My Husband Doesn't Want Me to Be a Firefighter

I always dreamed of helping people, but I put it all on hold to raise my kids. Now that I've found my calling, I'm facing upheaval at home.

Illustrations by Amy Matsushita-Beal | Edited by Lilly Dancyger

My husband, Pablo, doesn’t want me to be a firefighter. “I’ll leave,” he threatens.

I see anger in his eyes, and betrayal. He must envision my squad as buff Playgirl models whose main mission is posing for the firehouse calendar. I imagine the thoughts that must taunt him — secret affairs, late-night talks and sultry rendezvous, all sponsored by the station.

He doesn’t understand how my heart rate quickens when the station alarm sounds. How I fight to slow my breathing when the deafening tones blare, filling every space. How the acrid scent of smoke causes an adrenaline rush I can only quell by jumping from the truck and running to the hoses. He wouldn’t understand my fear of screwing up.

My fellow firefighters are the only ones I can talk to.