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When Did We Stop Being a Family?
Derrick Foster, CFO
A Call for Cultural Change
in the Fire Service
There’s something sacred about the 昀椀re service. It’s
not just a job. It’s not even just a career. It’s a sacri昀椀ce.
A sacri昀椀ce from your kids. A sacri昀椀ce from your loved
ones. A sacri昀椀ce from your personal life. A sacri昀椀ce of
your innocence, because we witness the worst of humanity.
When you step into this line of work, you join a tradition
built on trust, dedication, and something we all used to
talk more about: family.
And yet, if we’re honest—really honest—it feels like
we’re losing that part of who we are. Not because of policy. Not
because of budget cuts or leadership decisions. But because of
something much harder to talk about: culture.
Let’s take a hard look at ourselves, starting with a department I
deeply love and respect: Miami-Dade Fire Rescue. We are one
of the largest and most respected 昀椀re departments in the country.
The people who wear that badge respond to thousands of calls
every year. They work in extreme conditions, save lives daily, and
operate at a level of professionalism that’s unmatched. But even
the best departments aren’t immune to cultural erosion.
Over the years, we’ve seen an increase in 昀椀nger-pointing. Morale drops. People burn out. Relationships fracture, and when that
happens, we tend to look upward. We blame administration. We
question leadership. We complain about policies.
But here’s the real question: When did we stop looking out for
each other? There was a time when the 昀椀rehouse was sacred ground. We didn’t just work together. We lived together. We
shared meals, stories and grief after tough calls. We were each
other’s support system.
Now we see more isolation. More uninviting cliques. More competition than collaboration. Somewhere along the way, the family vibe
turned into something cold, more transactional, and it’s showing.
When did we stop helping each other? I’m not referring to 昀椀reground support. We still risk everything for each other on the job.
I’m alluding to what occurs off the job. The 昀椀re昀椀ghter struggling silently with stress or addiction. The rookie trying to 昀椀nd their place.
The veteran who’s tired and needs someone to check in.
Early in my career, you could feel the family atmosphere oozing
out of most 昀椀rehouses. Crews genuinely enjoyed being around
one another, on and off the clock. We’d spent time together on
family vacations, helped a brother or sister 昀椀re昀椀ghter move into
a new home, or assisted that 昀椀re昀椀ghters’ family while they're on
deployment. Nobody had to ask.
The keyword was, and still should be, “together.” If we’re not there
for them, who are we? When did we stop being a family?
Early in my career there was a sense of belonging that went far
beyond the uniform. We weren’t just coworkers. We were family.
That meant something. It shaped the way we trained, the way we
responded to calls, and the way we supported one another when
the tones weren’t going off.
The 昀椀re service was built on brotherhood and sisterhood. That’s
not just a cliché, it’s a lifeline. Families don’t survive
on tradition alone. They survive on action, on effort,
and on conversations that are real, not comfortable. So
maybe the better question is: When do we start again?
Cultural change doesn’t start with memos or new rules.
It starts with "us!" If you're in a position of leadership,
lead with humility and care. If you’re a probie, show enthusiasm, respect for the profession, and a willingness
to learn. If you’re somewhere in between, like most of
us, you have in昀氀uence. Use it!
Another critical piece of this cultural puzzle is ownership. We have to start taking responsibility for our actions. It’s easy
to blame the next shift, the captain, the chief or the system, but
accountability starts with us.
We all make mistakes. That’s part of being human. What matters
is whether or not we’re willing to learn from them. There has to be
room for growth, re昀氀ection, and course correction in the 昀椀re service. We’re not perfect, but we must be honest.
A wise philosopher named Omar Vega once said, “A mistake
made twice is a decision.” Think about that. It’s not the 昀椀rst error
that de昀椀nes us, it’s what we choose to do after. Do we learn from
it, or do we repeat it and then blame someone else?
If we want to build a better culture, we have to be willing to own our
missteps, and support others who are also trying to grow. That’s
leadership. That’s family, and to those people in leadership roles,
let’s not forget the human side of things. We all make mistakes.
We all have lapses in judgment. It doesn’t make us bad people. It
just shows we’re human.
No book or modern leadership publication that they tell us to read
for promotional exams support the old-school, dictator-style, autocratic leadership model. That approach doesn’t work anymore.
Our leadership styles need to evolve. We need leaders who are
collaborative and open to input. Leaders who are 昀椀rm but compassionate, approachable but still maintain a strong command
presence. That balance is not only possible, it’s necessary. True
leadership isn’t about control, it’s about connection.
Start with small things. Ask your crew how they’re doing and
really listen. Back up the rookies who are 昀椀nding their feet. Don’t
let toxic behavior slide. Call it out! Treat the 昀椀rehouse like your
home, not just a place where you clock in.
The truth is, we’re seeing it surface more and more through internal complaints. Not just isolated grievances. Lots of them. Complaints about unfair treatment, toxic behavior, cliques, lack of support, and leadership disconnect. This isn’t just noise, it’s a signal.
These internal complaints are the smoke pointing to a deeper 昀椀re.
If we’re brave enough to look close, we might see what some don’t
want to admit: a kind of cultural cancer has taken hold in parts of
our service.
We can’t 昀椀x what we won’t face, and if we dismiss these complaints as drama or weakness, we miss the opportunity to heal.
We miss the chance to save our culture from within.
Miami-Dade Fire Rescue, along with every department across
Summer/Fall 2025 | JUMPLINE Magazine
