The Badge — Then and Now

In this episode, Jim looks at the badge from two angles: the pride of putting it on for the first time, and the weight it gathers with every call, shift, and hard lesson learned. This isn’t a takedown or a tribute piece—it’s a human look at who we think we’ll be, who we become, and what it costs to carry both.

Highlights

• Rookie shine vs. seasoned reality—what changes and what shouldn’t
• The difference between authority, responsibility, and accountability
• How small moments stack into a career—and a conscience

Keywords/Tags
law enforcement, personal story, identity, accountability, growth, service, choices

How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Every life has turning points.
 This is where we talk about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Welcome to How Did We Get Here. I’m Jim Richmond. Let’s begin.

Most things made of metal are just that—cold, lifeless, silver or gold, polished to look pretty, worn as jewelry, or a fashion statement.

But some metals carry more than shine. Some metals are forged in tradition, in blood, sweat, and tears. Some metals can bleed—and when they do, the color of that blood is blue.

Before I go any further, I need to say this: for every one bad cop you read about, I knew ten who wore the badge with pride, with respect, and with heart.

This episode isn’t about tearing anyone down. It’s about being honest—about how the badge, and the way it’s seen, has changed. And if you’ve ever worn one, or loved someone who has, you know the truth deserves to be told.

The first time I held the badge in my hand, I didn’t see cold metal.
 I saw purpose.
 I saw responsibility.
 I saw a weight I wasn’t sure I could carry… but I knew I wanted to.

It wasn’t just something you pinned to a uniform. It was something you carried in your heart. Something that became part of who you were. Something that transformed you—even when the uniform came off.

That badge was a promise:
 To stand up when others sat down.
 To walk toward the fight when everyone else ran.
 To protect people who might never know your name—or worse, hate you for wearing it.

Back then, the badge was more than authority. It was belonging. It meant you were part of something bigger than yourself—a brotherhood, a family. And when you looked around at roll call and saw everyone else with that same piece of metal on their chest, you knew you weren’t in it alone.

But here’s the truth about the badge: the shine doesn’t last forever.
 Like every metal, if you don’t polish it often, it begins to dull.
 And when the shine fades, pride fades. Then cracks begin to appear.

The badge gives you authority, but it also paints a target on your chest.
 It gives you strength, but it also puts you in situations that test every ounce of it.

There were nights I asked myself if the badge was protecting me… or if it was the very thing putting me in harm’s way.

Carrying it meant more than enforcing laws. It meant carrying the weight of people’s fears, their anger, their distrust. And sometimes, the very people you swore to protect were the same ones screaming at you, spitting at you, hoping you’d fail.

The badge was heavy—not just on the uniform, but on the soul.
 It asked for long hours, sleepless nights, missed birthdays, and empty chairs at family dinners.

The shine looked good from the outside. But from the inside, you started to feel the cost.

Today, when I look at the badge, it doesn’t shine the way it used to.
 The world has changed. And with it, the way people see the men and women behind the badge.

The attitude has changed.
 Policing isn’t the same as it was 20, 30, even 40 years ago.
 And with the attitude came the image.

Back then, you didn’t need to be muscle-bound. Most fights never started—because you ended them with your words. The pen really was mightier than the sword.

And if you had tattoos on your arms? They had to be covered. Either you didn’t join, or you wore long sleeves no matter the heat. Facial hair? Forget about it. A mustache was about as far as you could go.

Your image and uniform mattered. It carried authority. It stopped more scuffles than it started. People thought twice before testing you—not because you looked like a fighter, but because you looked like an officer.

Giant boots. Pressed uniforms. Badges and buckles that caught the light.
 You stood tall—not just for yourself, but for your department.

Today, I’ve seen local officers with baggy uniforms, unshined boots, sleeves rolled up to show tattoos. Some looked like they just walked out of a muscle magazine. And to me, they don’t look like guardians. They look more like thugs in uniform.

As a member of the public, would I feel comfortable walking up to one of them for help—for directions? Probably not.

And that’s where the problem lies.

I learned that lesson firsthand not long after I moved here.
 Short story: my registration was about to expire, so I renewed it online. But I forgot I was in a different county now. DMV corrected the mistake and sent me a temporary registration. I folded it neatly, stuck it in my glove box, and thought nothing more of it.

One afternoon, I was out running errands when a local officer pulled me over. He was a sergeant—polite, professional, respectful. I showed him the temporary registration, and he simply advised me to keep it on the dash. Then he wished me a good day and went on his way.

The very next day, before I’d even taken his advice, I got pulled over again—this time by one of the state’s finest. And the difference couldn’t have been more dramatic.

This officer looked the part, but he was cold, calculating. When I showed him the same temporary registration, he questioned its validity. Asked why there was no expiration date, hinting maybe it wasn’t even real.

I told him that was a question for DMV.
 He scolded me about my seatbelt and walked back to his car with an arrogance you could feel.

The story isn’t about whether either officer was right or wrong.
 It’s about how they carried themselves.

One left me feeling respected.
 The other left me feeling dismissed.

Two encounters. Same issue. Two very different impressions.
 That’s the point.

The badge may be the same—but the way you carry yourself changes everything.

And with every action recorded, every mistake broadcast, every crack magnified, it’s even more important now than it ever was.

The badge has always carried weight. But now, it carries suspicion, politics, and public anger too.

The day I hung up my uniform, I realized something.
 The badge would no longer be on my chest… but it would always be part of me.

Because the badge changes you. Not the metal itself, but what it represents.
 It teaches discipline.
 It teaches sacrifice.
 It teaches how fragile life can be—and how important it is to stand for something bigger than yourself.

But here’s the truth: the badge isn’t who you are. It’s just what you wear.

One day, the shine fades.
 The authority goes back in the locker.
 The uniform gets folded for the last time.
 And all you’re left with is the man behind the badge.

That’s where legacy comes in.
 Not in how many arrests you made, or how many medals you collected—
 but in how you carried yourself.
 How you treated people when the cameras weren’t rolling, and the headlines weren’t writing themselves.

If I could tell a young recruit one thing, it would be this:
 The badge doesn’t make you special.
 Your choices do.
 Your character does.
 Your willingness to walk the line—even when it costs you—does.

Because when the uniform comes off, all that’s left is your name, your reputation, and your story.

And if the badge really meant something while you wore it, you won’t need it to keep living by its code.

The badge is just metal. It shines. It dulls. It cracks.
 But the man behind it—his choices, his scars, his story—
 that’s what gives it meaning.

This is How Did We Get Here—a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

I’m Jim Richmond.
 And I’m still here for a reason.
 Maybe you are too.