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.
Being a woman in law enforcement comes with unique challenges and opportunities. This article explores my journey as a female deputy, the lessons I’ve learned, and how embracing my strengths helped me find success in a male-dominated industry. From daunting first assignments to discovering empathy as my superpower, this story serves as a reminder to recognize and embrace your unique skills to be effective in your work.
The challenges of being the only female
I remember my very first call in the field training officer (FTO) program as a trainee. Someone came to the station to report a sexual assault. At the time, I was the only female going through the FTO program and one of nine females at my patrol station, which had 189 deputies. While I knew the FTO program would be challenging, I never expected my first call would be a 288 PC. I thought I’d ease into the program with a few cold calls, but instead I was thrown into the deep end. It was a daunting experience, but it was also the beginning of a journey that would shape my career in law enforcement.
While my male counterparts were getting to know their training officers over coffee, I was already conducting an interview for one of the most sensitive crimes a victim can report because the victim had requested a female deputy. I remember doing my best to recall everything I had learned at the police academy. My training officer commended me on my performance, but I couldn’t help but feel resentful. Why was I the only trainee assigned to such a difficult call?
I finished FTO and was assigned to the midnight shift, and I started to see this pattern continue. Anytime there was a 288 PC report or a similar sensitive call, I would immediately be detailed as the only female on my shift. When I was detailed for my fourth 288 PC call in one week, I finally had enough. I called my sergeant and expressed my frustration. My very sympathetic sergeant told me he understood but could do nothing if the victim requested a female, and I would have to take the call. I remember telling him that the other guys on my shift also needed to learn how to take these calls. As a new patrol deputy, I admit I hadn’t gotten it yet.
Learning through experience
At the time, I hadn’t grasped the bigger picture yet. I wanted to stand up for myself as a woman in law enforcement. I believed I could handle anything my male colleagues could. What I didn’t consider was the perspective of the victims. Over time, I realized that if I were in their shoes, I would likely want to speak to someone who could relate to me on a deeper level.
Eventually, I began to see my role differently. Being a female deputy was not a disadvantage — it was a unique strength. I could offer victims compassion and empathy in a way that many of my male colleagues simply could not. This realization changed everything. I stopped seeing these calls as burdens and started viewing them as opportunities to make a meaningful difference in someone’s life.
One time, there was a barricaded subject call, and two of us with long guns were assigned to post on a roof opposite the home in question. My SRU sniper partner grabbed an AR-15 and scaled the roof like it weighed nothing. Determined to prove myself, I followed suit. It wasn’t graceful, and it took me six minutes of sweat and cursing, but I made it up to the top of that roof. The experience was a reminder that, while I might not be able to do everything with ease, I had other strengths that were just as important.
Being a female deputy was not a disadvantage — it was a unique strength.
Using empathy as a superpower
One night on a busy patrol weekend, we started our shift and we humped as usual, but around midnight everything finally slowed down. It was the bewitching hour when the silence on the radio was defeating and eerie. We were all in our usual hiding spot behind a mortuary (if you can believe it), and everyone was doing paperwork when we received the tone. It was 1:45 in the morning and I’ll never forget it. Dispatch reported shots fired. A father had called to say he heard a gunshot in his 16-year-old son’s room. He went into the room and found his son had shot himself in the head. He wasn’t breathing.
Needless to say, the father was beside himself. As usual protocol dictated, we had to go to the house immediately and start the investigation to make sure there was no foul play.
As the only female on the shift, I volunteered to stay with the despondent father while we waited for detectives to arrive, conduct an interview, all of it. To say that father was grief-stricken is an understatement. But the story he told me was even more heartbreaking. As I sat there with him, he explained that his wife had died of cancer the previous year. It was now just him and his son. As they were learning to adjust to life without her, he began feeling unwell, went to the doctor and was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. A few days earlier, he had told his son so he could prepare him. Overwhelmed with grief over both parents, the 16-year-old just didn’t know what else to do.
That was the hardest call I ever went to. It took me a while afterward to realize that the reason I immediately volunteered to stay with the father wasn’t because I was a female. It was because I was strong enough to sit with him for over 12 hours while he was sobbing in immeasurable pain. I had the hardest assignment of everyone on the shift, but I knew I was up for it. Frankly, there is no human being in the world who could sit there for 12 hours and not shed a tear for that family. You may disagree with it, but we both sat there and hugged and cried. I listened. I tried to give whatever little words of encouragement I could. But mostly, I was just there to comfort him and share in his sorrow.
You see, my superpower wasn’t being a strong, stoic officer in that moment. My superpower was being human. Being a mom. Being a friend. Being the girl who cries at Hallmark movies and Folgers Christmas commercials. Being that blanket of comfort on a person’s worst day and assuring them that everything is going to be all right … eventually. And telling them that even if it wasn’t going to be all right, I was there. They weren’t alone.
This call ended up shocking the community. The local high school later made a huge memorial for the son. It was all over the newspapers, but all I could remember was hugging the dad and telling him I was there for him. I know I was only a minuscule part of his story, but I know in my heart that what I did helped — even if it was just for a little bit. I never forgot him or that call. Twenty years later, it still sits with me.
My superpower wasn’t being a strong, stoic officer in that moment. My superpower was being human. Being a mom. Being a friend.
Embracing your unique skills
To anyone reading this, I want to remind you that everyone has specialized skills that make them invaluable. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female. Some deputies excel at spotting drivers under the influence, while others are experts at reading people during interviews. Take the time to identify what you’re good at and use it to your advantage.
For me, what once felt like a burden is now a badge of honor. Those challenging calls taught me resilience, compassion and the importance of perspective. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed at times, but remember these moments shape you into a stronger, more capable officer.
Find your superpower and own it. It will help shape who you are in this world, in your career and, more importantly, help you be your authentic self. Be proud of it. Honor it and yourself. Know that you can make a difference in your own way. Stop trying to fit into the box everyone wants you to fit in. Don’t stifle the amazing qualities you have or dull your sparkle because it’s too bright and shiny. Incredibly, in this world, it’s our differences that make us unique and valuable. I know I’m different. It took me a long time to realize my difference was a gift, not a hindrance.
So dare to be different. Be as different as you can be, authentically and unapologetically. That night, my strength wasn’t in being a tough officer — it was in being human. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply be yourself.
Twenty years later, that night still sits with me. It taught me that our real superpower isn’t fitting into expectations. It’s embracing who we are — our empathy, our kindness, our authenticity.
So be you. Be the officer who cares, who listens, who stands out. Because in a world that tries to dull your light, the bravest thing you can do is let it shine.
About the author
Carrie Carone is a retired lieutenant from the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office with over 22 years of distinguished service, including her role as Head of Litigation. A graduate of Sacramento State University in Criminal Justice and pursuing her Juris Doctorate at Northwestern California University School of Law, Carrie brings a wealth of expertise in law enforcement, litigation, and organizational leadership.
She is a published author, guest speaker, and certified instructor with extensive experience in investigations, risk management, and federal court matters. Her article, “The 80/20 Rule and How it Applies to Corrections,” was featured in JAILS, the American Jail Association Magazine, in 2021.
