The Night I Almost Gave Up: A Police Officer’s Silent Battle in the Mountains

Why I Kept Going When Quitting Felt Easier

There’s a kind of silence in the mountains of north that presses on your chest—heavy, cold, and thick with unsaid stories. It’s not just the absence of sound. It’s the kind of silence that demands you listen inward.

I often find myself staring into that silence.

Years ago, I was just another student wandering through the corridors of a reputed university, buried in environmental science books, dreaming of green solutions, and quiet research labs. I had no idea that life would strip away those peaceful dreams and hand me something far heavier: a badge, a gun, and the responsibility of protecting lives.

Becoming a Probationer Assistant Sub Inspector (PASI) in the KPK Police wasn't the dream I had chased—it was the one that found me.

People think being in the police is all about power, rules, and uniforms. What they don’t see is the emotional warfare that happens behind the scenes. The quiet breakdowns after confronting a domestic violence case. The hollow feeling of handing over a child to a broken family. The frustration of watching the justice system crawl when people cry for immediate help.

I began questioning myself just a few months in.

Why did I choose this?

Why am I still here?

There was one night—cold, grey, and unforgettable—that nearly broke me. I had just finished a 14-hour shift. My uniform was soaked in dust, and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I got a call about a disturbance on the outskirts of town. I was exhausted, but duty doesn’t understand tiredness.

When I arrived, I found an elderly man pacing in front of his home. His daughter hadn’t returned. Hours had passed. He was trembling—not with fear, but with helplessness. And when I asked questions, he looked into my eyes and said something that would haunt me for weeks:

“You’re just another face. You’ll leave too, won’t you? Like the rest?”

I froze.

Not because he was wrong, but because deep down… I had thought about leaving.

In that moment, the weight of it all nearly crushed me. The insults, the low pay, the long hours, the lack of recognition. I could’ve taken off my uniform and walked away. Who would’ve blamed me?

But something kept me rooted.

Maybe it was the echo of my father’s words—“Real strength is silent.”

Maybe it was my wife’s quiet sacrifices—leaving behind her career in metropolitan city to support me in a remote town without complaint.

Or maybe it was that old man’s eyes. Full of pain, yes—but also full of a flicker of hope that I might be different.

Days later, during a dawn patrol by the side, I stood alone. The water whispered against the rocks, and I asked myself: “What am I doing here?”

The answer wasn’t grand. It wasn’t poetic.

But it was honest: “I’m here because someone has to be.”

That’s the truth of this job. It doesn’t make you rich. It doesn’t always make you respected. But it gives you something rare—a reason to keep showing up when everything in you says not to.

Now, when I walk through the narrow streets of the town, I walk not just as a police officer but as a witness to unseen pain. A bearer of unheard stories. A reminder that quitting is easy—but choosing to stay, to fight, to believe, even when no one claps for you… that’s where the real story begins.

So, to anyone standing at the edge—of giving up, of walking away—know this:

Your quiet courage may be the only thing keeping someone else alive.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough.