Scott Krassow: The Man in the Maze

For years, Scott carried a weight that felt impossible to put down.

He carried it through crime scenes and courtrooms, through long nights and missed moments with his family. He carried it through the streets of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, where he first encountered the gangs that would later define his career. He carried it through the tragic loss of his friend, Officer Jair Cabrera.

It was a heaviness he couldn’t see but felt in every moment, in every decision. And for years, he believed there was no setting it down.

Before putting on a badge, Scott served 10 years in the Army, spending time in field artillery before becoming a prime power production specialist. He worked with FEMA to set up power plants for emergency response and base camp operations. When it was time to leave the military, he wasn’t sure what came next—until he went on a ride-along with a local police department. That night, everything clicked. He had found his new mission.

His law enforcement career began in Arizona’s jails before he was hired by the Salt River Police Department, a small agency policing the tribal community. It didn’t take long for Scott to see just how deeply gang culture had embedded itself there.

The blood gang from the reservation wasn’t just a criminal organization; it was a way of life. Gang loyalty was generational, and violence was an almost nightly occurrence. His fourth-phase field training officer was focused on gangs, and Scott followed that lead. He had a knack for remembering names and faces, and an unshakable drive: “I wanted to go after the worst of the worst.”

For four years, that’s exactly what he did. Working nights while raising two small children, he responded to a relentless cycle of crime—drive-by shootings, retaliatory violence, and investigations that never seemed to end. One night in 2007, there were thirteen separate drive-by shootings, and officers were fired upon in a pursuit. Scott started to feel like he was fighting an uphill battle, one where his department wasn’t fully invested in stopping the problem. He set his sights on Mesa PD, where the gang unit was more aggressive in its approach. In 2008, he made the move.

Within a year, tragedy struck again. In September 2009, a 15-year-old was murdered at a high school by a 17-year-old gang member from the reservation. Scott knew the suspect and his family. His knowledge of the gang and its members led him to help with the investigation, which ultimately resulted in an arrest.

That case, along with a string of violent felonies, led the Mesa PD gang unit to pursue a large-scale Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) case against the blood gang. Scott was all in.

From 2009 to 2014, Scott lived and breathed that case. His work didn’t stop when he left the office, because he never really left. He spent nights moving witnesses into safe locations, answering calls about shootings, burned-down houses, and threatened families.

His phone was never off, and his mind never rested. “The things that make you good at work are detrimental at home,” he admitted.

By 2014, the case had finally reached its conclusion. The two main targets were convicted—one sentenced to 30 years, the other to 34. Scott finally took a breath, believing he could start to reset.

Then, on May 24, 2014, the phone rang.

Officer Jair Cabrera, Scott’s friend and former colleague, had been murdered during a traffic stop. The gunman? A known blood gang member.

Everything Scott had done, the years of work, the sacrifices—it all felt meaningless in that moment. “They won,” he thought. He didn’t attend Jair’s funeral. He couldn’t. Instead, he shoved it down, burying the grief under more work, more cases, more distractions.

But grief doesn’t stay buried.

Scott testified in the trial of Jair’s murderer, believing that conviction would bring him closure. It didn’t. He watched the dashcam footage of Jair’s death over and over. When the guilty verdict came, it felt hollow.

“I had set the trial as this huge milestone for me,” Scott explained. “Once I get through this and we hear the verdict, I’ll be ok again. But I was numb. Then I thought, ‘If he gets sentenced to life, I’ll feel better.’ And when that happened, it still didn’t matter. None of it mattered, because Jair was gone.”

The weight in Scott’s chest grew heavier.

Then, Scott suffered a heart attack on duty at just 44 years old. The stress of everything he had carried, everything he had buried, had finally caught up to him. Even then, he kept pushing forward, believing he had dealt with it—until he attended Struggle Well.

It was there, in 2024, that Scott faced the truth: he had never grieved. He had never allowed himself to feel the weight of Jair’s death, or the years of accumulated trauma. Encouraged by his Struggle Well guides, he attended Warrior PATHH at Boulder Crest.

On the first day, he noticed a sticker on his PATHH guide’s water bottle—an image of the man in the maze. The same symbol he had seen for years in the Salt River community, the one tied to his career, his investigations, and ultimately, Jair’s death. It stunned him.

“I thought about asking him to turn it around,” Scott admitted. “I didn’t want to see it.” But he didn’t. Instead, he let it sit with him, just as he had let everything else sit with him for so many years.

Later, during a quiet moment at the ranch, Scott sat on a bench overlooking the valley. He thought about Jair. About the years of pain, the guilt he had carried. And then he thought about the labyrinth—the one at Boulder Crest, the one that mirrored the journey he had unknowingly been on for decades. He picked up a rock, the physical representation of the burden he had carried for so long, and made his way toward the maze.

When he reached the center, he set the rock down. “I can honestly tell you that I left the shame and guilt that I had carried for years regarding Jair’s death in the center of the labyrinth on that ranch in Sonoita,” Scott said.

For the first time in a decade, the anniversary of Jair’s death wasn’t defined by guilt and shame. It was a moment of healing. Scott spent it as a Struggle Well Guide-in-training, sharing his story with those just beginning their journeys.

Of all the sessions he could have been assigned, his first was the week of May 24. “I don’t know how that happened,” he said. “If you look at our department’s Struggle Well class schedule from the last couple of years, you won’t see a date even close to that. It felt like a God thing.”

This time, instead of being consumed by grief and guilt, he was helping others begin their healing journey.

His transformation didn’t go unnoticed. “Is this for you or for work?” his wife had asked when he first considered Warrior PATHH and Struggle Well. Now, she knew. His son noticed it too. This was for Scott.

Scott now guides every month, helping others walk their own labyrinths, helping them carry their own rocks. He has found his purpose again—not in burying the past, but in helping others move forward.

For those considering Warrior PATHH or Struggle Well, Scott offers this: “Everything we’re trained to do is for others. Put others first. But Posttraumatic Growth taught me that you have to put yourself first. You have to do the work for yourself. Set the rock down.”

And so he did.

If you’re carrying something heavy—guilt, grief, trauma—you don’t have to hold it forever. There is a way forward, a way to turn struggle into strength. Scott found his through Struggle Well and Warrior PATHH. If his story resonates with you, if you recognize the weight he carried because you’re carrying your own, don’t wait. Learn more about Boulder Crest and the programs designed to help warriors, first responders, and their families heal.

Take the first step. Pick up your rock.

And when you’re ready—set it down.