The Three Days I Hated My Father

There are three days out of every year I hated my father. It’s a terrible thing to say, I know. But it’s the truth.

It happened every summer, usually in July, when the heat was unbearable and all I wanted was to be a kid; skip rocks at the creek, play soccer, do anything other than what was about to happen. Because like clockwork, my father would swing open the garage door and yell.

With his job as a firefighter and his calling in ministry, the garage became a kind of time capsule of our family’s chaos. It was where everything we owned, broke, forgot about, or “put away” ended up. There were shelves, racks, hooks, and workbenches, but they were buried under a year’s worth of neglect.

Those three days? They were mandatory. “All hands on deck.” Everything—and I mean everything came out of the garage and into the driveway. Then the organizing began. No shade. No excuses. We worked under the hot sun, sweating and griping while Dad barked orders. When we finished, the garage looked like a showroom. Everything had a place. You could eat off the floor.

And what was left in the driveway? A pile. A pile of things we once believed had value. Things we had saved, clung to, thought were important. Things that, under the light of day, were revealed for what they were… junk. They went to the curb.

It took me years to understand that lesson.

Emergency Management’s Garage Door Just Flew Open

We worked under the hot sun, sweating and griping while Dad barked orders.

Emergency management, as an industry, is standing in the driveway right now.

We’re in a moment where the garage door has flung open, and a lot of people who’ve been throwing things into the dark without a second thought are now being forced to look at the mess they helped make.

This industry, by its very nature is full of Alpha males. Statistically, according to FEMA's workforce data and studies from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, roughly 70-75% of emergency managers are male, although that number is slowly shifting. Women are rising in leadership roles across the country, from municipal emergency coordinators to state directors, and they’re not just “holding their own”; they’re leading with strategy, collaboration, and adaptability. In 2000, less than 20% of local emergency management directors were women. By 2020, that number had nearly doubled and continues to climb.

But for some of the old guard… especially the “Alpha male” types, this change is not inspiring. It’s threatening. Entertaining to watch? At times. Sad? Absolutely.

Especially with the recent shifts coming from the Trump administration regarding FEMA and emergency management structure. The responses have been wild: panic, infighting, conspiracy theories, and outright meltdowns from people I once believed were level-headed professionals.

I’ve sat quietly and watched it unfold. I’ve heard them griping behind closed doors, seen them rage on LinkedIn, and read the passive-aggressive subtext in “open letters to the industry.” The truth is, very few are handling this moment with grace. And the irony? These are the same people who preach “resilience” for a living.

The Alpha Crisis

Alpha males thrive in command. They need hierarchy, control, and validation. But true leadership isn’t just dominance; it’s discernment. And that’s what’s lacking right now.

We’re seeing emergency managers, many of whom have coasted for years with familiar playbooks and legacy contacts, losing their footing because the game has changed. FEMA is shifting. Policies are evolving. The expectations of the public, the private sector, and even NGOs are changing. And rather than adapt, many are scrambling to politicize what should be a professional reckoning.

What they’re missing is the opportunity.

This is a time for action, education, and humility. It’s a time to step out of echo chambers and start cross-sector dialogue. It’s time to invite healthcare leaders, mental health advocates, tech innovators, even faith-based groups and social justice organizers into the emergency management conversation. It’s time to re-organize the garage.

Instead, many are clinging to broken systems and outdated attitudes—treating them like that busted toy they couldn’t bear to throw away, even though it hasn’t worked in years.

Growing Pains

I get it. Change is uncomfortable. Especially when you’ve built your identity around being the expert in the room. But this moment demands more than expertise. It demands maturity.

And maturity means admitting you’ve made a mess.

It means sweating through the hard work of rebuilding with intention. It means tossing out sacred cows and opening the door to uncomfortable but necessary partnerships. It means valuing contribution over credit.

I think back to those three days each summer. By the third day, when the garage was spotless and everything was back in its rightful place, something changed. The frustration melted away. The hatred turned to pride.

Something changed. The frustration melted away. The hatred turned to pride.

We had done something hard. Together. And we could see the difference.

And while I knew deep down that I’d probably contribute to the mess again next year, I also knew I’d contribute less. Because I’d learned something. Eventually, I became the one who opened the garage door.

Final Thought

So here we are. In the driveway. Some are still arguing over whose pile is bigger. Others are quietly putting in the work. The question is, who do you want to be when the garage is clean?

Because I promise you, the ones who make it through this won’t be the loudest. They’ll be the ones who listened, learned, and led.

Just my two cents, y’all.