I can still feel the way that cheap plastic badge pressed into my chest, and how the oversized blue costume sagged well below my knees. I was just five years old. It was Halloween. And I knew—with the kind of fierce certainty only children possess—that one day, I’d grow up to be a cop.
Of course, no one took me seriously back then. Aunt Cici chuckled and said, “Oh, how adorable. Next year she’ll want to be a princess.” But I didn’t waver. Not when the other girls traded their plastic handcuffs for glittery tiaras. Not even when I grew older and boys in high school scoffed, telling me I was “too soft” for that kind of life.
I worked graveyard shifts at a rundown diner to put myself through the academy. Some nights I’d trudge home completely exhausted, shoes soaked from slushy sidewalks, fingers trembling from hours of pouring refills. I kept that Halloween badge taped to my mirror—just a small reminder of why I kept pushing forward.
The first time I pulled someone over by myself, my heart thumped so violently I was sure the driver could hear it. But I did it. Then came harder calls—domestic violence, overdose scenes. One time, even a hostage situation that still jerks me awake some nights, drenched in cold sweat. But I never stopped. I never gave up.
Just last week, I was promoted to sergeant. When I walked into my new office, there was a small box waiting on my desk. Inside? That same plastic Halloween badge—weathered, bent, but still holding together. My dad had kept it all these years.
As I held it, I cried—not because I’d finally made it, but because deep down, that five-year-old version of me always believed I would.
Now, the little girls from my neighborhood stop me to ask for photos when I’m in uniform.
But there’s something I’ve never told anyone. Not even my partner.
The night before my final test at the academy… I almost gave up.
I had just finished a brutal twelve-hour shift at the diner. A drunk customer screamed at me over the “wrong” ketchup, and my feet were throbbing in pain. When I got home and pulled off my socks, my toes were actually bleeding.
The academy’s final test was at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. I hadn’t slept—not even for a minute.
I stood in front of my mirror, looking at that little badge hanging by a fraying strip of tape, and something inside me just snapped.
I tried calling my mom. No answer.
So I texted my best friend from high school, Trina. She replied with just one sentence:
“You didn’t come this far to quit before it matters.”
Running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower, I dragged myself to that test. I passed. Barely—but I passed.
And here’s the part no one ever expects: even after all of that, I still carried doubt around like a second skin for years.
There was one case—just two years into my career—that nearly made me hang it all up.
A little boy had gone missing. His name was Rami. Ten years old. His mother was undocumented and terrified of the police, so she waited hours before calling. By then, he’d already been gone for six hours.
I pulled every favor I could. We searched half the county. When we finally found him—hiding in an abandoned greenhouse, shaking and terrified—he sprinted into my arms. I’ll never forget how tightly he held on, like if he let go, he might vanish again.
But the department? They left my name off the press release. Gave the credit to someone higher up. Said it had been a “collaborative effort.”
That one cut deep. That night, I went home and peeled the badge off my mirror.