the job—movement early, purpose without panic, effort that leads to rest—but without the emotional tax. The body works. The mind quiets. Sleep comes easily.
Adventure doesn’t need to be extreme to be effective. Sometimes, it’s a long walk through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Sometimes, it’s swimming in cold water, because it reminds you that discomfort still can be selected—the shock sharp and real and honest, gone as quickly as it arrived. Sometimes, it’s simply being far enough from home to remember that life isn’t only lived in response mode.
Travel doesn’t make me forget my work though. It helps me to carry it differently. It reminds me that leadership always doesn’t have to mean control, that awareness doesn’t have to mean anxiety, and that the same instincts trained for emergencies also can guide me toward joy, connection and steadiness.
Knowing movement without urgency
When I return home from traveling, the calls still are there. The reports and training still await. The personalities still collide. The physical and emotional toll remains. However, I come back with something the job rarely provides on its own: the memory of choice, of movement without urgency, of being present with the people who I love in a world that feels wide open instead of overwhelming, and of knowing that there’s life and a different type of adventure on the other side of the alarms.
When I return to the station, that steadiness shows up in how I lead, how I follow, how I listen, how I serve and how I carry the responsibility of wearing the Maltese Cross. That changes how I show up for the job.
