I was 21 years old when I walked out of the Detroit Police Academy at precisely 4:00 PM. That day feels smaller now in memory, but at the time it was everything: the culmination of dreams, promises, sacrifices. I went home for a brief nap, feeling equal parts elated and exhausted. Then, at 9:30 that night, I reported to the 12th Precinct for my very first midnight shift.
Look at that photo. I remember how hard I was smiling. I had my father’s badge pinned to my chest — the same badge he carried through 25 years of service. In my pocket, one of my mother’s sergeant stripes. In my vest, a lucky $2 bill. On my hip, a service pistol I was barely old enough to carry ammo for. And in my heart, a kind of naïveté — courage you don’t know you don’t have until you need it.
My mom snapped that picture just as I walked out the door — smiling, hopeful, unaware of what was waiting.
The First Years: Euphoria, Strain, and the Unknown
The first few years felt like living in a fast-forward film. I chased carjacking calls, led foot chases in dark alleys, and stood between violence and those who couldn’t protect themselves. I wore that uniform and never quite knew whether people saw a hero or a threat. Most nights, I was just a young kid making split-second decisions while trying to stay alive.
I lost friends — some in the line of duty, some to the darkness inside them. I watched fathers limp into houses with broken bones or empty hands. I escorted mothers away from scenes they couldn’t unsee. I kept vigil over dying bodies. I prayed for strength to hold on when all I could think was: “How did I find myself here?”
The Long Haul: Wounds You Can’t See
Seventeen years later, I carry the evidence every day:
- Blood, sweat, and shattered pride.
- Black eyes, torn ligaments, stab wounds, stitches.
- A head injury that left a scar I never show.
- Permanent nerve damage.
- Ruptured discs.
- PTSD.
- Crushing depressions and the ever-present weight of grief.
I’ve missed birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries. I’ve traded once-in-a-lifetime tickets for late-night shifts. I’ve lied awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying words I wish I hadn’t said — or thinking of ones I never got to say. I’ve put on this uniform and held equilibrium between hope and despair, between doing good and being broken.
And yes — I’ve stood in wet grass for hours, tracking suspects in silence. I’ve tasted fear when bullets whizzed past. I’ve calmed hysterical mothers, promising to bring closure. I’ve peeled burned bodies from uniforms. I’ve arrested serial rapists. I’ve wept over the loss of a friend I held in my arms.
The smells, the sounds, the flashes in memory — they don’t fade. They don’t go away overnight, or ever. They live inside me. They come back at the slightest trigger. Sometimes in the quiet before dawn, sometimes in a siren’s echo.
A Shift in Mind: From Enforcer to Advocate
Every time I strapped on the gun belt, I went to work with one thought: to protect life. Not to hurt, not to fight, not to be perfect. To protect.
I never went to work thinking I wanted to harm anyone. But I knew the possibility existed — that in that moment, split-second decisions might cost both me and someone else everything. And I accepted that risk.
Over time, I realized we can’t fight violence with more violence. We can’t breathe peace into hatred by throwing stones. For all of the uniform, for all of the badge, what we need is more compassion, understanding, and connection.
Since leaving the force, I’ve walked across both sides: the badge, the protester, the skeptic, the believer. And I understand. The anger. The fear. The distrust. The longing for justice. The yearning for redemption.
This Isn’t Blame. It’s a Plea.
Are cops perfect? No. Are there bad cops? Yes. But those stories don’t tell the whole truth. Most officers are flawed humans with families, bills, regrets, dreams. They’re vulnerable. They break. They bleed.
Hate breeds more hate. Violence begets violence. Anger often spreads faster than mercy. When we pile on a community, when we refuse to listen, when we demonize those who wear the badge — we’ve become part of the problem.
So here’s what I ask of you: don’t walk away when you disagree. Don’t unfriend me because you think I’m naive. I will listen. I will pray or meditate with you. I will feel your anger and grief and confusion. And I will challenge you — to help me seek solutions, not just point fingers.
If we are not part of the solution — we are part of the problem.
I believe: we are better than this. ❤️