Why I Quit My Job As A Detective After 12 Years
Of all the lies we tell, the one’s we tell ourselves are the worst.
As I handed my gear across the counter, there was no fanfare.
No farewell celebration.
No one wishing me “good luck”.
Just me standing in a sterile front office connected to a warehouse building built long before I’d been born. I handed the person in front of me all the gadgets I’d deemed important for the decade prior.
Everything from my dress uniform to my gun.
Just like that, it was all over.
I said goodbye to patrol work, fugitive hunting, tactical work, and detective work. I said goodbye to the stripes and the badge that advertised the rank of Sergeant.
For almost thirteen years, I’d given everything I had.
I’d loved it, right up until I didn’t.
On paper, I left for a better opportunity. But that wasn’t the whole truth.
The truth was more complex. It was also hard to say out loud.
I’d begun to hate my work.
The question is, how did the work I once loved turn into something I couldn’t stand? There are two parts to that.
