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Life & Work with Debbie Murphy of Houston

Today we’d like to introduce you to Debbie Murphy.

Debbie, we appreciate you taking the time to share your story with us today. Where does your story begin?
My story has two threads that came together to create the Debbie Murphy Foundation. Professionally, I’m a Texas-licensed, Nationally Registered Paramedic. I’ve spent my career responding to people on the worst days of their lives — arriving in the middle of a crisis, stabilizing it, and then handing them off. Personally, I’m a survivor of sexual and domestic abuse. I know firsthand what it feels like when the crisis “ends” and you’re left to rebuild alone.

I never filed a police report. When I spoke up, I wasn’t believed — and that experience broke my faith in the systems that were supposed to protect me, and honestly, in people. For a long time, I carried that alone. But it’s also exactly why the Debbie Murphy Foundation leads with belief. When a survivor comes to us, we start from trust. No one has to prove their pain to be worthy of support.

As a first responder, I saw the gap after the emergency from the outside. As a survivor, I lived it from the inside. So in February 2026, I founded DMF, a Houston-area 501(c)(3) providing emergency financial relief, trauma-informed peer support, and advocacy for first responders, veterans, survivors of abuse and trafficking, and families in crisis.

We’re young, but we’re moving — this July we held our first community healing event, a private gathering for survivors, with a full calendar of community markets and fundraisers ahead. I built much of this with my own hands and my own funds, because no one should fall through the cracks after the sirens fade.

Hope · Healing · Strength · Community.

Alright, so let’s dig a little deeper into the story – has it been an easy path overall and if not, what were the challenges you’ve had to overcome?
Definitely not a smooth road — and honestly, I wouldn’t trust it if it had been. The first challenge was internal: healing enough to tell my own story out loud. For years I carried what happened to me in silence, and building a foundation with my name on it meant deciding to stop hiding. That was harder than any paperwork.

Practically, I built DMF largely as a one-woman operation. I’ve personally funded our events while working full-time as a paramedic, which means a lot of late nights writing bylaws, grant applications, and vendor agreements after long shifts. Learning the nonprofit world from scratch — IRS filings, board governance, compliance — was its own education.

Fundraising and logistics have tested me too. Venues fall through, budgets get tight, and when you’re a young organization without a track record, you’re asking people to believe in a vision before there’s much proof. Our first healing event this July also came with unique challenges: it was private and invitation-only for survivors, some of whom are in hiding, so safety and confidentiality had to be airtight — no detail could be left to chance.

But every obstacle has sharpened why I do this. Survivors face far bigger barriers every day, often alone. If I can push through mine, I can help them push through theirs.

As you know, we’re big fans of you and your work. For our readers who might not be as familiar what can you tell them about what you do?
My work lives in two worlds. By profession, I’m a Texas-licensed, Nationally Registered Paramedic with Liberty County — I respond to emergencies for a living. But my heart’s work is the Debbie Murphy Foundation, the Houston-area 501(c)(3) I founded in February 2026.

DMF exists for the moment after the emergency — when the ambulance leaves, the case closes, and someone is left to rebuild alone. We provide emergency financial relief, trauma-informed peer support, and advocacy for first responders, veterans, survivors of abuse and trafficking, and families in crisis.

What sets us apart is that we lead with belief and lived experience. I’m not just running this organization — I’ve lived the gap it fills. That shapes everything: our events are designed around survivor safety and dignity, our support comes without hoops to jump through, and our community is built on trust first.

This year we held our first private healing event for survivors, and we have a full slate ahead — community markets, fundraisers, and partnerships across Houston. I’m most proud that DMF isn’t charity from a distance. It’s survivors and first responders showing up for their own

If we knew you growing up, how would we have described you?
I was born in Provo, Utah, to immigrant parents, and I come from nothing — I say that with pride, not shame. We were extremely poor. My toys and clothes were used. We moved constantly — Texas, Las Vegas, Mexico — living with different people until my parents could start buying homes that were completely destroyed. They’d rebuild them with their own hands, and as soon as a house was livable, we’d sell it and start all over again in the next broken one. We used to joke about wanting a “nice” house — which just meant one we didn’t have to fix. We didn’t have hot water; we boiled it. We slept on floors.

Some of my clearest memories are of Christmas, when neighbors would quietly leave a tree and a few small gifts at our door. People kept the spirit alive for us. I never forgot what that felt like — someone showing up for a family with nothing, expecting nothing back.

That childhood built everything I am. I learned to adapt anywhere, work with my hands, take care of myself, and take care of others — I was always the caretaker, the kid who ran toward whoever was hurting. I loved sports and being outdoors because moving was freedom.

Looking back, it all makes sense: my parents rebuilt broken houses into homes. Now I help rebuild broken moments into new beginnings — first as a paramedic, and now through my foundation. And those Christmas gifts at our door? That’s exactly what DMF does today. I became the person who leaves hope at the door.

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