I Was Driving. That's It. That's the Whole Thing.

Foreign.

Kowalski's hands don't shake anymore when he gets behind the wheel.

That's not progress.

That's just what, four months of forcing yourself to drive a patrol car every shift will do.

The shaking stop, but everything else, that's still there.

I check the intersection three, four times now before I go through.

Even on a code three, even when I know it's clear.

My buddies give me shit about it, but they don't say it as they mean it.

They know why I'm doing it.

October 12, 2025.

Third shift patrol in a mid sized apartment in Indiana.

An industrial city on the Chicago border.

280 officers.

A tight department where everyone knows everyone.

Priority call comes out, noise complaint, nothing major.

Brian's driving.

His training officer, Mike Hennessy is in the passenger seat.

They've worked together for 12 years.

Mike trained Brian out of the academy.

Best friends.

Their kids play together.

Intersection is clear when Brian enters.

Traffic lights green.

He's doing maybe 40 and a 35.

Drunk driver runs the red light going 70t bones and passenger side.

Mike Hennessey dies at the scene.

Brian walks away with bruises and a concussion.

Four months later, Brian's back on patrol.

The investigation cleared him.

Nothing he could have done differently.

Driver had at 24, Bac ran a solid red.

Doesn't matter.

Brian was driving.

Mike's dead and Brian's the one who has to keep showing up to work.

This is his story.

And if you've ever been the one who survived when your partner didn't, or if you've ever tried to help an officer through that, you need to hear this.

I'm Michael Simpkins and this is Police Speak.

We've been in your shoes.

Lying awake at 3am replaying that call over and over again.

Feeling hypervigilant at the grocery store, watching peers struggle and not knowing what to say.

Police Speak was created by officers tired of seeing good people break down.

We understand the job because we've lived it and we've processed what you're experiencing.

You'll hear stories about what's worked after difficult calls.

A framework that outlines your resilience across six key areas.

We provide peer support skills you can use starting tomorrow.

Build resilience before adversity overwhelms it.

Officers, teaching officers.

Let's start with who Mike Hennessey was.

Because you can't understand what Brian lost without understanding that relationship.

Mike was a 20 year guy.

Salty, funny, gave everyone shit.

Came up when the PD was rougher.

Steel mills were closing, crime was climbing.

Department was smaller.

He knew the city knew the players, knew how to work the street.

When Brian came out of the Academy in 2011, fresh and nervous and trying to remember everything from his 12 weeks of training, Mike was his FTO.

And Mike did what good training officers do.

He taught Brian how to actually be a cop.

Mike showed me how to talk to people.

The academy teaches you the law, officer, safety and report writing.

Mike taught me the rest.

How to de escalate.

How to read a scene.

How to trust your gut when something feels wrong.

They worked together for six months during field training.

Then Brian was cut loose.

Went to afternoon shift, got assigned to different zones.

Standard progression.

But they kept crossing paths.

Same shift, same district, same calls.

And somewhere in those first few years, the FTO trainee relationship became something else.

They became friends, then family.

We'd do cookouts, take the kids to the pool.

Normal stuff.

Mike's son Ryan was on a baseball team.

I coached.

His daughter Emma was in the same class as my oldest.

We did holidays together sometimes.

By 2023, they were both on third shift, both in zone two.

Partners by choice, not assignment.

The kind of partnership where you don't need to talk much because you already know what the other guy's thinking.

12 years of that.

12 years of watching each other's backs, knowing each other's families, showing up to each other's kids birthday parties.

And then October 12th happened.

Third shift runs 10:00pm to 6:00am Brian and Mike came on at 10:00pm normal Monday night.

October in northwest Indiana, cold starting to set in.

Leaves on the ground quiet early in the shift.

Around 1:30am call comes out.

Noemi's complaint.

Apartment complex on the east side.

Caller saying someone's TV is too loud and they can't sleep.

Nothing.

Priority.

Standard nuisance call.

They take it because they're close, because it's slow, because it's the kind of call you handle so the citizen feels heard even though nothing's actually wrong.

Brian's driving.

He's always driven.

Likes to drive.

Been his habit for years.

Mike rides shotgun, handles the mdt.

Takes lead on talking to people.

Works for both of them.

They're heading east on Indianapolis Boulevard, major thoroughfare through Hammond.

1:45am on a Monday night.

Traffic is light.

Few cars here and there.

Late was green.

I remember checking it.

Intersection was clear.

No headlights, nothing.

I accelerated through.

Here's what he didn't see.

Drunk driver coming north on Calumet Avenue, running the red light at 70 miles an hour.

No headlights.

Didn't even tap his brakes.

Brian doing 40.

Passenger side of the Patrol car enters the intersection.

Impact.

I'm not going to describe what Brian saw in that moment.

He has nightmares about it every night.

He doesn't need to relive it in a podcast and you don't need those images in your head.

What you need to know is this.

Mike Hennessy died instantly.

Brian survived.

And the physics of that, the simple fact that the impact was passenger side,

that Mike was sitting where the other

car hit, that's what Brian can't get past.

I was driving.

That's it.

That's the whole thing.

I was driving.

The fire department arrived in four minutes.

Extracted Brian first because he was conscious and responsive.

He tried to tell them to get Mike out, get him to the hospital.

He's hurt worse.

They knew they could see, but they got Brian out anyway because that's the protocol.

Mike was pronounced at 1:58am Brian was transported to Methodist North Lake.

Treated for contusion to his chest from the seat belt, laceration on his forehead from broken glass and concussion.

Released same day.

The drunk driver, 42 year old guy from Gary.

Three prior DUI, suspended license.

He walked away with minor injuries.

Arrested at the scene.

Charged with causing death while operating a vehicle while intoxicated.

Held on $500,000 bond.

Investigation was straightforward.

Traffic cameras caught the whole thing.

Drunk driver ran a solid red at high speed.

No attempt to brake, no headlights.

Brian had right of way.

Traveling at reasonable speed.

No evidence of distraction or impairment.

Investigation cleared Brian within two weeks.

Found no fault, no policy violations, no preventable factors.

Doesn't help.

Investigation says I didn't do anything wrong.

Everyone says I didn't do anything long.

I know I didn't do anything wrong.

Still doesn't change that Mike's dead.

That's survivor guilt.

And for officers who've experienced it, you know that.

No amount of investigation findings, no amount of people telling you it wasn't your fault.

You were there.

And that's its own kind of hell.

Standard protocol after a line of duty death.

Officer involved gets administrative leave while investigation happens.

Brian was off for three weeks.

Went home the night of the crash.

Wife Jenny met him at the hospital, took him home.

He doesn't remember much about those first few days.

Concussion symptoms, headaches, confusion, sensitivity to light.

But mostly he remembers sitting in his living room, staring at the wall.

Mike's funeral was on a Saturday.

Full honors, bagpipes, hundreds of officers from departments across Indiana and Illinois.

Brian attended.

Wore his dress uniform.

Stood in the back because he couldn't face Katie, Mike's wife, or the kids.

Katie came up to me at the funeral home and hugged me.

Told me it wasn't my fault.

I couldn't look at her.

I still can't.

After the funeral, Brian went home and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do next.

The department offered him eap, Employee assistance program, free therapy sessions.

He didn't call.

They sent the chaplain to his house.

Twice.

Brian talked to him.

Both times politely.

Said he was fine.

He wasn't fine.

But he didn't know how to ask for help.

Didn't even know what help would look like.

What saved Brian's life in those first weeks wasn't the department's official response.

It was his buddies.

Third shift, zone two is six officers, Brian, Mike and four others.

Tight crew.

They've worked together for years.

Know each other's families, trust each other.

When Mike died, they lost one of their own and they knew Brian was drowning.

So they showed up.

Second night I was home.

Doorbell rings.

It's Tommy, one of the guys on my crew.

He's got a six pack and a pizza.

Doesn't say much, just comes in, sits on my couch, watches TV with me for three hours, then leaves.

Next night, different guy from the crew shows up, same thing.

Brings food, doesn't talk much, just sits there.

This went on for two weeks.

Every single night, someone from third shift came to Brian's house.

They rotated, planned it out among themselves, made sure someone was there.

They didn't try to fix anything.

They didn't tell me it would get better or that it wasn't my fault or any of that.

Just showed up, made sure I wasn't alone.

This is what law enforcement does when one of our own is in crisis.

The formal systems, eap, critical incident, stress, debriefing, all of that, those things help.

But what keeps an officer alive in the immediate aftermath is their crew.

Now here's where the PR6 model, the Resilience framework we talk about on this podcast explains what was actually happening in Brian's brain and body during those first weeks.

Let's talk about the health domain first.

Because in the PR6 model, health isn't about wellness or self care in some abstract sense.

It's about whether your brain has the neurobiological foundation it needs to function after trauma.

Sleep is a huge part of that foundation.

Sleep is when your brain produces bdnf, brain derived neurotrophic factor.

Think of BDNF like fertilizer for your neurons.

It helps your brain build new connections, process traumatic memories.

Literally rewire itself after critical incidents.

Brian wasn't sleeping at all, maybe two,

three hours a night.

Those first weeks, I'd close my eyes and see the crash.

See Mike jolt awake.

Try again.

Same thing.

No sleep means no BDNF production.

Which means his brain was trying to process Mike's death, trying to make sense of it, integrate it, find a way to live with it without the raw materials it needed to do that work.

On top of that, Brian wasn't eating much, wasn't exercising, was drinking more than he should have been, even in those early days.

All of that compounds the problem.

Chronic stress plus poor nutrition plus alcohol shuts down BDNF production even further.

This is why the health domain in PR6 is considered foundational.

You can have the best peer support in the world, and Brian did.

But if your brain doesn't have adequate BDNF because you're not sleeping, not moving your body, not feeding yourself properly, recovery becomes exponentially harder.

And that's exactly what happened.

The crew was showing up, keeping Brian alive, preventing him from completely isolating.

That mattered.

But his health domain was compromised enough that nothing was sticking.

Three weeks after the crash, internal affairs called.

Investigation was complete.

Brian was cleared.

No fault found.

He could return to duty.

I didn't want to go back.

I couldn't imagine getting in a patrol car again.

But I also couldn't imagine not going back.

What else was I going to do?

This is all I know.

So he came back.

End of October 2025.

Six weeks ago, as of this recording.

Third shift zone.

Two same guys, same streets.

Same zone where Mike died.

Different partner, though.

Tommy.

The guy who showed up with Pizza that second night.

He's Brian's partner now.

Doesn't say much about it.

Just got in the passenger seat and that was that.

First few shifts back were rough.

Brian would catch himself looking over at the passenger seat, expecting to see Mike, forgetting for half a second, then remembering all over again.

We drove past the intersection where it happened.

Tommy didn't say anything.

I didn't say anything.

Just drove past.

But here's where things got worse.

Brian came back to work, thinking maybe getting back to normal would help.

That maybe the routine, the structure, the familiar rhythms of patrol would start to pull him out of the hole he was in.

Instead, he discovered he couldn't do the job anymore.

Not because he forgot how, not because he was physically injured, but because every call, every decision, every moment in the patrol car, he was second guessing himself.

Composure in the PR6 model is your ability to read your own stress response and manage it before it manages you.

It's that moment when you feel your heart rate spike on a traffic stop and you make a conscious choice about how to respond.

The brain structure that does this is called the insula.

It reads your body's internal state like a dashboard and sends that information to your prefrontal cortex so you can decide what to do about it.

When trauma damages the composure system, you lose those early warnings.

Or in Brian's case, you get warnings about everything.

Constant false alarms telling you danger is everywhere.

Every traffic stop feels wrong now.

Every approach.

Every time I walk up to a car, I'm thinking about what could go wrong.

Not tactically.

I know tactical.

This is different.

I can't trust my own judgment anymore.

Priority call comes out.

Brian hesitates.

Should we respond?

Code three.

What if there's another drunk driver?

What if I miss something?

What if I make the wrong call and someone gets hurt?

Routine traffic stop.

Brian standing at the window, talking to the driver.

And his hands are shaking.

Not from fear.

From the effort of holding himself together.

The guys on my shift, they're covering for me.

Tommy takes lead on most calls now.

If I'm hesitating on a decision, someone else makes it.

They know I'm not right.

They're keeping me afloat.

That's collaboration.

One of the PR6 domains that was actually helping Brian survive.

His crew understood he was struggling.

They didn't make a big thing out of it.

They just adjusted, covered his blind spots, made sure he didn't have to make critical decisions when he couldn't trust his own judgment.

But here's the problem.

That kind of peer support can keep you alive, can keep you functioning, can give you space to start healing.

But it can't do the healing for you.

And Brian's crew knew they were reaching the limits of what they could do.

About a month after I came back, Tommy pulled me aside after shift.

Asked me straight up, you seeing anyone?

Talking to anyone?

I said, no.

He said, you need to.

This isn't getting better, Nan.

Tommy was right.

A month and a half after Mike died, Brian was back at work, functioning on the surface, but drowning underneath.

The crew had kept him alive, but they didn't know what to do next.

And that's where a lot of departments get stuck with officers in crisis.

The informal peer support guys showing up, covering for each other, making sure their buddy doesn't eat his gun.

That's instinctive.

Law enforcement officers know how to do that.

But transitioning from crisis support to actual recovery, that's where most crews run out of tools.

Brian needed more than his Crew could give him, and neither he nor they knew how to bridge that gap.

Early November 2025.

Brian's been back at work for about three weeks.

Halloween just passed.

He didn't take his kids trick or treating.

Couldn't handle it.

Jenny took them herself.

Thanksgiving's coming up, and Brian's dreading it because the last three Thanksgivings, his family spent it with Mike's family.

He's drinking more.

Started with a couple beers after shift to wind down.

Now it's six.

Eight beers most nights.

Sometimes more on nights off.

I know it's a problem.

I'm not stupid.

But it's the only thing that shuts my brain off enough to sleep.

Without it, I'm up all night.

Here's what's happening.

Neurologically, alcohol is a central nervous system depressant.

In the short term, it can help with sleep by reducing activity in the areas of the brain that keep you alert.

But chronic alcohol use actually makes sleep worse.

It disrupts your REM cycles, reduces sleep quality, and prevents the restorative deep sleep where BDNF production happens.

So Brian's drinking to sleep, but the drinking is making this sleep even worse, which is making his brain less able to heal, which is making everything harder, which makes him drink more to cope.

That's the health domain failing in a cascade.

And as we've talked about before, when the health domain fails, it drags the other domains down with it.

Brian's composure was already compromised.

He couldn't regulate his stress response at work, couldn't trust his judgment on calls.

Without adequate sleep and with increasing alcohol use, his emotional regulation got even worse.

I snapped at Jenny.

For the first time in our marriage, she asked me something simple.

Did I want her to pick up the girls from school?

And I just lost it.

Yelled at her for no reason.

She just looked at me, didn't yell back.

Just walked away.

That moment shook him.

Not enough to change anything yet, but enough to realize he was hurting people he loved.

Jenny's an ER nurse at Methodist Northlake.

Same hospital they took Brian to after the crash.

She understands trauma.

She sees it every shift.

Car accidents, shootings, overdoses, all of it.

She knows what PTSD looks like.

She knows what Brian is going through.

But knowing didn't help her reach him.

She tried.

Asked me to talk to her.

I couldn't.

I can talk to the guys on my shift easier than I can talk to her.

Don't know why.

Maybe because they were there.

Then you Mike, they get it.

Or maybe because I don't want her to See how broken I am?

This is one of the cruelest aspects of trauma in law enforcement.

The person who loves you most, who knows you best, who wants to help.

They often can't reach you, but your shift can because your crew understands the context, the culture, the specific weight of what happened.

Brian could sit on his couch with Tommy and watch TV in silence and feel less alone.

But he couldn't have a conversation with his wife about how he was feeling.

That's the collaboration domain, showing both strength and weakness, simultaneously.

Strong with peers, failing with family.

And Brian knew that was wrong, but didn't know how to fix it.

Around mid November, Tommy made another push.

Didn't ask Brian if he was okay.

Just said, I called EAP.

Made you an appointment.

Thursday, 2:00pm you're going.

I went because Tommy made me go, not because I wanted to.

First therapy session, Brian sat in the waiting room feeling like everyone who saw him knew he was weak, knew he couldn't handle his own shit, knew he was broken.

Therapist's name was Dr. Mitchell.

Middle aged guy, former military, worked with first responders for 15 years.

Started with basic questions.

What happened?

How are you sleeping?

Are you having intrusive thoughts?

Ryan answered honestly.

Crash Mike.

Dying.

Not sleeping.

Drinking too much.

Can't be present with his wife or kids.

Hesitating at work, feeling like he's watching his own life through glass.

Dr. Mitchell didn't try to fix everything in one session, just ask questions.

Listened to at the end.

Said, we'll start with twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

That work?

Brian said yes.

And that was it.

First session.

No magic cure, no sudden insight, just the beginning of a very long process.

Three weeks later, that's where Brian is now.

As of this recording, he's had six therapy sessions.

He's still drinking, still not sleeping well, still hesitating at work, still can't look Katie Hennessy in the eye.

But he's showing up to therapy, to work to his life.

That's not nothing.

The therapist asked me last week about medication.

An antidepressant, something to help with sleep.

I haven't decided yet.

Part of me thinks I should be able to handle this without pills.

Other part of me is too tired to care.

Lets be very clear here.

Brian is not recovered.

He's not healed.

He's not even stable.

He's in acute trauma response, four months out from losing his partner and he's barely holding on.

I'm sharing his story now in this state, this early because a lot of officers going through trauma need to hear from someone who's still in the thick of it.

Not someone who's got it figured out.

Someone who's still trying to survive day to day.

And because Brian's story illustrates something critical about the PR6 model and resilience in law enforcement, early intervention matters.

Every week that Brian waited to get help was a week his health domain deteriorated further.

Every night he drank himself to sleep was another night his brain couldn't produce the BDNF it needed to heal.

Every shift he pushed through without being able to trust his own judgment was another hit to his confidence and his identity as a cop.

The crew did what they could.

They kept them alive those first weeks.

But informal peer support has limits.

At some point, professional intervention is necessary.

And the longer you wait, the harder recovery becomes.

Brian waited almost four months.

He should have started therapy day one.

He knows that now.

But knowing it now doesn't change those four months of his brain trying to heal without the tools it needed.

So where's Brian Kowalski right now, four months after losing Mike Hennessy?

He's working third shift, zone two.

Same crew.

Tommy's his partner.

The guys are still covering for him, still making sure he's okay, still showing up when he needs them.

He's going to therapy twice a week.

No major breakthroughs yet.

Just showing up, answering questions, trying to be honest about how bad things are.

He's still drinking too much, still not sleeping well, still avoiding Katie Hennessy and Mike's kids because he doesn't know what to say to them.

His wife Jenny is still trying to reach him.

He's still not letting her in.

He's hesitating on calls, second guessing himself, wondering if he can still do this job.

And he's thinking about Mike every single day.

Not in a healthy remembering my friend way in a why am I alive and he's not way.

That's the reality.

No transformation, no sudden healing.

Just a guy trying to survive.

But here's what's also true.

Three weeks ago, Brian wasn't in therapy.

Now he is.

That's movement.

Three months ago, he couldn't talk about the crash at all.

Now he can.

At least with his therapist and his crew, that's progress.

Six weeks ago, getting back in a patrol car felt impossible.

Now he's doing it every shift.

It's hard, but he's doing it.

These aren't victories, they're just steps.

Small ones, but they're in the direction of survival.

Which is all you can ask for when you're four months out from trauma this severe.

Let me talk about what Brian needs next and what other officers in similar situations need through the lens of the PR6 model.

Health domain First, Brian needs to stabilize his sleep and address the alcohol use that's foundational.

Without that, nothing else gets easier.

His therapist is right to push on medication.

Sometimes you need pharmaceutical support to reset your sleep cycle after trauma.

And he needs to cut back on drinking, ideally with support.

That doesn't mean he's weak.

It means his brain needs help.

Getting back to baseline.

Composure Domain Brian's lost trust in his own judgment.

That's fixable, but it takes time and exposure.

He needs to keep working, keep making calls, keep proving to himself that he can still do the job.

His crew covering for him helps in the short term, but can't be permanent.

Eventually, he needs to rebuild that operational confidence himself.

Collaboration Domain.

Brian's connection with his crew is strong.

That's what kept him alive.

But he needs to repair the connection with his wife.

Couples therapy might help.

Or just honest conversation about why he can't talk to her the same way he can talk to Tommy.

Jenny's an ER nurse.

She gets trauma.

She'll understand if he can explain it.

Vision Domain.

Right now, Brian can't see a path forward.

Can't imagine feeling normal again.

Can't picture himself being the cop he was before Mike died.

That's the domain most damaged by this kind of trauma.

Rebuilding vision takes the longest.

Therapy helps, Time helps, small wins help.

But it's going to be months, maybe years before Brian can look at his career and his life and see possibility instead of just survival.

Reasoning Domain Brian's engaging with therapy, which means he's starting to process the trauma in a structured way.

That's reasoning beginning to work.

But early therapy is mostly about stabilizing the crisis, not solving it.

The deeper cognitive work.

Making sense of what happened, integrating it into his life story, finding meaning.

If meaning exists, that comes later.

Tenacity Domain Brian showing up to work, to therapy, to his family, even when he can't be present.

That's tenacity.

It doesn't feel like strength to him.

Feels like just barely hanging on.

But showing up when everything in you says quit, that's tenacity.

Now let's talk about rfa.

Resilience, first aid.

Because this is exactly the kind of situation RFA training is designed for.

Brian's crew did informal RFA without knowing it.

They showed up.

They didn't leave him alone.

They didn't try to fix everything or give advice.

They just provided consistent, reliable presence in the immediate aftermath of trauma.

That's core RFA being there, reducing isolation, providing practical support.

But here's where formal RFA training would have helped.

Knowing what to do after those first few weeks, the crew knew how to keep Brian alive, but they didn't know how to transition him toward actual recovery.

They didn't know when to push him toward professional help or how to have that conversation.

They figured it out eventually.

Tommy made the call to EAP and got Brian to go.

But formal training would have given them that toolkit earlier.

RFA teaches officers how to recognize the signs that informal support isn't enough anymore.

How to have the conversation about getting professional help without making your buddy feel weak.

How to support someone through early therapy while they're still struggling.

How to set boundaries when peer support is draining you too much.

Brian's crew would have benefited from that training.

And departments with trained RFA officers see better outcomes in situations like this.

Faster connection to professional resources, less time in acute crisis, better support for the supporting officers.

If your department doesn't have RFA trained officers, that's something to think about.

Because the Brian Kowalskis in your agency need more than just good intentions from their crew.

They need structured support that bridges the gap between crisis and recovery.

Brian Kowalski wanted to share his story for a few reasons.

First, because Mike Hennessy deserves to be remembered.

Not just at the funeral or the memorial or in the reports.

Mike was a hell of a cop and a better person.

20 years on the job, trained dozens of officers, knew his city, did the work right.

Sharing this story keeps Mike's memory alive.

That matters to Brian.

Second, because Brian thinks a lot of officers have been through this.

Losing a partner, survivor guilt, all of it.

And nobody talks about it.

We're supposed to just handle it.

And maybe if Brian talks about it, some other officer going through this won't feel as alone as he did.

Third, because Brian's crew kept him alive.

And he wants other crews to know that showing up matters.

Even when you don't know what to say, even when you can't fix it.

Just being there, making sure your buddy isn't alone, that's not nothing.

That's everything.

And fourth, because Brian wants officers to know that waiting four months to get help was a mistake.

He knows that now.

He should have started therapy day one, should have addressed the drinking earlier, should have been honest with Jenny about how bad things were.

Early intervention matters.

The longer you wait, the harder it gets.

Brian's not healed, not even close.

He's barely holding on, but he's still here, still trying, still showing up and sometimes four months out from losing your partner.

That's the best you can do if you're going through something similar.

If you lost a partner, if you're drowning in survivor guilt, if you're barely holding it together.

Brian wants you to know three things.

1.

It's okay to not be okay.

You don't have to pretend you're fine when you're not.

2.

Your crew can save your life if you let them.

Don't isolate.

Let them show up.

3.

Get professional help early.

Don't wait.

Peer support is critical, but it's not enough by itself.

Talk to a therapist.

Call eap.

Do it now, not four months from now.

And if you're part of a crew trying to support an officer like Brian, keep showing up.

Keep being present.

And when you hit the limits of what you can do, informally push your buddy toward professional resources.

You're not giving up on them.

You recognizing they need more than you can give.

That's not failure.

That's love.

For more information about Resilience first aid training and how it can help officers support their peers through critical incidents, visit the Police Speak website.

Links are in the Show Notes.

Hi, I'm Michael Simpkins and this is Police Speak.

Thanks for listening.

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