SHE WORE A TOY BADGE AT FIVE—NOW SHE’S LEADING THE FORCE

At five, I wore a plastic badge, my oversized cop costume dragging. Halloween, yet I knew I’d be a police officer someday.

No one believed me. Aunt Cici laughed, “She’ll want to be a princess next.” But I never swapped my baton for a wand. Not when girls teased me, or boys in high school called me too soft, too small, too female.

I worked diner night shifts to afford the academy, trudging home in slush, hands shaking from pouring coffee for hours. My faded Halloween badge hung on my mirror—a reminder to keep going.

My first solo traffic stop? My pulse was deafening. Tougher calls followed: domestic disputes, overdoses, a hostage situation that still wakes me in a cold sweat. Yet, I kept showing up, proving I could.

Last week, I became sergeant. On my desk: that old badge. Dad saved it. I cried—not for making it, but because that five-year-old knew I would.

Now, neighborhood girls wave at me in uniform, some snapping photos. I hide my doubts, showing them they can be anything.

The secret? The night before my final academy test, fear nearly stopped me. But that badge, that dream, pushed me through. Now, I lead with that same heart.