“This is important. I can’t stop talking about it.” 

Reflections from Michael, a provider serving a remote community in Alaska 

“Let me start by saying this: I’ve been emotional lately. For a year now, actually. And it’s your fault. (Kidding. Sort of.) 

I’ve been a paramedic for over 30 years. I started at 16—just a teenager with a learner’s permit, running ambulance calls in my hometown. My interest in medicine probably began the day my father died in his cement truck. After that, I chased chaos for decades. 

I’ve spent my life responding to the unthinkable—things no one should have to see. I can read the story of a crash before I even reach the car. I know the smell of a shattered engine. I’ve learned what silence sounds like when someone needs help. These moments have defined my career and, in many ways, shaped who I am. 

My confidence has increased so much more. My wife makes me feel like a superhero, and I’m grateful for that. But I’ve never been the “cool kid.” Life has always felt like it’s working around me, not with me. And I’ve come to accept that. 

But lately, something’s shifted. 

Working in this remote Alaskan community has reconnected me to something I didn’t know I’d lost—faith in medicine, and in people. It’s made me feel seen. Supported. Valued. For the first time in my life, I’m standing in a kind of quiet confidence. And I didn’t find it alone. 

It’s the hospital administrators who ask my opinion and trust my judgment. It’s the local clinicians at the regional hospital who treat me as a peer. It’s my patients who recognize me, greet me with hugs, and share laughs over the chaos we’ve weathered together. And it’s Wilderness Medical Staffing and Mary Ellen Doty who made it possible for me to be here. 

A few months ago, I was juggling multiple patients, one of them critical, trying to arrange a medevac. Amidst the stress, the physician on the other end started “arguing” with me about who appreciated who more. That kind of back-and-forth tells you everything about the relationships we’ve built out here. I used to worry about getting in trouble for things like ordering MRIs. Now, no one blinks an eye. They trust me to do my job. And I can breathe. 

There are moments I won’t forget. 

Last tour, I was boarding a plane out of the village. It was -5 degrees. Two elders I’d cared for before were already on board. One called out to me—her husband had collapsed. I rushed to help. As I worked to revive him on the frozen runway, she whispered in my ear that he had a DNR. He hadn’t wanted to leave home. I was with him in his final moments. It felt like I was meant to be there. 

Another day, a teenage girl came in for a cough. Routine, right? Except when I checked her pulse, I noticed scarring on her wrist. Her mother, stunned, shared that she’d already lost one child to suicide. We got help for her daughter right away. She’s doing better now. Sometimes the smallest observations can change everything. 

One of my patients—a woman who’d survived horrific violence a decade ago—spent four days battling a post-traumatic stress response during a snowstorm. She wanted to end it all. I sat with her, talked with her, convinced her to hold on until we could get her the help she needed. When I escorted her to a psychiatric unit, she hugged me goodbye. She hadn’t hugged a man in ten years. But she hugged me.

And then recently, I got a text from a nurse at the regional hospital. She’d just met me, but one of my former patients came in and recognized me immediately, recalling the home visits and jokes we shared during her recovery. The nurse wrote: “Thank you for the exceptional care you provide to our patients. The way you listen and connect makes such a profound difference. We are incredibly fortunate to have you with our region.” I will never forget those words!

This kind of thing doesn’t happen once or twice. It happens every single day. This has been my reality for a year now—and I’m completely blown away. 

Something has shifted inside me. I feel in tune with the world. My soul is awake. My heart is open. I’ve never felt more alive or more grounded in my purpose. And it all traces back to a freezing December morning, when I stood outside my RV, awkwardly talking to Mary Ellen on the phone, sleep-deprived and uncertain. I didn’t know then how much would change.

Look what you’ve done for me. This is your fault—in the best way. 

Thank you. I’m so grateful. Words fall short, but I hope you know what this means to me.”