I'm not sure what you might think
when you think about the job of a police officer.
Recent events have sparked lots of debate over the role of law enforcement
in our society
and if it should change.
And that's a big, important conversation that we all need have.
But today I'd like to talk about something
that's at the core to my day-to-day work --
something not often discussed when talking about police work,
and that's dealing with trauma, hurt and loss.
What's it like to tell someone --
someone that they know,
someone that they love died suddenly?
Many of you might think this is done by hospitals or doctors.
If you die there, well, it usually is.
If you die outside the hospital,
it's more often than not the police who notify that nearest loved one.
Doing that type of work has taught me powerful lessons
on approaching highly charged situations in all areas of my life.
My passion to connect started about 10 years ago.
I responded to a death call that changed me.
A woman -- let's call her Vicky.
Vicky called because her husband had suddenly collapsed
in the hallway of their home.
The first responders and I tried everything.
We gave it our best effort,
but he died.
In complete devastation,
Vicky fell to the floor.
Instantly, I could feel us strapping on that emotional armor,
going right to work on policies and procedures.
I began peppering her with questions like detailed medical history
and funeral home arrangements.
Questions that she couldn't possibly have been prepared to answer.
In an empathetic gesture,
I reached down and I put my hand on her shoulder.
She flinched and pulled away.
Suddenly, her neighbor came running in
and instantly hugged her.
Vicky pushed her away too.
The neighbor seemed stunned,
a little put off,
and she walked back out.
Then, to make matters worse,
the medical examiner's office,
carrying the body bag holding her husband,
dropped it down a flight of stairs,
crashing into a decorative end table.
I will never forget the sound of her voice
when she looked at me and said,
"I wish I never called."
I felt awful.
Being confronted with death can be difficult for everyone.
Often we rely solely on our instincts to help guide us.
In law enforcement,
we tend to put up an emotional shield,
a barrier to emotions.
That way we can focus on policies and procedures
to guide us.
This is why we can sometimes come across as robotic.
I've discovered that in the civilian world,
you're often driven by that instinct to fix it,
usually done with well-intended comments or physical touch.
Sometimes that may be that right answer.
Other times, not.
Had I slowed down and just taken a breath,
I would have been better able to connect to the humanity of that moment.
I could have avoided that policy and procedure, check-the-box mentality.
Her neighbor, had she slowed down,
just taken a breath,
she may have been able to see that in that moment,
Vicky just wasn't prepared for touch.
Our hearts may have been in the right place,
but we made it about us instead of focusing on her.
In complete contrast,
more recently,
I met a woman -- let's call her Monica.
I was tasked to tell Monica
that her husband had tragically taken his own life.
She fell to the floor crying so hard she could barely breathe.
The gravity of that moment was so strong,
but I knew I needed to resist that urge to move in
and to comfort her.
That sounds crazy, right?
Honestly, it's excruciating.
In your mind and in your heart, you just want to hug this person.
But I stopped myself.
Having been around trauma for over 20 years,
I will tell you
not everybody is comfortable with human touch.
There are people all over the world
suffering from physical or psychological trauma
you may know nothing about.
Who knows what they're thinking or feeling in those moments.
If I move in,
if I touch her like I did Vicky,
I could unintentionally revictimize her all over again.
Think: respect space.
Be guided by respect space.
It's a simple concept with a huge impact.
You can't step into that space until you're invited.
So I sat across from Monica,
silent,
eye level,
just feeling that moment.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
That lump in my throat?
Ugh, I -- I could barely swallow.
And you know what?
That's OK.
Emotions and vulnerability can be so hard for some people.
I understand that.
But in human moments, people want human.
They don't want a robotic police officer or to be talking about paperwork.
They just want another human to connect to them.
As we sat together,
she asked me one question over and over and over again.
"What am I supposed to tell my kids?"
One of the most important parts of respecting space
is not always having to have an answer.
I could feel she didn't want me to answer that question.
She didn't want me to try to fix that unfixable moment.
She wanted me to connect to the depth of that experience
she was going through.
Yes, I had a job to do.
And when the time was right,
I asked the questions that needed to be answered,
but I did it at her pace.
Responding to death calls has taught me so much about the human experience
and the best ways to be there for somebody when they need you the most.
But it doesn't always have to be when dealing with death.
There's never a bad time to build a connection.
Hearing a private revelation from a friend,
you could be such a better listener.
In an argument with a loved one,
by just stepping back and giving that respect space,
you could better connect to their side of an issue.
You may never be asked to tell a complete stranger
that their loved one died,
but we all have the opportunity
to be the best, most connected versions of ourselves,
especially in times of need.
That respect space that you provide another
can have a life-changing effect on the people around you.
Thank you.