At five, I wore a baggy blue costume and a plastic badge, convinced I’d be a police officer someday. Everyone thought it was a phase—but I never let it go.I paid for the academy by working overnight shifts at a diner, often coming home soaked and exhausted. That old Halloween badge stayed taped to my mirror, my quiet reminder to keep going.The job was hard — traffic stops, overdoses, domestic calls. Once, even a hostage situation. But I kept going. Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. On my new desk was a tiny box—from my dad. Inside: that same old plastic badge. I cried—not because I’d finally made it, but because I’d always believed I would.No one knows I nearly gave up the night before my final academy exam. After a brutal shift, I was running on zero sleep and bleeding feet. I stared at that badge, ready to quit—until my best friend texted: “You didn’t come this far to give up.”I passed. Barely. But I did.Years later, I nearly quit again after helping find a missing boy named Rami. He clung to me when we found him, terrified. But in the official report, my name was left out. Credit went to someone else.That night, I took the badge off the mirror.