At five, I wore a baggy blue costume and a plastic badge, convinced I’d be a police officer someday. Everyone thought it was a phase—but I never let it go.
I paid for the academy by working overnight shifts at a diner, often coming home soaked and exhausted. That old Halloween badge stayed taped to my mirror, my quiet reminder to keep going.
The job was hard—traffic stops, overdoses, domestic calls. Once, even a hostage situation. But I kept going. Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. On my new desk was a tiny box—from my dad. Inside: that same old plastic badge. I cried—not because I’d finally made it, but because I’d always believed I would.
I passed. Barely. But I did.
Years later, I nearly quit again after helping find a missing boy named Rami. He clung to me when we found him, terrified. But in the official report, my name was left out. Credit went to someone else.
That night, I took the badge off the mirror.