I still remember how the big blue costume hung well below my knees and how that cheap plastic badge was pressed into my chest. I had only been five years old. It was Halloween. And I was certain that I would become a police officer someday, with the kind of ferocious assurance that only children have.

Naturally, I was not taken seriously at the time. “Oh, how adorable,” Aunt Cici said with a laugh. She’ll want to be a princess next year. I didn’t falter, though. Not when the other girls exchanged glittery tiaras for their plastic handcuffs. Not even as I got older and high school boys made fun of me for being “too soft” for that kind of life.

I paid for my academy education by working graveyard shifts at a dilapidated diner. On some nights, I would crawl home exhausted, my fingers shaking from pouring refills for hours, and my shoes soaked from the slushy sidewalks. That Halloween badge, which served as a tiny reminder of my motivation to keep going, was taped to my mirror.

My heart pounded so loudly the first time I pulled someone over on my own that I was positive the driver could hear it. However, I succeeded. Then came more difficult calls: scenes of overdose and domestic violence. Once, even a hostage scenario that still wakes me up in the middle of the night, sweating profusely. However, I didn’t stop. I never gave up.

I was promoted to sergeant just last week. A tiny box was waiting on my desk when I arrived at my new office. Within? The same Halloween plastic badge, twisted and weathered but still intact. For all these years, my dad had held onto it.

I cried as I held it, not because I had succeeded at last, but because, deep down, that childlike me always thought I would.

Now, when I’m in uniform, the young girls from my neighborhood approach me to request pictures.

I haven’t told anyone about it, though. Not even my spouse.

I nearly gave up the night before my academy final exam.

I had just left the diner after a grueling twelve-hour shift. My feet were hurting, and a drunk customer yelled at me for using the “wrong” ketchup. In fact, my toes were bleeding when I took off my socks at home.

The final exam for the academy was held the following morning at 6:00 a.m. I hadn’t even had a minute’s sleep.

Something inside of me suddenly exploded as I stood in front of my mirror, staring at that tiny badge that was dangling from a fraying piece of tape.

I attempted to call my mother. No response.

I then texted Trina, my best friend from high school. She answered in a single sentence:

“Before it matters, you didn’t come this far to give up.”

I dragged myself to that test, running on caffeine and sheer willpower. I made it through. I barely made it, but I did.

The part that no one ever anticipates is that, despite everything, I continued to live with doubt for years.

I was only two years into my career when I almost quit because of one case.

A young boy had vanished. Rami was his name. Ten years old. His mother waited hours before calling because she lacked documentation and was afraid of the police. He had been gone for six hours by that point.

I did all the favors I could. Half the county was searched. He ran into my arms when we eventually located him, trembling and afraid, hiding in an abandoned greenhouse. He held on so tightly that I will always remember it, as if he might disappear again if he let go.

However, the department? My name was omitted from the press release. attributed the credit to a superior. claimed that it had involved “collaborative effort.”

That was a deep cut. I went home that evening and removed the badge from my mirror.