#110

This weekend is the memorial service I was supposed to attend to remember my friend — #110.

But I got sick, and it looks like I won’t be making the trip.

So instead, I sit here remembering.

Not just the badge number.
Not just the uniform.
But the conversations.

Not too long ago, we were talking about old times. When I started telling parts of my story, he stopped me and said,
“I’m sorry, Klasen. I never knew. I didn’t know you were going through all that.”

I told him, “No one really did.”

He meant it. I could hear it in his voice. That apology came straight from the heart.
It was almost 25 years later when he finally knew what was going on with me back then.

And now it’s my turn.

I’m sorry, Bri, if I didn’t pick up on the signs I should have.
I’m sorry I didn’t push harder when you said you were fine.
I’m sorry.

I’ve read through our texts.
Did I miss something?
I replay our conversations in my head.

But just as well as I hid it back then… so did you.

That’s the hard part about this job.
We are trained to hold the line.
To be steady.
To say we’re fine — even when we’re not.

Peer support exists because of that truth.

It exists because sometimes the strongest ones are the quietest about their pain.
It exists because we don’t always see it — even when we care deeply.
It exists because sometimes “I’m fine” is the most dangerous sentence in the room.

Over the years I’ve learned something difficult but true:
Everyone has to walk their own journey.
We may see the train coming.
We may scream for them to get off the tracks.
But in the end… they only hear it if they are meant to — or if they’re ready to.

That doesn’t mean we stop asking.
It doesn’t mean we stop showing up.
It doesn’t mean we stop building spaces where “fine” isn’t the only acceptable answer.

It just means we keep trying.

I may not be at the service physically.
But absence doesn’t mean I’m not remembering.

I hope you’re at peace.
I hope somehow you can hear my thoughts and know I’m thinking of you.

Remembering

I was lucky to have known you.
Lucky to have called you my friend.

You were the street cop I looked up to.
And that’s how you’ll always be remembered.

So… with that…

OOOOOOOOOOKKKKKAAAAAY. (IYKYK)

If you’re reading this and someone comes to mind, reach out. Don’t assume they’re fine.