Moving Forward, Not Moving On: A Firefighter’s Legacy
It was a typical Saturday morning at our house. My brother Matthew had a basketball tournament, and my mom was getting things ready for us to leave. Then, I heard the fire whistle and my dad’s pager went off. In a hurry to leave, my mom asked me to grab his pager, and I handed it to him. He kissed my forehead and said, “I love you little buddy, I’ll be back in a little bit.” He gave my mom a kiss and told her to tell Matthew he loved him, then rushed out the back door to the fire hall. Those were the last words he ever said to any of us.
That moment stayed with me, and as I reflect on it today, I realize how deeply those words, “I love you little buddy, I’ll be back in a little bit,” mean to me. I never knew that “I’ll be back” would be the last time I’d hear his voice. Grief isn’t a chapter you close. It’s not something you “move on” from, despite what the world sometimes expects.
Instead, grief reshapes you, becoming a part of who you are. I know this because, 21 years later, I have moved forward. It no longer consumes me, but it will always be a part of my story.
My dad, a firefighter who gave his life in the line of duty.
On that tragic day, my dad was called to a Valentine’s Day house fire where an elderly woman was trapped inside. Without hesitation, he and his partner ran in to save her. They weren’t just doing their job—they were answering a call to serve, to protect, to risk everything for someone else’s life. But as they worked to rescue her, the roof collapsed, trapping them both inside the burning home. That was the last time my dad ever walked out of a fire.
I was only four years old when he died, too young to understand what had happened. I didn’t process loss the way an adult would. I didn’t even realize what grief was. To me, growing up without a dad wasn’t a loss—it was just my reality. It was the only life I had ever known.
But my mom? She understood the weight of it all.
She was only 34 years old with two kids under the age of 10, suddenly forced to take on the roles of both mom and dad. And she did it with strength and grace. She became the rock of our family, ensuring that my brother and I had every opportunity in life, despite the unimaginable loss we had suffered. She is truly an incredible woman.
The Journey of Healing
Because my father’s death was a line-of-duty death, he was honored at the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation Memorial in Emmitsburg, Maryland. The memorial, a powerful tribute to those who have made the ultimate sacrifice, features an eternal flame symbolizing their spirit and dedication. Every year, families of fallen firefighters gather there to remember, to grieve, and to honor the legacies left behind.
In 2012, the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation (NFFF) partnered with Comfort Zone Camp (CZC) in memory of Hal Bruno, creating a space for children like me—those who had lost a firefighter parent—to find support, connection, and healing.
Attending Comfort Zone Camp changed my life. It introduced me to a whole new community of people from across the country, many of whom remain some of my closest friends to this day. These friendships have spanned over a decade, leading me to attend high school and college graduations, stand in wedding parties, and celebrate life’s biggest milestones with people who truly understand my journey.
When I was 13, I attended CZC for the first time, unsure of what to expect. It was there that I met Chad, my Big Buddy, who walked alongside me in my grief for seven years. Our connection was more than just a camp pairing—it was the embodiment of what Comfort Zone Camp strives to create. He was the role model and friend I never knew I needed, showing me that healing was possible and that I didn’t have to navigate my grief alone.
Fast forward to 2024, and I finally had the opportunity to return to CZC—not as a camper, but as a Big Buddy myself. In July, I had the profound privilege of spending time in Indiana at Comfort Zone Camp, once again in partnership with the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation, supporting children who had lost a firefighter parent in the line of duty.
Words can’t fully capture how extraordinary this experience was. It was a full-circle moment—standing in the very shoes that Chad once stood in, mentoring a new young child who, like me years ago, was just trying to figure out what life without a parent was supposed to look like.
Watching these kids find moments of joy, connection, and growth in a single weekend reminded me why this camp will always hold a special place in my heart.
A Life Worth Living
Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. There is no set timeline for when you “should” feel okay. And yet, at some point, I realized that I couldn’t keep dwelling in the past. I couldn’t let my grief define me.
Instead, I chose to move forward—not by forgetting, but by carrying my father’s memory with me in everything I do.
I knew I had to make my dad proud even though he is no longer with us, so I worked hard to earn my bachelor’s degree in education, fulfilling my dream of becoming an elementary teacher to fourth and fifth graders. Teaching has given me purpose—an opportunity to make a difference, just as my father did in his own way.
I then pursued my master’s degree in education, preparing for my next dream: becoming a school principal. Education is my passion, and I want to be a leader who creates a school community where every child feels seen, supported, and inspired.
Now, as I look ahead, I’m considering my next step—whether to earn an Educational Specialist degree or a doctorate in education, both of which will allow me to one day work in higher education. Each milestone is another step forward, another way to honor my father’s legacy by making a difference in the lives of others.
Because moving forward doesn’t mean leaving someone behind. It means carrying them with you, letting their legacy shape the life you build.
As a teacher, I always end my school days with “I love you and goodbye” to my students. Some of them may never hear the words “I love you” at home and desperately need to hear them from someone who cares. “Goodbye” is important too, because you truly never know when goodbye will be the last one. Just as my four-year-old self never knew that “I love you little buddy, I’ll be back in a little bit” would be a forever goodbye, my students may need to hear those words from me to know they are loved, no matter what.
A Message to Those Who Are Grieving
To anyone who is struggling, to anyone feeling the weight of grief, I want to remind you that you are not alone. Grief can feel isolating, like you’re trapped in a world where no one understands. But I assure you, there is always someone who does. Whether it’s a support group, a friend, or a stranger who’s walked a similar path, you are never truly alone.
And to those who are wondering if they should ask for help—do it. Please, reach out. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to lean on others when you’re feeling broken, because tomorrow always needs you. The world keeps turning, and you will, too, even if it feels like you’re standing still.
When I lost my dad, I didn’t think the world had ended—because I was too young to know what the world even was.
I didn’t understand loss the way an adult would. But as I grew, I began to feel the weight of what had been taken from me. And yet, with every step I took, I realized that my dad’s last words were a promise. “I love you little buddy, I’ll be back in a little bit.”
He never came back—but his love never left. And neither will theirs. So keep going. Keep living. Keep carrying them with you. Because love like that doesn’t disappear—it becomes a part of you, woven into every step you take, every breath you breathe, and every moment you keep going.
And that means they’re never truly gone, and neither are you.
By: Ryan Woitalewicz
