TO. Trained Operator.

Two letters that used to mean something. That used to carry something. Weight. Honor. Trust. A sacred responsibility you earned by showing up—really showing up. You stood in the field that first training weekend, sun on your back, sweat on your palms, and you listened. You practiced. You learned. And whether you understood it or not, you were handed something holy.

A life. Multiple lives.

Strapped into harnesses. Shaking on wooden poles. Trusting you to hold the line.

You were trained to belay someone off a telephone pole where they stand alone at the top, staring down fear, and then they jump. And you catch them. You were trained to clip into the sky, to stand where the trees meet wind and walk with a camper who can barely breathe. You were trained to be the one who whispers, “You can do this,” and means it.

You were trained to see them.

But somewhere along the way, we stopped acting like it matters.

Now I see TOs sitting on platforms like they’re thrones. Laughing. Watching. Phones in pockets. Sunglasses on. Zoned out or too locked in with each other to notice what’s happening ten feet away. A camper’s tears. A shaking hand. A frozen step. A silent plea for help.

You don’t see it. Or worse—you do, and you stay seated.

You were trained to move. You were trained to care.

And you don’t.

And it wrecks me.

Because I remember when the ones in harnesses looked at us and found steady ground. When Air TOs unhooked themselves without hesitation, crossed the ropes just to be near a camper who needed a voice beside them. When we ran to fear instead of pretending our job ended at the platform.

Now?

Now we call out “you’re good!” from forty feet away like it counts as comfort.

Now we wait until they fail to intervene.

Now we sit.

And God help me, I don’t know when we started confusing supervision for support.

But we did.

We’ve turned something sacred into something shallow. We hand out titles like prizes and forget to ask if the heart is still in it. We let people carry responsibility they no longer respect. We put campers’ trust in the hands of those who’ve forgotten how heavy it should feel.

This isn’t just about ropes. This isn’t just about belays and carabiners and platforms.

This is about what we’re becoming.

Because when we stop treating trust as sacred, when we let people freeze and fall and feel alone in a place that’s supposed to hold them—we’re not just failing at our jobs.

We’re breaking something.

Something deep.

And it makes me want to scream. Because it’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be careless. Or cool. Or convenient.

It’s supposed to be costly.

It’s supposed to be service. Sweat. Knees bruised from kneeling on wood. Hands rope-burned from catching hard falls. Voices hoarse from speaking courage over and over again.

It’s supposed to mean being there.

And if that no longer moves you—

If fear no longer tugs your heart forward,

If frozen campers no longer stir you to step off your platform,

If the title matters more than the people—

Then take it off. Take off the harness. Step down. Walk away.

Because someone else still remembers.

And there is nothing more dangerous on this course than a TO who’s forgotten how to care.