By the time I turned 18 years old, I already decided I wanted to follow in my dad’s footsteps and hopefully, one day, become half the officer he was.
I paved my own path toward this goal until I was 21 years old, and it was finally time for what I thought was the hard part—the police academy. But the 21-year-old kid that walked through the doors, backpack on her back and a fire in her soul, on the first day of the police academy, had no idea what lie ahead.
That 21-year-old kid had no idea that a fugitive would point a gun at her on her first day out of field training. She had no idea she’d be the second patrol car in pursuit of a bad guy who decided that was the day he wanted to shoot at police. She had no idea she’d have to tell a domestic violence victim that her abuser took his own life after a multiple hour stand-off with police when her 911 call prompted their response. She had no idea that she would eventually join the investigations division and work horrendous crimes against children, resulting in sleepless nights and therapy bills. She had no idea that her first “big” case as a detective would result in a 30-year prison sentence for a teacher who prayed on female students. That 21-year-old kid had no idea that she’d eventually lose her father to suicide from the post traumatic stress that caught up after retirement. And that kid had no idea that when she turned 30, her perspectives would begin to shift, and she would find a passion for mental health among first responders.
The job of a police officer will guarantee you a front row seat to the greatest show on earth. It guarantees an adrenaline rush and funny stories. But without the proper tools or support, it also guarantees you a life of vicarious trauma. What a police officer won’t tell you is that, more often than not, they have a traumatic story of their own. And many times, it’s exactly why they chose the profession. Unfortunately, society, administration and even other cops, tell us we’re not supposed to feel. They tell us to “suck it up” and “don’t cry” because that’s “what you signed up for.” So that’s what we do. We learn to suck it up. We learn to hold back our tears. We learn that a busy shift keeps us from having to face what’s bothering us that day. And we learn that when the shift is over, the cold beer in the refrigerator will also get the job done. Until it doesn’t. Until we can’t. Then what?
In my nine years as a police officer, I’ve seen the rewards this career can offer but I’ve also watched what it will take. I’ve seen one of the happiest, strongest, most resilient people I’ve ever known, crumble until they were in crisis and searched for a way to permanently end all the pain. I watched that person give his entire life to the job and the community he served, just to be abandoned by his own department when he needed support the most. I watched his co-workers and supposed friends find anywhere else to point the finger. I watched my very best friend break.
I watched a department forget about my father, their Sergeant, the day he retired. I watched him struggle, trying to discover his new purpose in life. I listened to the story of the tragic call that he ultimately was unable to deal with or forget. I heard the words delivered by my cousin, the Sheriff, the day my dad took his life. And then I delivered the same news to way too many people. I’ve watched the rest of the world move on while my family grieves every day over the loss.
There are many things that could be done to make this career “easier,” but the most important thing we can do is take care of our first responders. And take care of each other. We can do our part to break the stigma. We can educate and advocate. We can be more present. We can be more aware. We can understand that beneath the uniform is just a human being that feels and bleeds and cries. And we can understand that beneath the badge is a heart that beats with a passion for this job.
