You ever pull the folded metal from a wrecked car, and behind it is a life that’s ended—someone who moments ago was breathing, crying, hoping… just gone? That’s part of what being a police officer has meant to me. I’ve had to lie when people are gasping, fragile—“You’re going to be fine”—even as darkness rolls in, and the sound of a fading heartbeat is all you hear. I’ve held their hand, watched disbelief or peace spread across faces as they slip away. I’ve cradled dying babies and carried more grief than I could ever explain.
I’ve sat with someone driven to desperate hunger—tired, mentally shattered, believing the world has forgotten them. I took them to lunch. Maybe it was just a sandwich to you—but for them, it was a moment of humanity, of hope. I’ve walked into a tense house filled with drugs and fear, busted down doors, and stared chaos in the eye. I’ve walked across fields after runaways, adrenaline roaring, lung-burning. Rush-hour traffic didn’t stop us. We ran through it like bloodhounds until justice caught up.
I’ve been in crashes—my car crumpled, my mind reeling—only to stumble out and do it again if there was a fellow officer in danger. I’ve pointed a gun at someone, finger trembling on the trigger, ready—until, maybe, humanity took hold and they surrendered, and the moment shifted.
Crowds turned on me. Anger, grief, pain—so much of it aimed at someone like me just trying to do a job. I squeezed through screaming chaos, guided by training and instinct, by a hope we might somehow restore order without more violence. When I saw a terrified child light up at the sight of blue lights, I let them sit in the patrol car, try on a badge. Their smile—it made the hardest days bearable.
I’ve arrested people who’d committed brutal acts. I’ve looked in their eyes, humanized by fear, rage, or regret, and sometimes I gave them a break—not because they deserved grace, but because mercy still matters. I’ve prayed for strangers, for their families, for peace, in moments of silence I stole in squad cars or deserted streets.
Yes, I’ve had to drop into violence when it was the only way to stop suffering. But I’ve sought gentleness whenever I could. I’ve sat amid traffic lights, crying silently. After a call—blast of chaos, someone lost, flashing lights gone—I pulled over and let it come. Sometimes the city never knew how much we carried. Every broken call home, every holiday spent scribbling reports, every birthday marked with fatigue, every late-night shift meant something more than statistics.
I’ve missed Christmas dinners, birthdays, anniversaries. I’ve wondered in the dark: What did it cost me—my peace of mind? My faith in things staying normal? My ability to watch a movie without flinching at a crash scene?
Yet here’s what I know: Every cop I know has done these things—harrowing, heartbreaking, human—for low pay, long hours, and the honor of wearing a badge. We don’t want sympathy. We don’t even demand respect. All we ask for is to do our jobs—the heavy, heartbreaking, life-saving jobs—without becoming the next headline.
Remember that badge isn’t just cloth and metal. It represents something fragile. Something meant to shield. Please let us do our work—and please, when things go sideways, don’t let that badge mark the end of our lives.”