When I retired from my 911 center in July of 2023, I thought I was prepared.

After years of climbing the ranks from dispatcher to CTO, supervisor, manager, and eventually director, I knew I’d be stepping away from the daily grind, the relentless schedule, and the never-ending emergencies.

What I didn’t prepare for was the gut-punch realization that leaving the center didn’t mean leaving behind the people, the instincts, or the deeply ingrained habits that dispatch had wired into me.

I had heard it plenty of times over the years — dispatch gets into your blood. It threads through your DNA. It changes how you see and react to the world.

I nodded along whenever someone said it, agreeing in principle. But I had never truly understood that reality from the outside looking in. I was a lifer, through and through. I had spent decades in this industry, working every kind of call, leading through every kind of crisis, and standing shoulder to shoulder with the best people I’ve ever known.

And then, one day, I wasn’t there anymore.

I expected to miss the job — the responsibility, the problem-solving, the moments where good leadership meant the difference between chaos and control.

What I didn’t expect was how much I’d still feel the pull of the work.

Dispatch doesn’t just change how you work — it changes how you think. It rewires you. You process information differently. You come to expect the world to function like it does inside the center. And then, when you step away, you realize that no one else got that memo.

It was subtle at first.

I’d hear a siren in the distance, and before I could stop myself, my brain was already dispatching units, calculating backup, and estimating response times.

In the grocery store checkout line, I’d watch an argument unfold and instinctively prepare to classify it — verbal disturbance or about to go full-blown assault in progress?

But the real test of willpower? Sitting through someone’s meandering, detail-packed story, gripping the edge of my seat, waiting—praying—for my “What’s the location?” moment so I could cut in, take control, and bring some order to the madness.

The real kicker? I still answer the phone like I’m in dispatch. “Where are you and what’s going on?” is, apparently, not an acceptable greeting when my dentist’s office calls to confirm an appointment.

Those first few months after retirement were filled with little moments like that — reminders that even if I was done with dispatch, dispatch wasn’t done with me.

Missing the job is one thing. Missing the people? That’s something else entirely.

If you know, you know.

There’s a bond between dispatchers, between first responders, between the people who live in this world, that’s impossible to replicate anywhere else.

It’s built on shared experience, dark humor, and the unshakable understanding that some calls never fully leave you. It’s knowing that, no matter how bad it gets, dispatchers are there with you, feeling what you feel, knowing what you know.

Stepping away meant stepping out of that daily connection — the inside jokes, the camaraderie, the ridiculous conversations that would give HR heart palpitations.

It meant no longer having “my people” right there in the trenches with me.

I’d be lying if I said that part didn’t sting.

But here’s the thing: the bond doesn’t break just because you’re not clocking in.

One of the best parts of what I do now with The Healthy Dispatcher is that I still get to be around dispatchers.

Truly, my people.

It turns out, you don’t have to be inside the center to support the people in it.

Now, instead of taking calls, I get to help the people who do. I get to talk to dispatchers across the country, hear their stories, and remind them that they’re not losing their minds when they experience the same post-dispatch rewiring that I did.

I get to tell them that the skills, instincts, and habits they’ve built over years of doing this work don’t just disappear — and that’s not a bad thing. It means they are forever part of this community, no matter where they go.

And most importantly, I get to remind them that the work they do matters.

That they matter.

Leaving dispatch isn’t just changing jobs — it’s redefining who you are.

It means walking away from the console but never quite turning off the instincts that kept you steady when everything else spun out of control.

The headset may be gone, but the way you think, react, and process the world stays.

You don’t stop being the person who made split-second decisions and carried the weight of emergencies — you just learn to navigate life without the radio in your ear and dispatchers by your side.

Honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, if you’ve retired, moved on, or are just thinking about what life after dispatch might look like, know this: you’re never really gone. The skills, the instincts, the deep connection to your fellow dispatchers — it all stays with you.

And the best part? You will always have people who understand.

Because once you’ve worn the headset, once you’ve made the calls that change lives, once you’ve been part of this incredible, chaotic, resilient community — there’s no going back.

And that’s a good thing.