[[{“value”:”
Thank you for reading this post, don't forget to follow and signup for notifications!
Editor’s note: This essay is part of “Stories from the Street,” a Police1 series featuring first-person reflections from officers across the country. These essays are about the lived experiences and moments that changed how officers think, lead and serve. If you have a story to share, we’d love to hear from you. Submit your story here.
Officers know it before anyone says it out loud: the system keeps moving. You can give it two years or thirty, and it won’t flinch when you’re gone. The shift gets covered. The zone gets reassigned. Your name might come up once or twice, but the work doesn’t pause.
And yet, cops still show up. Not for the applause. Not for the pension. But because something deeper still calls them to serve, even when the culture no longer knows how to support them.
What communities say they want
Law enforcement is shifting. Part of it is generational. Part of it is practical. Most of it is personal.
Communities don’t want tactical gear walking into their living rooms. They want someone who can talk. Someone who won’t escalate already escalated people. They don’t want therapy. They want humanity.
They want what used to be called community policing. When officers walked the streets. When people waved. When trust was built day by day, not just when a crisis hit.
They want to see officers at school board meetings, youth events and pancake breakfasts. Not just when something happens, but because showing up matters even when nothing has.
| RELATED: The truth behind the ‘worst call’ question
When expectations collide with reality
But the environment has changed. Violence has increased. The gear isn’t for show. It’s for survival. Officers are trained for tactical readiness, then asked to flip the switch and become emotionally fluent and relational. That gap isn’t just unrealistic. It’s dangerous.
We say we want community trust. What’s been built is a response model. Those two things do not always align.
The weight officers carry alone
In many places, officers are no longer just responders to crime. They’ve become the last line of defense for what society refuses to solve: abandoned vehicles, trash-strewn yards, trespassing from people with nowhere else to go, acute and chronic homelessness, untreated mental illness, psychosis from substance use, repeat calls from someone convinced a stranger is watching through the blinds.
And when there’s no shelter bed, no detox, no long-term treatment, no housing, officers get the call again the next day. And the next. And the next.
To the business owner, the problem ends when the person is moved. To the system, it’s a closed case. But to the officer, it’s not over. The problem didn’t get solved. It just got moved.
They see the same names. Same faces. Same cycles. And they’re expected to show up like it’s the first time.
Why every call still matters
Still, every call matters. Even the fifth one to the same house. Even the repeat welfare check. Even the name that gets eye-rolls with a thick history. Every call is a turning point.
The only question is which way it turns. Did you build trust or damage it? Make the scene safer or harder to return to? Connect, or just check the box?
This job is not about being soft. It’s about knowing how to hold a line and hold a conversation. Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.
That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom. And wisdom has to be taught. Not assumed.
The silence that wears people down
But it’s hard to keep showing up when paperwork piles up, when departments are understaffed, when survival mode becomes the default.
“I’ve worked twenty years, and I still don’t know how to shut it off when I get home,” one rural officer told me. “Nobody talks about it. We just figure it out or we don’t.”
And that’s before anyone talks about the real toll. The burnout. The drinking. No friends outside the department. Divorce. The legacy of silence.
According to the Ruderman Family Foundation, officer suicide has outpaced line-of-duty deaths in recent years.
Coping skills outsiders don’t understand
And then there’s the humor. The kind that sounds harsh to outsiders but keeps officers functioning. Sarcasm. Jokes at the worst scenes. Not because they don’t care. Because they do, and it’s one of the only tools left when showing emotion isn’t safe.
The public sees it and calls it inappropriate. But inside the walls, it’s pressure release. A coping mechanism passed down and watched closely.
Younger officers notice. They see the tension, the coping, the applause at retirement, like the pain and pressure never happened.
The impossible standard
All of this gets layered with a double standard. Officers are expected to be calm in chaos, perfect in judgment and emotionless in pain. Any mistake could be caught on camera and go national.
As a mental health first responder and certified peer support, I go out alone or with officers into homes, ERs, crisis scenes and holding cells. I sit with them after things go sideways. I walk with them through what they can’t unsee. I’ve heard what they won’t say out loud and what they wish someone would.
No other profession holds that line while carrying this kind of weight. And yet most departments still dedicate only a fraction of their training hours to emotional intelligence, de-escalation, or mental health response.
Finding identity outside the badge
Some officers figure it out. They get into woodworking. Volunteer. Coach their kid’s team. One officer lit up talking about volleyball practice, not because it made him better at the job, but because it reminded him who he was outside the badge.
But others never find that outlet. Especially in rural areas. Hobbies cost money. Passion takes time. And when your identity is built around the job, even a weekend away can feel disloyal.
That’s not weakness. That’s exhaustion without direction.
Departments talk about morale, but rarely ask what actually gives officers life outside the shift.
According to a 2024 National Police Foundation report, burnout, early retirements and lateral transfers are at record highs. Officers just call it reality.
Why mentorship matters more than ever
If a department doesn’t have mentors outside of field training, say it out loud. Stop pretending burnout is just part of the job. Stop passing down silence like it’s tradition.
Officers with scars have stories someone younger needs to hear. Someone is watching how that weight gets carried. That may be the only model they ever get for how to stay whole.
What still matters
You are replaceable in the system. But not in your impact. The badge gets passed. The shift moves forward. But the people you mentored, protected, or redirected — they remember.
That still counts. That still matters.
If law enforcement wants to survive with its soul intact, we have to start asking harder questions. Not just about what’s working, but about what’s being lost, and what’s still worth fighting for.
What keeps you showing up on the hard days? Share below.
STORIES FROM THE STREETS
“}]]
