5% Capacity Story

I spent my career serving as a police officer in Calgary Alberta, working in one of the most demanding and often unseen corners of law enforcement: forensic crime scene examination. My days were filled with details most people never have to witness — documenting tragedies, preserving evidence, and standing quietly in the aftermath of moments that changed other people’s lives forever. I took pride in the work, in the precision, in the responsibility. What I didn’t realize was how deeply those scenes were shaping me in return.

For years, I pushed forward without noticing the weight I was carrying. Trauma has a way of settling in slowly, almost politely, until one day it’s impossible to ignore. Eventually, I was diagnosed with severe PTSD. Along with that diagnosis came a blunt assessment: I had only “five percent capacity” to deal with people. Hearing those words was like having the ground shift beneath me. It forced me to confront the reality of what long‑term exposure to trauma had done — not just to my career, but to my ability to function, connect, and simply exist.

The journey that followed wasn’t easy. It wasn’t linear. It took me through therapy, through moments of breaking down and rebuilding, through learning how to ask for help instead of pretending I didn’t need it. I had to face the parts of myself shaped by years of forensic work, and I had to learn that healing doesn’t mean erasing the past — it means understanding it, accepting it, and finding a way forward.

One of the most unexpected outcomes of this journey was the creation of Five Percent Capacity Apparel. What started as a personal label — a reminder of the diagnosis that once defined my limitations — grew into something bigger. I wanted to create a brand that sparks conversation, brings awareness, and reminds others living with PTSD that they are not alone. The clothing line became a way to turn something painful into something purposeful, a way to give voice to the quiet struggles so many people carry.

Life throws hard balls, and trauma leaves marks that don’t simply fade. But I’ve learned that even in the darkest chapters, connection matters. Support matters. Reaching out matters. My story isn’t just about the toll of forensic work — it’s about resilience, vulnerability, and the ongoing process of healing. And if sharing it helps even one person feel seen, understood, or less alone, then every step of this journey has been worth it.