For Everyone Who’s Ever Said “I’m Just a Dispatcher”

Written by Erin Allwardt, CMCP

There are a few things that light a fire in me faster than hearing the phrase, “just a dispatcher.” It’s the casual dismissal, the subtle undermining, the easy categorization of one of the most emotionally grueling and mentally taxing jobs as if it’s a stepping-stone or a placeholder.

After nearly 18 years in this industry, I can say with certainty—we are not just anything. We are a lot of everything.

I’ve been the first voice a mother hears after her child collapses. I’ve stayed on the line with a husband doing CPR on his wife. I’ve heard the panicked silence after a gunshot, the sharp sob of someone discovering a body, the cracking voice of a teen trying to describe a domestic assault through tears.

And I’ve had to keep my own voice steady—my own emotions on a leash—while juggling radio traffic, call queues, and policy-driven decision-making. There is nothing just about that.

Unlike police officers or firefighters, dispatchers don’t wear a badge that the public can see. We don’t get parades or firehouse dinners. More times than not, we aren’t mentioned in the press releases. We often sit in dim rooms with artificial lighting and overflowing call boards.

We absorb trauma through a headset. We carry the screams, the silence, the unanswered calls into our off-hours. And yet, when I tell someone what I do, I have heard:

“Oh… so you’re just a dispatcher?”

No. I’m someone who has coached CPR, who has guided terrified victims to safety, who has sent help to someone who didn’t know their own address, and who has borne witness to people’s worst days—over and over again—for nearly two decades.

This job demands compartmentalization—but grief doesn’t respect our walls. It actually has a seat right at my console. In the last year, I endured the death of both my parents. That kind of loss reorders you from the inside out.

I didn’t get six months to retreat and reflect. I took the standard bereavement days, and then I was back in the chair, answering and evaluating calls from people experiencing their own life-shattering moments.

There’s a unique kind of pain in processing your own grief while holding space for someone else’s. But I’ve done it. I still do it. Because the work matters.

I’m also a mom. That means my work doesn’t end when I log off. It means grocery lists, sports practices, and parent-teacher conferences still need to happen in between the back-to-back 12-hour shifts, hearing things that would shake most people to their core.

Balancing this job and motherhood is like walking a tightrope blindfolded. It’s loving fiercely while compartmentalizing daily trauma. It’s getting your kiddos on the bus with a smile when all you can think about is sleeping for a few hours. It is listening to the seemingly never-ending stories with a smile when your head is still filled with the echo of a suicide call or a baby who didn’t make it.

But it’s also why I’m strong. Why I’m resilient. Why I teach my kids empathy, grace, and grit.

I have been a supervisor for a decade. I mentor new dispatchers, evaluate calls for quality, and try to create a culture where people feel seen—not only as professionals but as humans.

When I hear one of my team members downplay their role or shrug off praise with a “Well, I’m just a dispatcher,” I stop them. Every. Single. Time.

Because I remember saying it, too. I remember when I didn’t know the depth of what I was carrying or the lives I’d quietly impacted just by showing up.

If this industry is going to retain its best people—if we’re going to elevate the profession to where it belongs—then we must kill the phrase “just a dispatcher.”

We are calm in chaos.

We are lifelines.

We are bridges between fear and help.

We are the voice in the dark.

And that is never, ever just anything.

If you’re in the headset, doing this work day in and day out—I see you. If you’re grieving while working, parenting while dispatching, or leading while healing—your story is valid. Your work is sacred. And you are never “just” a dispatcher.

Thank you, Erin for sharing your experience with us. If you are interested in writing a blog, please email amanda@911derwomen.com. Sign up for our newsletter on our homepage to stay up to date with 911der Women programming, exclusive content and blog updates. Click here and scroll to the bottom.