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.
By Kenneth Jackson
Why does public trust erode even when officers do everything “by the book”? Because over time, the book becomes the focus, not the characters inside it. Calls blur together. Situations turn into procedures meant to be managed quickly and moved past. Somewhere along the way, routine replaces recognition, and empathy is quietly rebranded as liability. Not because officers stop caring, but because caring feels inefficient in a job built on urgency and control.
Don’t get me wrong, routine keeps our profession moving. It brings order to chaos and consistency to uncertainty. It’s the backbone of policing, and without it, nothing functions. But routine alone doesn’t give the work meaning — humanity does. When empathy slowly gives way to cynicism, and efficiency becomes more important than connection, the public feels it.
Police work is unpredictable by nature, yet most shifts follow a familiar script: the same disturbances wrapped in the same drama, alarms tripped by the same gusts of wind, and the same calls with only a dash of something new. Over time, many officers come to rely on that script, and it shows through their clipped tone, stoic posture and professional distance applied no matter the call.
That reliance is understandable. Emotional armor keeps officers functional. It keeps us safe. But armor worn too long becomes a barrier, and sometimes the most professional thing an officer can do is recognize when a moment calls for something more.
Empathy in law enforcement is often discussed in the abstract: crisis intervention, de-escalation, verbal jujitsu. That’s not what this is about. This is about the deliberate decision to step outside routine and fully engage with the person in front of you.
It’s risky. It can be emotionally draining. And it requires discipline to do without compromising safety. But under the right circumstances, at the right moment, it can matter more than efficiency ever will.
Because for us, it may be just another call. For them, it may be the moment that defines how they see law enforcement for the rest of their lives.
A call on a cold night
One of those moments came unexpectedly, on a call that would normally fade into the background of any shift.
I was dispatched to yet another trespassing call involving a homeless man sleeping in front of a local business. The owner, worn thin by years of trash, needles and belligerent encounters, was understandably frustrated. To him, this was just another reminder that the problem never really goes away.
When I arrived, I found an older, unfamiliar-looking man curled up in a sleeping bag with a small dog at his side. His belongings were set neatly beside him, clean and tidy. He wasn’t intoxicated or aggressive or even nervous. He looked at me with exhaustion and a quiet sense of embarrassment, hidden behind a weak smile.
I could have followed my typical script: check for warrants, issue a citation and move him along. But instinct told me he was peaceful and common sense told me he was likely not a threat.
So I kneeled beside him. Close enough to be personable, but far enough to react. I positioned myself where the conversation felt natural, but distance still mattered. Awareness stayed intact even though the tone softened. The training never left; I simply chose to not allow it to lead the moment.
I asked his name and how he ended up there that night. He hesitated at the unexpected greeting and began telling his story. And I simply listened. No hurry. No cop demeanor. Just a conversation.
He told me about the worst year of his life. The spouse he buried and the hopelessness that followed. Then came the medical diagnosis — one appointment that turned into many, resulting in restrictions he never saw coming. It ended his ability to work, and with it, the routine that had kept him steady. Loss piled onto loss until stability slipped away, not because of a single bad choice, but because everything that could go wrong did.
When he finished speaking, I offered encouragement and resources, nothing grand or life-changing, just what I could in that moment. A few local options, a phone number and the reassurance that he wasn’t invisible. It wasn’t a solution, but it was something, and sometimes something is enough.
Eventually, I still had to ask him to leave the property. The job still had to be done. But he did not walk away angry or defeated. He walked away feeling seen, heard and understood. And the business owner, watching from a distance, saw patience instead of force and compassion instead of commands. Later, he told me it changed his view on homelessness and the police.
When you become someone’s “hero” without realizing it
Officers rarely view themselves as heroes. We know what real heroism is, and most of us feel like we spend more time taking reports than saving lives. But to someone in crisis, someone whose entire world is collapsing, the officer who takes an extra ten minutes, listens and chooses empathy over efficiency becomes unforgettable.
We do not see the long-term consequences of those moments. We do not see how a simple conversation becomes a story repeated for years: “There was an officer who actually cared.”
Moments like that build trust in ways body cameras cannot capture. They tell the public, “You matter, even when nobody else notices.”
That kind of trust is not taught in training manuals. It’s earned, one person at a time.
Balancing humanity with survival
This is not a call for officers to abandon their safety mindset or boundaries. Empathy must coexist with training, vigilance and discipline. But there are small pockets in a shift where we can choose to be human without sacrificing safety.
One way to recognize those moments is to look for situations where the call is tactically resolved but emotionally unresolved. When a subject is calm but withdrawn, when enforcement options are clear but time allows, or when slowing the interaction carries little safety cost, those are often the moments where empathy can make the greatest difference. Not every call offers that space, but when it does, recognizing it is a skill worth developing.
Occasionally, that means breaking the stereotype of the gung-ho street cop.
Occasionally, it means letting yourself care more than is comfortable.
Occasionally, it means accepting a personal cost.
Not every call needs that depth, and not every officer can give it all the time. But sometimes, if we allow it, we get to make a lasting impact — and that may be the most meaningful work we do all year.
The gift we give back to the profession
Every officer knows the feeling of being criticized, misunderstood or lumped into negative narratives. Empathic policing is one of the few tools we have to counter that, not with arguments, but with lived experiences.
When a citizen tells others, “A police officer helped me when I needed it most,” that moment becomes a public relations victory no department can buy. It is a gift we give back to our profession, a legacy built quietly, one compassionate interaction at a time.
Because long after the call is cleared, those moments are what people remember about us.
About the author
Kenneth Jackson is a Master Police Officer (MPO) with the Norman Police Department in Oklahoma, where he has served for seven years. He has a strong professional interest in officer wellness, community trust and decision-making under stress, and continues to pursue professional development within the field. He is currently pursuing a graduate degree while serving the citizens of Norman.
