A podcast that gets real about workplace violence; a warning sign for all helping professionals.
Through candid guest conversations about unsafe work environments in social work, nursing, and emergency care, I ask what it costs to care for others when your own safety is overlooked. Those conversations set the stage for my own story, told in my own words across a series of deeply personal episodes.
Do we really have a resource issue, or a “way you treat your people” issue?
Sometimes that cost is invisible, until it's not.
The link opens Spotify in a new tab. Nothing from Spotify loads on this page.
A Criminal Moms Coffee Club Production.
Episodes
A short introduction to the series: what it costs to care for others when your own safety is overlooked, the guest conversations that open the season, and how they set the stage for my own story.
Candid conversations about unsafe work in nursing, emergency care, child welfare, and policing.
Nursing's Hidden Cost
I speak with “Amy,” a Nova Scotia registered nurse whose identity is protected because she fears repercussions from her employer. Drawing on a nursing career that began in 2000, Amy shares her perspective on why experienced nurses leave bedside care, how mentorship is lost, and what happens when colleagues have to beg each other for help. She describes workplace violence, a safety-reporting call returned 48 hours later, and the emotional weight that follows nurses home.
“Instead of being a mom, I was a decompressing nurse.”
Life as a Paramedic
I sit down with Adam Smith, who spent 17 years as a paramedic, to talk about the work he loved and the toll that helped him recognize it was time to leave. With humour and honesty, Adam shares calls that stayed with him, the exhaustion that followed him home, and a workplace culture where opening up wasn't always accepted. We discuss meaningful support, the limits of resilience, and why caring for patients must include caring for the people who show up to help them.
“You do your call, you drop your patient off, you go to the next call.”
Why Good Workers Leave
I sit down with Bree, a social worker with 18 years of experience who spent five years in child welfare before moving into private practice. Bree reflects on overwhelming caseloads, barriers to getting families the services they needed, and the pressure to keep working when her own capacity was stretched. We discuss threats during home visits, the normalization of trauma, and what meaningful support could look like, from checking workers' capacity to providing accessible, ongoing therapy.
“By the second year in, I knew that I needed to find an out.”
I sit down with Jeff Williams, a former military police officer whose 24-year career included major investigations and service in Afghanistan. Jeff shares the cumulative toll of investigating disturbing crimes, the pressure to hide his struggles, and the breaking point that led him to seek help. We discuss the impact on his family, and the difference between support being available and feeling safe enough to use it.
“Just knowing that you can look each other in the eye and knowing that they understand means the world.”
Told in my own words, across eight deeply personal episodes.
I share the experiences that brought me to this microphone: nearly two decades in child protection, workplace violence treated as routine, and a mandatory report that left me fearing for my own family. I recount the events of December 23, 2019, my attempts to get help from police and management, and the confrontation that followed. This is a difficult story to tell. But it raises a question that reaches beyond social work: what happens to helping professionals when the people responsible for their safety fail to respond?
“Speaking up sometimes makes things worse, and I now understand that.”
What happens when the systems meant to keep you safe leave you facing workplace violence alone? I question what protection really looks like when a safety concern takes 14 days to receive a response and an investigation stretches to a year, all while workers and their families bear the cost. From closed-door conversations to reporting procedures changed by email without training, I examine the gaps between promised safety and meaningful action.
I examine what happens when documented concerns involving violence, addictions, and harm to women and children are left out of the conversation and the focus becomes my response. I question what was lost when the opening minutes of an audio recording were missing, and why safeguards appeared to apply selectively. When known risks are excluded and concerning behaviour is minimized, whose version becomes the full story?
On the second day of court, I ask how threats, unwanted photographs, being blocked in a room, and damage to a social worker's car can be minimized while the worker's response takes centre stage. I describe being assessed as a social worker without being permitted to explain the risks from that perspective, and I examine what happens when the workplace context is stripped away and a worker is left facing the consequences alone.
“Was There Even a Threat?”
Closing submissions and the judge's decision raise difficult questions about how fear, intimidation, and workplace safety are understood in court. I revisit the testimony, the repeated calls to police, and a lack of employer support. When your fear is acknowledged but the behaviour behind it is dismissed, where does that leave you and other helping professionals?
I reflect on the witness, the double standards I experienced, and being terminated two days before my appeal. We tell people to speak up, document their concerns, and ask for help. But what happens when their words are recorded inaccurately or not at all, and reporting fear leads to scrutiny rather than support?
“Do you feel safe reporting?”
I share what happened after following familiar advice: “Talk to a lawyer.” What happens when the person you turn to becomes part of the problem? I ask whether the outcome brought meaningful accountability or simply left me carrying the cost of asking for help.
I turn to the organization that was supposed to represent me. Five different union representatives. Five different lawyers. I reflect on what it felt like to move between representatives while trying to get meaningful support, and why union membership alone didn't leave me feeling protected. If you're part of a union, get familiar with the duty of fair representation (DFR) process.
“Unionized hot potatoes. Nobody wanted to get burned.”
What happens when we normalize warning signs? Offenders are enabled, violence is minimized, and the culture that allows violence against women continues. As this series comes to an end, I leave you with one final question: what happens when we stop calling the warning signs normal?