I remember the cheap plastic badge digging into my chest and my oversized blue costume drooping past my knees. I was five. It was Halloween. And I knew—with the kind of certainty only kids can have—that I was going to be a cop one day.
Nobody took me seriously, of course. My Aunt Cici laughed and said, “Aww, how cute. Next year she’ll want to be a princess.” But I didn’t change my mind. Not when the other girls traded their plastic batons for wands. Not when I got older and the guys in high school said I was “too soft” for that kind of work.
I worked night shifts at a diner to pay my way through the academy. Some nights I’d walk home dead tired, with my shoes soaked from snowmelt and my hands trembling from pouring coffee for ten hours. I kept my badge from that Halloween on my mirror—just to remind myself why I was doing it.
The first time I made a traffic stop alone, my heart was pounding so hard I thought the driver could hear it. But I did it. Then came tougher calls. Domestic disputes. Overdoses. One time, a hostage situation that still wakes me up at 3 a.m. with sweat down my back. But I kept going. I never quit.
Last week, I got promoted to sergeant. I walked into my new office and found a little box sitting on my desk. Inside was that same Halloween badge—bent, faded, but still intact. My dad had saved it all these years.
I looked at it, and for the first time, I cried. Not because I’d made it. But because somewhere, that five-year-old girl knew she would.
And now… the little girls in my neighborhood ask to take pictures with me when I’m in uniform.
But here’s the part I’ve never told anyone—not even my partner.
The night before my final academy test… I almost walked away.
I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the diner. A drunk guy had yelled at me because I gave him the “wrong” kind of ketchup, and my feet were screaming. I got home, pulled off my shoes, and saw my toes were actually bleeding through my socks.
The final test at the academy was the next morning at 6:00 a.m. And I hadn’t slept. Not even a nap.
I looked in the mirror, that little badge hanging by a crooked piece of tape, and I just… broke.
I called my mom. She didn’t answer.
Then I texted my best friend from high school, Trina. She texted back one line:
“You’ve made it this far. Don’t quit before it counts.”
So I dragged myself to that test on pure fumes and caffeine. I passed. Barely. But I passed.
And now here’s the twist people don’t expect: Even after all that, I still doubted myself for years.
There was one case—two years into the job—that nearly pushed me out for good.
It was a missing kid. A ten-year-old boy named Rami. His mom was undocumented, scared to even call the police at first. By the time she did, he’d already been missing for six hours.
I pulled every string I could. Searched half the county. When we found him—hiding in an abandoned greenhouse, terrified—he ran straight into my arms. I still remember how tightly he held on, like he thought if he let go, he’d disappear again.
But the department? They didn’t even mention my name in the press release. Gave credit to someone else higher up. Said the “team effort paid off.”
That one stung. I went home that night and took the badge off my mirror.
But the next day, Rami’s mom showed up at the station. She brought me homemade bread wrapped in a kitchen towel and hugged me so tight I couldn’t speak.
That hug… brought me back.
Because it reminded me why I wanted to wear the badge in the first place.
It was never about recognition. Or a title. It was about being there when people needed someone to show up.
And now, as a sergeant, I try to carry that with me every shift. I tell the rookies that the badge doesn’t make you strong. The choice to keep showing up does.
A few weeks ago, I was walking out of the precinct and saw a little girl standing by her mom’s car. She had a tiny blue uniform on—plastic cuffs and all.
I smiled and waved.
She ran up to me and said, “I’m gonna be a police officer just like you!”
And I crouched down and told her the same thing I told myself all those years ago:
“You already are. You just haven’t grown into your uniform yet.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: Dreams don’t come true all at once. They show up in pieces—on tired nights, small wins, kind words. And every time you choose not to quit, you get a little closer.
So if you’ve got something you’re fighting for, don’t let go. Not just yet.
Because maybe the world hasn’t caught up to your dream… but that doesn’t mean it’s not real.
💙