I still remember how the oversized blue Halloween costume dragged at my ankles and how the plastic badge was pinned crookedly to my chest. I was five years old, marching around the house with all the confidence in the world, declaring that I would grow up to be a police officer. No one believed me. “How cute,” Aunt Cici said with a smirk. “Next year she’ll want to be a fairy.” But I never changed my mind—not when the other girls ditched their toy handcuffs for glittery tiaras, and not when boys in high school mocked me for being “too gentle” for such a tough job.
To pay for the police academy, I worked midnight shifts at a rundown diner. Some mornings, I dragged myself home after pouring coffee all night, my hands aching, my feet frozen from the snow that seeped through my shoes. The only thing that kept me going was that tiny Halloween badge. I had taped it to my mirror, a silent reminder of the promise I made to my five-year-old self.
The first time I pulled someone over alone, my heart thudded so loudly I thought the driver could hear it. But I got through it. Then came the real tests—drug overdoses, domestic disputes, even one hostage situation I still dream about. But I didn’t give up. I never walked away.
Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. Waiting for me in my new office was a small, taped-up box. Inside was that same old plastic badge, faded and bent. My dad had saved it all those years. I didn’t cry because I made it. I cried because, somewhere deep down, that little girl always knew I would.
Now when I walk the streets in uniform, young girls stop me for pictures. They look at me the way I once looked at women in badges. They don’t know the full story—how close I came to giving up.
The night before my final exam at the academy, I had just finished a grueling twelve-hour shift. A drunk customer had screamed at me over ketchup, and my feet were bleeding through my socks. I hadn’t slept a minute. Staring into the mirror at that faded badge, I felt something inside me break. I tried calling my mom. No answer. Then I texted Trina, my best friend. Her reply was just one line: “You didn’t come this far to give up now.”
Running on caffeine and grit, I dragged myself to that exam. I barely passed—but I passed.
Even after that, doubt never really went away. Just two years into my career, I nearly quit. A ten-year-old boy named Rami had gone missing. His undocumented mother was too scared to call the police until hours had passed. I pulled every string I could. Half the county searched. When we finally found him, he ran into my arms, shivering and clutching me like he’d never let go.
But when the press release came out, my name wasn’t mentioned. Credit was given to a superior. It was called a “collaborative effort.” I went home that night and took the badge off my mirror.
But I didn’t quit.
Because I had already made a promise—a promise to a little girl in a baggy blue costume with a plastic badge and a dream no one took seriously.