214. "All My Armor Fell Off" | From Corpsman He Became a Navy SEAL then Seattle Firefighter

John Cizin

In episode 214 of the Transition Drill Podcast, from small-town roots in California to the Navy Corpsman, the crucible of becoming a Navy SEAL, and the firehouses of Seattle, John Cizin’s life reflects the resilience and determination of a man committed to service. Raised in a family where public duty was tradition, he entered the Navy as a corpsman, eventually earning his place in the SEAL Teams. His journey carried him through deployments, leadership, and the relentless standards of special operations before a pivotal decision led him to leave the military. Only months later, he began a new chapter as a firefighter, building a second career defined by courage and constant improvement. Along the way he confronted physical injuries, the unseen effects of trauma, and the weight of transition. Through discipline, honesty, and support, John rebuilt his health and purpose. His story offers veterans and first responders powerful lessons about adaptation, mental strength, and finding meaning beyond the uniform.

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The story of John Cizin begins in California, where a deep family tradition of public service shaped the path that he would eventually follow. Born in Van Nuys, John grew up surrounded by examples of commitment to both law enforcement and the military. His grandfather served with the Los Angeles Police Department, his father worked as a California Highway Patrolman, and his brothers would later also take up the mantle of Navy service. Growing up in such an environment made the concepts of duty, sacrifice, and service part of everyday life. Even before he knew the exact direction he would take, John understood that he would one day step into a career where responsibility and risk went hand in hand.

When his family relocated to Elk Grove, near Sacramento, John experienced the first significant transition of his young life. Later, another move took them further north to Yreka, a small town on the California and Oregon border. Yreka was very different from the more urban neighborhoods of southern California. Life there revolved around cattle ranching, logging, and a strong agricultural community. It was in this rugged setting that John’s work ethic was forged.

As a teenager, John spent his summers hauling hay in the high desert. It was not a glamorous job, nor was it easy. The truck he worked on carried close to 174 bales a load, each one handled by hand. On an average day, John moved anywhere from 600 to 1,000 bales, regardless of whether the temperature soared to 105 degrees or hail fell from the sky. The work demanded toughness, endurance, and an ability to ignore discomfort in order to complete the task. If the hay sat overnight and grew damp, it would be ruined, so there was no excuse and no opportunity to delay. That responsibility created a mindset in John that would later serve him well in the most demanding environments.

John liked the challenge of hard work. While many teenagers were focused on sports or social activities, he invested himself in labor that left him exhausted but proud at the end of the day. Alongside his middle brother, he spent his youth riding trucks, climbing ladders, and pushing himself physically in a way that mirrored the discipline he would later find in uniform. By the time he graduated high school, he had saved more than forty thousand dollars from hauling hay. That figure was not the result of privilege but of sheer effort, long hours, and a refusal to quit.

Looking back, John often credited those summers of labor with shaping his character more than any classroom lesson ever could. He was not a standout student in academics, often struggling with subjects like math, but he excelled in persistence and grit. The fields of Yreka taught him that when the mission is clear, excuses are irrelevant. You complete the job because it has to be done. That simple but powerful lesson became the foundation for the life of service that awaited him.

By the time John reached the end of high school in Yreka, the question was not whether he would serve but how he would serve. Military tradition ran strong in his family. His grandfather and father had both worn the Navy uniform, and his two younger brothers would eventually follow. John himself, however, first considered breaking from that tradition. At seventeen, he visited an Army recruiter with the intention of becoming an airborne infantryman with a shot at Ranger School. He signed the paperwork and prepared for that track, but because of his age his father’s approval was required. His father refused, insisting that his son should learn a skill or trade. That single decision redirected John toward the Navy.

The recruiter explained that although his scores on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery were not high enough for his first choice, he could become a hospital corpsman. The role offered a way to work closely with Marines, carry a weapon, and wear the same camouflage as those on the front lines. For John, the idea of being a medic embedded with combat units struck a balance between his father’s demand for learning a trade and his own desire to serve in a fighting role. He agreed and began the process of entering the Navy as a corpsman.

After completing boot camp and medical training, John’s first assignment placed him alongside Marines at Field Medical Service School at Camp Pendleton. While stationed near Weapons Training Battalion, he often observed the First Force Reconnaissance Company running drills. Watching Marines jump from planes, push through obstacle courses, and conduct demanding field training ignited something within him. Although he had joined the Navy without plans for special operations, the sight of Force Recon stirred his ambition. He realized that his hard-earned toughness from years of labor and his role as a corpsman gave him a unique foundation for that kind of challenge.

One afternoon during lunch, John laced up his running shoes and jogged to the Recon compound. He introduced himself to Captain Protcellar, explained his desire to try out, and was given an outline of the requirements. The first step was scoring a perfect 300 on the Marine Corps Physical Fitness Test. Beyond that, the screening involved swimming, pool events, extended obstacle courses, and ultimately a ten-mile ruck march carrying sixty pounds within strict time limits. Most corpsmen simply rode along in support vehicles during recruit hikes, but John trained with the Marines directly. Weekends for him meant completing eighteen miles under load, first with thirty pounds and eventually with the full sixty. He quickly earned a reputation for being able to outlast nearly everyone when it came to rucking.

When the Force Recon indoc test arrived, he not only passed but placed near the front. That success should have opened the door, but Navy orders sent him to Okinawa instead, to a field hospital. Once there, he made his ambitions known to his commanding officer, who offered him an unusual challenge: keep pace with him in a half-marathon training run, and he would use his influence to help John reach Force. John accepted, pushed through the humidity, and left the officer behind. He collapsed afterward with double pneumonia, but the effort secured his path forward.

In 1995 John reported to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, known simply as BUD/S. Assigned to Class 203, he entered with the same mixture of anticipation and grit that had carried him through every challenge so far. Many who arrive at Coronado describe living from meal to meal or counting down the days to survive. John experienced something different. For him, the ordeal felt like a privilege. He could hardly believe that a farm boy from Yreka had earned the chance to prove himself among candidates striving to become Navy SEALs. That gratitude shaped his perspective. Instead of dreading each evolution, he looked at every task as the next step to embrace.

He kept his body healthy, paced himself carefully, and used weekends to rehearse pass or fail events in his mind. Underwater knot tying, pool competency drills, and long swims were treated like exams to be mastered. His preparation paid off. By the end of second phase, instructors handed out awards for candidates who passed every major test on the first try. Only two names were called. One belonged to a Naval Academy graduate who had already studied at Oxford. The other was John, the quiet corpsman who had slipped through training as a gray man, competent and steady without drawing much attention.

Graduating from BUD/S was only the beginning. He completed the six-month Special Forces Medical Course before arriving at SEAL Team One on the West Coast. At the time, specialized training was handled at the team level rather than in a centralized school. This meant that new operators were integrated directly into platoons and expected to prove themselves over months of training and deployment. To earn his Trident, John not only finished SEAL Tactical Training but also served six months in a platoon, demonstrating that he could carry the weight and responsibility in real-world settings.

Although his designation marked him as a corpsman, John’s talents soon stretched far beyond medicine. He became the platoon dive representative and mastered the technical side of closed-circuit gear. More importantly, he excelled as a machine gunner. Carrying the M60 was not simply a matter of hauling extra weight. The gunner provided the firepower that could break contact and allow a team to escape an ambush. Situational awareness, coordination with the radio man, and constant communication with leadership were critical. John poured himself into the role, driven by the seriousness of what it meant to be the one holding the weapon that others relied on in the worst moments.

His leadership noticed. During training in the desert, when new gunners struggled to perform under pressure, John stepped in for one iteration. He demonstrated such precision and control that even the executive officer of the team recognized his value. From that moment forward, he reclaimed his place behind the gun.

Life in the teams was demanding but also rewarding. John thrived in the brotherhood, in the rhythm of preparation, and in the challenge of mastering multiple roles. Yet beneath the accomplishments and the camaraderie, the seeds of change were forming. Ego, frustration with the corpsman career track, and the lack of wartime missions at that point in history all began to shape his thoughts about the future.

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As his second platoon ended, John began questioning whether to continue the path laid out for him. The process of advancing as a corpsman within the teams often meant years of waiting for specialized medical training slots before a chance to screen for higher level units. He respected the role, but his interest leaned toward being a shooter and a gunner rather than dedicating himself to the medical side. When requests to switch rates were denied, frustration grew. Youthful anger and impatience, mixed with a sense that his ambitions were being blocked, eventually tipped the scale. He chose to leave the Navy.

Eight months remained before his enlistment ended, giving him time to prepare. He married, shifted into an instructor role at the training cell, and taught courses while also covering dives as a corpsman. The transition plan took shape when he tested for the California Highway Patrol, a path influenced by his family’s law enforcement background. At the same time, he began looking toward the Pacific Northwest where both the King County Sheriff’s Department and the Seattle Fire Department were holding exams.

Seattle offered opportunity and affordability that Southern California could not. He and his wife had already discussed their vision for family life, including her staying home with their children. A single income in San Diego made that nearly impossible, but Seattle held promise. On a weekend trip, John tested for King County Sheriff first, then stayed overnight to take the Seattle Fire exam the next day. What started as a practical move soon became the beginning of a new career.

John entered the fire academy in early 2001, only a month and a half after leaving active duty. While many veterans struggle with long gaps between service and civilian employment, his transition was immediate. He arrived in recruit school with confidence, backed by years of military experience. At first he felt out of place among classmates who had already been studying fire sciences, but the department valued his background as a medic and operator. He quickly rose to the top of the class, earning the designation of Recruit Number One.

Station life presented familiar dynamics. Firefighting, like special operations, demanded teamwork under pressure. Small units trained together, trusted each other, and responded to high stakes emergencies where communication and coordination meant survival. John recognized those parallels immediately. The firehouse was not the SEAL teams, but it offered a similar rhythm of duty, readiness, and mutual reliance.

Determined to contribute beyond the daily calls, he involved himself in improving operations. Seattle’s turnout gear varied widely in age and compliance, with some firefighters wearing equipment more than a decade old. John pushed for upgrades and standardization, challenging resistance and forcing the department to meet code. Later, as the city expanded and higher density buildings replaced single family homes, he worked with colleagues to implement occupancy based firefighting strategies. These protocols brought structure and predictability to complex firegrounds, ensuring that the first arriving engines and trucks operated with coordination.

For John, the transition was not about simply finding a job. It was about applying the lessons of discipline, preparation, and innovation to a new environment. The Navy chapter had closed, but service continued, now in a city where lives depended on firemen as much as sailors once depended on their teammates.

When the Twin Towers fell on September 11, 2001, John had only been out of the Navy for a matter of months. He was on probation at the Seattle Fire Department, working his new role while watching his former teammates spin up for combat deployments. The realization struck him like a physical blow. His friends were deploying into the wars that would define a generation of special operators, while he was adjusting to life in a firehouse. The feeling of missing out, of being absent when he believed he was built for that moment, weighed heavily on him. Even as he dove into his new responsibilities and family life, the thought lingered for years.

He buried himself in work. Beyond his fire department shifts, he picked up second and third jobs to provide for his family and send his children to private Catholic school. One job had him performing motion capture for a PlayStation video game that simulated Navy SEAL operations. Another had him running a pressure washing business. He even trained SWAT officers in maritime interdiction, teaching complex boarding techniques in rough water environments. The pace allowed him to stay occupied, but it also masked the slow unraveling that would surface when he finally paused to take a breath.

By 2005, with his home established and his place in the fire department secure, John began to feel the weight of old injuries and hidden struggles. Years of parachute landings had left his spine damaged, with discs bulging throughout his cervical, thoracic, and lumbar regions. Pain became a constant companion. At times he could not get out of bed without his wife’s help. Doctors recommended surgery, but he resisted. Instead he relied on traction, ice, and electrical stimulation treatments to keep himself moving.

The physical pain intertwined with changes in his mental state. He noticed periods of paralysis where simple household tasks felt overwhelming. Chores piled up, not because he lacked the ability, but because his mind refused to prioritize and execute. Depression crept in quietly, replacing motivation with lethargy. He would sit on the couch in silence, unable to explain to his wife why he felt so detached. Social situations, once easy for the man who had been the life of SEAL team gatherings, became unbearable. At his children’s birthday parties, he sometimes found himself rushing into a quiet room, gripped by a sense that if he stayed in the crowd he would die.

Seeking help through the VA, he was introduced to a regimen of opioids and sedatives. Morphine and Valium dulled the pain, while later medications like Dilaudid brought brief relief from both physical discomfort and mental fog. The drugs allowed him to feel focused again, able to process tasks and shoot, move, and communicate in daily life. Yet dependence grew, and one overdose in the mountains nearly cost him his life. That moment forced him to give up opioids, turning instead to a paleo diet and CrossFit, which gradually restored mobility and strength.

Just as progress appeared, the fire service delivered fresh trauma. Crawling through smoke to recover bodies from burning homes left scars on his psyche that no workout could erase. The smell clung to his gear and memory, returning in waves long after the scene was cleared. He began drinking heavily, consuming one to two bottles of wine on his days off. The alcohol dulled what the opioids once had, creating another cycle he had to fight his way out of.

John’s journey through the fire service mirrored the intensity of his time in the Navy. He threw himself into each new challenge, whether pushing for updated gear, building driver training programs, or reworking how Seattle approached fires in high density structures. His drive to make organizations stronger never disappeared, but years of exposure to trauma and injury created layers that he eventually had to confront. Recognizing those layers became a turning point.

He began exploring meditation and breath work, practices that did not come naturally to someone conditioned for constant action. Quiet focus gave him a way to calm his body when anxiety spiked and offered a tool to keep intrusive thoughts at bay. He discovered that slowing down required just as much discipline as the hardest workouts or training evolutions. Taking control of his mental health meant finding strategies that worked for him and sticking with them even when it felt uncomfortable.

The deaths of fellow SEALs after retirement reinforced the urgency. Men he had admired as the epitome of toughness, some even a decade removed from service, were lost to suicide. Their passing underscored that invisible injuries could be as deadly as anything faced on deployment. For John, it was a reminder that acknowledging struggle did not mean weakness. It meant protecting the life still ahead. His own battle with opioids and later alcohol showed how easy it was to slide into dangerous territory when pain, physical or emotional, was left unchecked.

He also found that building a support system mattered as much as individual discipline. Mentors in the fire department, friends from the teams, and his family created a network that helped keep him grounded. One chief in Seattle who took time to coach him through the interview process became a lasting example of how connection can alter the course of a career. John carried that lesson forward, reminding others that it is never a sign of failure to lean on the strength of those who care about you.

For veterans and first responders navigating transition, John points to preparation and humility as anchors. Planning ahead for what comes after service reduces the shock of change. Entering a new field requires the same humility that BUD/S demanded, a willingness to study harder, stay later, and learn from those already in place. Skills from the military or law enforcement transfer, but ego cannot be the bridge. What earns trust is showing up ready to put in the work.

He also stresses the importance of physical health as a foundation. Nutrition, movement, and consistent training gave him the capacity to rebuild after injury and addiction. When the mind struggled, keeping the body strong created a platform for recovery. The firehouse, the gym, or even the living room floor became places where resilience could be built one day at a time.

John’s story offers more than a timeline of service in uniform or behind the wheel of a fire engine. It reveals how strength and vulnerability coexist, and how facing hardship directly can carve a path forward. His advice to those following is clear: protect your health, nurture your network, and never confuse asking for help with weakness.

In Closing

John Cizin’s path from Navy corpsman to SEAL, and later to Seattle firefighter, is a reminder that service takes many forms and that every chapter brings new trials. His willingness to confront injury, trauma, and the heavy weight of transition shows that resilience is built through honesty and persistence. For those preparing to leave the uniform behind, his example underscores the value of humility, strong networks, and prioritizing health. Life after service is not about leaving purpose behind but reshaping it. John’s journey proves that with discipline and courage, the next mission can be just as meaningful.

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