Do you remember the first time you stepped into the firehouse?
The air was thick with the scent of spoiled carcinogens and burnt coffee—just a little something to let you know you were truly stepping into a world that was filled with pride and tradition. Maybe you ran your hand along the polished Engine like it was some kind of sacred relic, but let’s be real, the only sacred thing was your innocence.
Then came the awkward introductions. "Hey, I’m Jake. I’ll be showing you how to... uh, not kill yourself." Great. Awesome. No pressure. You nodded, pretending you understood what he meant, but inside, you were already wondering if you’d made a huge mistake.
The rest of the crew? A bunch of grizzled veterans who made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into an underground fight club rather than a firehouse. Their hands were the size of hams, their jokes as dry as the air around a burning building, and their laughter sounded like they’d spent way too many years inhaling smoke and sarcasm.
You weren’t one of them yet, but oh, you wanted to be. You could already taste the glory of being a firehouse legend, strutting around like you knew what you were doing. The only minor detail? You had about a thousand things to learn, and oh yeah, mistakes cost lives. No big deal, right? But hey, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like you’re about to trip over your own boots, forget how to operate the fire hose, or burn down half the station during your first drill. Surely that won't happen. Surely.
If you were lucky, some seasoned veteran would step forward and begrudgingly take you under their wing—mostly so they could enjoy watching you fail spectacularly while pretending to "teach" you. If you weren’t lucky? Well, buckle up, because you were stranded on an island, alone with your confusion, until you managed to somehow prove yourself in the heat of an actual fire.
Good luck with that… because nothing screams "I'm ready to go to job town" quite like desperately trying not to embarrass yourself while also praying you’ve got your PPE on correctly. Sure, you watched Backdraft on repeat for months, and the phrase "you're doing it wrong" is now seared into your brain like a bad tattoo. But hey, how are you supposed to know if you’re actually doing it wrong unless someone—oh, I don’t know—takes the time to actually show you the right way? But no pressure. You’ve totally got this.
Fast forward a few years, and now you’re the veteran firefighter—standing back and watching the wide-eyed Probie, looking just as lost and overwhelmed as you did when you first walked into that firehouse. It’s almost like watching yourself in a mirror, except with more awkwardness and fewer skills. So, what do you do? Well, that’s up to you, but there is something to the mentorship that can be rewarding.
When it’s time to mentor, I always think of this: "The best thing an old firefighter can do is teach a young firefighter how to become old." Not just in years, mind you, but in wisdom. Sure, anyone can throw a Probie into a burning building and see if they put “the wet stuff on the red stuff,” but the real job is showing them how to survive the chaos, keep their head in the game, and maybe avoid getting burned up. It's about passing down the art of not just fighting fires, but enduring them—because becoming “old” isn’t about how many years you’ve put in, it’s about how many times you've made it through without totally losing your mind. Whether you like it or not, you are a mentor and it comes with some responsibility.
So, what does it take to be “a mentor?”
Ah, the joy of mentoring. There's nothing quite like the warm, fuzzy feeling of knowing you're shaping the future of your fire department—one Probie mistake at a time. If you’ve ever had the honor (and I use that term loosely) of taking a junior firefighter under your wing, you know the feeling: like herding cats through a flame-filled obstacle course while blindfolded (oh, crap… he is on the cat kick again! Sorry, the little fur-bag just jumped on my desk and triggered me). But hey, you're a seasoned pro, right? Surely, you can handle it. If not, here are a few things I picked up along the way to help with the experience of being that mentor who "teaches" the next generation of smoke eaters.
Pride Before the Burnout
Ah, that magical moment when your Probie finally gets something right. They swagger in with that proud, wide-eyed grin, proudly announcing they remembered to check the pressure on the hose before deploying it. And you’re supposed to be impressed.
Let’s be real, though: they're not impressing you. They're impressing themselves. So, you give them a half-hearted pat on the back and say, "Good job, kid. Now don’t set yourself on fire," while secretly wondering how long it’ll take for them to forget that next time.
Look, reinforcing good behavior is key—keeps them engaged and excited about the job. But don’t overdo it. The point isn’t to become their personal cheerleader; it’s to teach them the right way and, most importantly, keep them safe. Watch for those little bad habits—like leaving their SCBA waist strap unbuckled because it "looks cool." It may seem harmless now, but poor muscle memory on the training ground could turn into a dangerous habit in a fire. So, yeah, praise ‘em, but don’t let them burn out on it. You’re here to teach, not just hand out gold stars. Leave the golden stars for the cop world… they love their participation medals (couldn’t resist the dig!).
The Panic Button: An Essential Leadership Tool
We’ve all seen it. The moment when the Probie’s world comes crashing down around them. They forget how to tie a knot. They get lost on a call. Or they break out in a cold sweat when someone mentions the words “live fire training.” No, wait… they should be excited about live fire training, but sometimes they are nervous about the experience. Just be patient with them. A little “nervousness” is healthy and keeps them from being overly confident and complacent. Now, if they are panicked about it… that is concerning and should be addressed immediately. More on that in another blog. For now, let’s focus on the experience of new and exciting things.
This is where your expertise as a leader shines. You’ve been through this a hundred times. But now, you must remain calm and collected while your Probie slowly turns into a deer caught in the headlights. You’ve got a choice here: you can either swoop in like a calm, composed professional, or you can start laughing maniacally because you know what’s coming next. Honestly, no one’s going to blame you either way, but think for a second about how the Probie feels in that situation. Tactical empathy (love that term) can go a long way in getting YOU through the situation, and showing your Probie that you care about their feelings in that particular situation. When you want to bite the head off the Probie, take a deep breath and tell them why it is important. Let’s face it, the new generation of firefighter is going to challenge and pepper you with “why” questions, and you just need to take a step back and realize you are dealing with a generation that is more in touch with their emotions. Taking a step back will help teach the Probie that responding to an obstacle in a calm manner will allow them time to process it with the best possible outcomes. Otherwise, hitting the panic button could result in someone getting hurt or your Probie developing bad habits on the fireground. Or, you could end up explaining to HR why you lost your head and called the Probie an idiot. Plus, think about it for a second… losing your head with a Probie will degrade the trust you have been working so hard to develop. Sadly, the old days of “do what I say” are over in the firehouse! Again, more on that in another blog.
The 'One Day You'll Be As Good As Me' Speech
You can feel it in your bones—the moment when you have to deliver the most cliche speech of your entire career. The "one day you'll be as good as me" speech. I can’t believe I just typed that… but, you know it is true!
As you see them struggle to put on their SCBA gear, you sigh deeply and mutter, “Don’t worry, kid. One day, you’ll be just like me—an old pro who’s seen it all. And when that day comes, you’ll appreciate the small stuff. Like knowing how to work a radio without accidentally broadcasting like a fool. Because, let’s face it, in the end, you’re not just training them for fires. You’re preparing them for the never-ending game of survival in the chaos that is the fire world.
Believe me when I tell you… I have two teenage sons who are junior volunteer firefighters, and the mentoring role completely shifted the moment they walked into the firehouse. It became personal. Suddenly, I wasn’t just their Dad—I was the one they were looking to for guidance, for answers, for everything. And I’ll admit, it’s a strange feeling, seeing them walk into that firehouse with the same wide-eyed enthusiasm and nervous energy I once had. The roles reversed in an instant. They were no longer little kids climbing on fire trucks for entertainment. To me, it is more than just teaching them “the job”—it’s about showing them what it means to be part of something bigger, to be a leader, and to carry the responsibility of a job that, at its core, is all about keeping them safe. I’m teaching them how to be an old firefighter, but like my own journey, it takes time and patience.
At the end of the day, being a mentor isn’t about making the Probie into a carbon copy of you—it’s about keeping them safe, helping them grow, and ensuring they have the skills to step up when the heat is on. So, take it seriously. Be patient, be tough, and above all, keep them safe.
In this line of work, the most important thing you can teach a Probie isn’t how to fight fire—it’s how to make it home at the end of the day. And that, my friend, is the legacy that matters.
As always, watch over each other and stay safe. -Dr. M
