In this interview‑style video, Sgt. Michael Sugrue recounts his distinguished military and civilian law‑enforcement career, the rapid rise he experienced, and the sudden collapse of his personal life due to unaddressed trauma. He describes the pervasive culture of stoicism among first responders, his years of isolation, heavy drinking, and suicidal thoughts, culminating in a near‑fatal traffic‑stop incident on Interstate 680. The narrative shifts to veteran John Davison, who shares his Vietnam‑era experiences, the first moments of what would later be recognized as PTSD, and his own suicide attempt. Both men explain how shame, fear of being labeled weak, and concerns about professional reputation kept them silent. A pivotal moment—concern for Sugrue’s daughter and Davison’s supportive police colleagues—prompted them to finally seek help. Sugrue now speaks at the statewide crisis‑intervention training conference in Virginia Beach, aiming to break the stigma surrounding mental‑health care for service members and first responders. The video underscores the cumulative impact of trauma, the dangers of a stoic culture, and the transformative power of asking for help and community support.
Chapters
My name is Michael Segru, and I live in Fairfield, California. I loved my time in the military. I look back now and I wouldn't have traded that for anything. So in the Air Force, I was in security forces. In addition to like the basic law enforcement mission, we dealt with force protection, anti-terrorism, foreign airfield assessments, nuclear security. I was in the Middle East, South America, and all over Europe. And I knew when I came back that I was going to transition out and go into civilian law enforcement. My stepfather, he was in law enforcement. He's the one that actually got me interested in in becoming a police officer. I did very well in the police academy, um, graduated at the top of my class. And when I got promoted, at that time it was faster than anybody had. I was leading every single team I was on. The sky was the limit for me at that time. I was happily married. I had a beautiful 2-year-old healthy daughter who was my everything, and I got promoted. Everything was good. That all changed in literally an instant.
I think most civilians, to include myself a year ago, really didn't understand the level of trauma that our first responders are subjected to in the, the work they do. To be subjected to the worst in humanity on a daily or weekly basis and then be expected to go home and being a loving spouse, father, mother, it's emotional whiplash and it has a dramatic effect on people over time. And then when you take the lack of support and the culture of not seeking not seeking help and just, you know, kind of being stoic in the face of all that, the trauma stacks on top of trauma over the years.
I suffered in silence for many years. I lost my marriage. I didn't lean on my friends and family. I isolated. I didn't want to go to social events. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I literally just wanted to be by myself and drink myself to sleep every single night. To me, it's survival. I think in our minds, like, once you admit that you need help, you say to yourself, "I'm weak. I'm not fit for this job." And then you're embarrassed. And so you start to question yourself. Am I in the right profession? Am I in the right calling? You know, am I a coward?
A lot of people say it takes courage to ask for help, or it's okay to not be okay. But in certain professions, it's not okay to not be okay. If you're gonna do your job and be accepted in that circle. The calculation that a lot of people make is, "If I step forward and say that I need help, will I lose my profession? Will I lose my reputation? Will I be cast out of this circle that is my identity as a first responder, as a warrior?" There's an intense pressure to be stoic that is maintained by this culture of stoicism. And a kind of sense that suffering in silence is part of that noble calling, and it's not. And so people carry 1,000 pounds of grief that stacks on top of trauma and never gets addressed for many of the people that I serve.
We're trained to go into the most dangerous situations and bring calm and order. That's our expectation. All we do is we go from call to call, to call, because that's how we tell our fellow officers that this doesn't affect me. I'm all good. I'm not bothered by this. You're telling yourself that, hoping you're going to believe it. All those things take a toll. And sometimes it's that one that just pushes us over the edge. And for me, it was that night that pushed me over the edge. I started purposely putting myself in dangerous situations, hoping I died in the line of duty. 'Cause I didn't care. I didn't want to be here anymore. I did a traffic stop and the car went on the freeway on Interstate 680. And I go up to the car and the driver's side window, literally lane of traffic right next to me, cars zooming by. For a split second, I thought, "What if I just step back into traffic? Just one step back in. No one's gonna know." I was literally at the edge. I was tired of dealing with this just mess of my life and what it had become. At this moment of darkness, it was the actions of my best friend John that changed everything.
My name is John Davison. I'm from Orinda, California originally, and I got my draft notice 30 days after I graduated in mid-year of 1967. Going to Vietnam, we landed in Okinawa, and this is the first time I really felt an unsettled feeling of fear because there was a sign out in the middle of the Okinawa airfield saying sayonara, have a safe and pleasant journey. And in the background of the sign, you could see them unloading metal coffins of soldiers that have been killed in Vietnam. I then was assigned to what was called Long Binh Jail since I had gone through college in law enforcement and they made me a military police stockade guard. And the first night there, the prisoners rioted and burnt the place to the ground. And that was my orientation into Vietnam. Coming back, I was so euphoric that I had lived through it. I said, "I have no problem." And I remember I got back to Orenda. My first 2 weeks I was seeing friends. And I walked down to the garage and just stood there and burst into tears, cried like a baby. It was like a tangible, physical grip on my body and my soul. And that was PTSD, which we didn't even have a term for at the time. I went through a year of trauma, and I actually lost a job because of it. I could barely function. I was completely down on myself. I had lost Total dignity, respect, and loss of pride. Finally, I locked it in. I remember I bottled it up. And from that point on, this numbness took over, and I didn't feel that, that sorrow anymore. I just felt a numbness. I basically lost hope. I figured I should ask for help, but I was too embarrassed to. And so I did make an attempt on my own life.
When he tried to take his own life, I started blaming myself, and all I could imagine was, "What's gonna happen to my daughter? How is she gonna feel about this? Is she gonna blame herself?" And that's what pulled me out of the darkness. That's what made me realize I couldn't allow my daughter to go through me taking my own life. Hello, I'm here in Virginia Beach and they have the statewide crisis intervention training conference. And the reason why I'm here is to shed light on the suicide epidemic and the trauma that we see as first responders and the toll that it takes. So I plan to share my story, to point out my mistakes of waiting too long to ask for help. In the hopes that, you know, it helps somebody. I mean, if it helps one person, that's all that matters. For me, the strongest, bravest thing I ever did was nothing in the military. It was me raising my hand and asking for help.
After I ended up in the hospital, after I made the attempt, half the Walnut Creek Police Department came in to visit me, and nobody put me down. Everybody was compassionate. One of the best things you can do is to talk and ask for help. I should have done that a long time ago.
Shame is something that we carry when we think we are damaged in some unique way that makes us deficient. But when people come forward together and heal together, it really destroys that lie and people are able to get that healing.
Mission 22 to me is like a new start. Not asking for help, that is what leads to suicide. Had I not raised my hand and asked for help, I truly don't believe I'd be here today. I want our first responders and our military members to know they're not alone. More importantly, I want them to know that there is help available, and all you need to do is raise your and ask for that help.
