This is me at 21 years old. My smile in this photo says it all—pure joy, pride, hope. It was the day I graduated from the Detroit Police Academy. At 4:00 PM, I shook hands, posed for photos, and officially earned my badge. I went home, took a quick nap, woke up around 9:30 PM, and got dressed for my very first midnight shift at the 12th Precinct.

On my chest was the badge my father had worn for 25 years. In my pocket was one of my mother’s sergeant stripe patches. Tucked inside my bulletproof vest was a lucky $2 bill. On my hip was a gun I had barely been old enough to buy ammo for. And in my heart? Enough blind, naive courage to fuel a small army.

As I walked out the door, ready to face whatever the night would bring, my mom stood on the porch and snapped that photo. Neither of us knew then the journey that lay ahead.

Over the next 17 years, that smile would fade, return, fade again—and transform.

There were black eyes and torn ligaments. There were funerals and folded flags. Stab wounds. Stitches. A traumatic brain injury. Nerve damage that never fully healed. Five ruptured discs. There were holidays missed, last-minute canceled plans, concert tickets left unused, and the quiet grief of being absent for so many of life’s little moments.

I’ve laid in soaked grass for hours in the dead of night, waiting to take down a burglary crew. I’ve chased shooters through dark alleys with nothing but adrenaline and faith. I’ve talked women out of abusive homes and begged them to live—before it was too late. I’ve held dead infants in my arms. I’ve handcuffed rapists. I’ve stood over bodies, too many bodies. I’ve kissed the bloodied face of a dead friend and colleague—my academy classmate—who no longer looked like himself because of the bullet holes.

I know the sound of gunfire a few inches from my ear. I know the sound of a mother’s scream when she learns her son has been shot in the street. I know the silence that follows when you tell a wife her husband was killed on his way home.

These are not things you learn from television. These are not scenes you forget.

The sights, the smells, the sounds—they stay with us. They come back at night, when you finally close your eyes. They linger during the day, behind smiles and routine conversations. They become part of you—your memory, your muscle, your very soul. Things we agreed to take on, so you wouldn’t have to. Things I pray my sister, my little cousins, and you never even have to know about.

Let me be clear: I never once put on my uniform with violence in my heart. I never said, “I’m going to beat someone tonight,” or “I hope I kill someone today.” What I did say, every single night, was:
“I’m going to do my best to keep good people safe. Even if it means I don’t make it home.”

I know the world feels broken. And yes—I’ve seen it from both sides now. Since leaving the police department, I’ve learned, listened, and understood in ways I couldn’t while I was inside the uniform. There are serious problems. There is real pain. There are things that must change.

Are cops perfect? No. Are there bad cops? Yes. I won’t deny that. But most of them—most of us—were just regular people trying to do something good. People with spouses and children and aging parents and student loans and pets and past trauma and hopes and dreams—just like you. We are not robots. We are not machines. We are human beings who chose to run toward danger, so others could run away.

It breaks my heart to see the divide widen every day. To see hatred rise while compassion falls. To watch people scream past each other instead of speak to one another.

Violence won’t end violence. Hate won’t end hate. We need empathy. We need listening. We need connection.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Truly. I’m not here to argue or to shame anyone. I’m not going to tell you to unfriend me if we disagree. In fact, I hope you come closer. If you’re angry, confused, or hurting, come talk to me. I’ll hug you. I’ll sit with you. I’ll listen. I’ll pray with you. I’ll meditate with you. And then I’ll ask you to help me do something harder: Build solutions. Real ones.

Because if we’re not part of the solution, we are, whether we like it or not, part of the problem.

We’re better than this.
All of us.
All of you.
With love—Merri ❤️✌🏼