SHE WORE A TOY BADGE AT FIVE, NOW SHE IS LEADING THE FORCE

I still remember how that oversized blue Halloween costume dragged around my ankles and how the flimsy plastic badge clung to my chest. I was five years old, staring into the mirror with absolute certainty—I was going to be a police officer. Everyone thought it was a phase. Aunt Cici laughed and said I’d be a princess the next year. But I never wavered. Even when the other girls swapped handcuffs for tiaras. Even when the boys in high school mocked me for being “too soft” for the badge.

I worked nights at a rundown diner to pay for the police academy. I came home some mornings with blisters on my feet, soaked socks from slush, and trembling hands from too much coffee and not enough sleep. That same plastic badge from Halloween hung above my mirror, taped and curling at the edges. It reminded me why I was fighting through every shift, every obstacle.

The first time I pulled someone over alone, I was so nervous I swore they could hear my heartbeat. But I did it. Then came harder things—overdoses, domestic violence calls, even a hostage situation that still haunts my sleep. But I kept going. I never quit.

Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. Sitting on my new desk was a small box. Inside was that same toy badge. My dad had kept it all these years. I cried—not because I had made it, but because deep down, I always believed I would.

Now, little girls from the neighborhood ask for photos with me in uniform. I smile, remembering the kid I used to be. But no one knows I almost gave up the night before my final exam. I had just finished a twelve-hour shift at the diner. My feet were bleeding, and some drunk customer had screamed at me over ketchup. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at that badge, ready to give up.

I tried calling my mom. No answer. I texted Trina, my best friend. Her reply was one sentence: “Before it matters, you didn’t come this far to give up.” That sentence dragged me to the test on pure grit and caffeine. I barely passed—but I passed.

Even after joining the force, doubt lingered. Two years in, I nearly quit over a single case. A boy named Rami, ten years old, disappeared. His undocumented mother was terrified to call us. By the time we got the report, he’d been gone for six hours. I pulled every string I could. We found him in an abandoned greenhouse, shaking and terrified. He ran into my arms and held on like he’d never let go. But when the story hit the press, my name was missing. The credit went to a higher-up. “Collaborative effort,” they said. I went home and pulled the badge off the mirror.

But I didn’t quit. I couldn’t.

That little girl in the blue costume still lives inside me. And now, as a sergeant with a weathered toy badge in my drawer and real ones on my chest, I finally understand—becoming who you’re meant to be takes more than toughness. It takes fire. And I’ve had it since I was five.