Brian T. McVey, MAP, is a proud father, author, and adjunct professor. He is a Chicago police officer who was injured in the line of duty in 2012 and brings firsthand experience and perspective to his writing on leadership, ethics, and public service.
When I was a Chicago Police Officer assigned to a Gang Unit, I never had to think about the meaning of community. I lived it every single day. Community wasn’t something I had to search for. It wasn’t something I had to schedule. It wasn’t something I had to create. It simply existed. Every roll call. Every radio call. Every breakfast after roll call.
Every lunch where officers roasted peers for something on their plate and dinners after a grueling tour when we laughed so hard, we temporarily forgot what we had witnessed just hours earlier. We broke bread together. We broke each other’s chops. Most importantly, we carried one another.
November 28, 2012, everything changed.
A line-of-duty crash left me seriously injured, changing the trajectory of my life. The physical pain was overwhelming. Surgeries became my new reality. Months in a wheelchair turned into years of rehabilitation. More issues stemming from postoperative complications brought even more battles I continue to fight.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the silence. My body, my mind, and my soul missed the adrenaline of police work—the search warrants, the pursuits, the moments when a radio call came over announcing a person with a gun, or the uncertainty of stopping a vehicle whose license plate revealed it stolen.
Police work offers adventures few other professions experience. Purpose through service to others! It also offers the gift that you are part of something special, a tribe! You aren’t only working with people; you survive with them, trusting them with your life. You laugh with them in ways that few outside law enforcement understand.
Humor in police work is not immaturity; it is survival. One minute, you are responding to unimaginable tragedy, the next someone says something so ridiculous that coffee spurts from your nose.
The laughter keeps officers sane. Suddenly, for me it was gone… Roll calls continued without me, jokes continued. The Gang Team, once a major part of my life and purpose, moved on without me. Life moved forward, but I felt I wasn’t. I remember sitting in my wheelchair, wondering who was going to fill my spot and why my team wasn’t checking in with me daily. I wondered if they were missing me at roll calls.
Meanwhile, I was learning how to function at a hospital, without my new bride, getting calls from her crying, saying she hated sleeping alone in our bed, as I lay awake at the Rehab center. I struggled with trying to understand who I was without the badge. That helplessness, the loneliness, is difficult to explain.
Years later, I read Robert Putnam’s groundbreaking book, “Bowling Alone”. His research documented what many of us felt and struggled to define. America has become increasingly disconnected. People belong to fewer organizations, civic groups, churches, neighborhood clubs, volunteer organizations. Interestingly, bowling leagues declined while more people bowled than ever before.
People were bowling…Alone.
The title captures our modern society. Surrounded by people, we are increasingly isolated. As I read Putnam’s book, I couldn’t stop thinking about law enforcement. When officers retire, become injured, or leave the profession, many experience the same thing. Their tight-knit community disappears overnight along with their identity, purpose, and routine.
Nobody prepares officers for that transition. We spend years learning defensive tactics, firearms, emergency driving, constitutional law, and officer safety, yet we don’t prepare officers for life after policing, especially when that ending comes unwanted and unexpectedly.
For me, it wasn’t retirement. It was injury. One day I was chasing criminals, the next I was wondering if I would ever walk again. I lost my health, my identity, and my teammates. The pain made my smiles and laughter turn to anger. My sense of purpose was gone. That is incredibly dangerous.
Over the years, I have spoken with many officers experiencing the same struggle.
Some withdrew. Some isolated themselves. Some drank more. Some gambled. Some buried themselves in unhealthy relationships outside their marriage while avoiding their own family. Others convinced themselves that they’ve earned this stage of life. Most suffer alone.
That’s concerning because isolation rarely improves mental health. It magnifies pain. Too many officers spend decades pouring their all into the profession while investing little into building a life outside the badge. The badge becomes their entire identity. Then one injury…One retirement… One medical diagnosis…One divorce…One career-ending incident…And suddenly they are standing alone asking:
“Who am I now?”
This is why healthy hobbies matter. Not because hobbies are so enjoyable, but because they can save lives. While in the wheelchair, my friend and mentor, who was also on the job, firmly stated, “You now have the time to write, start writing!” This was an incredible gift from a good friend who was a cop for over fifty, yes 50 years. Thirty years as a patrol officer and over twenty training recruits in the Academy as the Ethics instructor. Writing gave me purpose again. Getting my master’s degree allowed me to start teaching as an adjunct professor at numerous Colleges and Universities. Teaching allowed me to continue serving. Writing for law enforcement magazines and websites reminded me that my experience still had value.
Becoming a father was the greatest gift for me. However, it wasn’t without struggle. After my accident, doctors informed me that I had an issue of NOT being able to have children naturally. So, the stress of going through IVF was a horrific experience where I isolated myself. But the gratitude of being able to have two healthy children with no issues changed my life for the better. Being a dad will always be the most important title I've ever had.
But there was more work to be done. I had to start working on my body via physical therapy. Reading became a relaxing hobby. Volunteering and playing with my kids gave me purpose. Joining my church’s men's group and learning to cook more are lifelines, not just hobbies. They are my new communities; my new roll calls. Robert Putnam argued that social capital—the relationships we build with one another— are one of the greatest predictors of healthy communities.
I couldn’t agree more. Police officers understand partnership better than almost anyone, yet many fail to build the necessary partnerships outside of law enforcement. Eventually, the squad car goes away, the radio gets turned in, and the locker cleaned out, but life continues. The question, have you built something meaningful outside the profession?
Today, fourteen years after my injury, I still miss my Gang Unit. I miss the laughter. I miss the dark humor. I miss walking into roll call knowing exactly who would say something inappropriate before the sergeant even started talking. Yes, sometimes that was me. I miss those breakfasts where solving the world’s problems somehow happened over eggs and coffee. Those moments mattered far more than I realized at the time. Looking back, those weren’t just meals. They were therapy. They were friendship.
Many officers don’t realize what they possess until it is gone. If you are still wearing the badge, start building your life outside of policing. Invest in your marriage. Invest in your children. Find healthy hobbies. Volunteer. Develop friendships that don’t revolve solely around police work. Serve in your church. Coach a youth team. Learn something completely unrelated to law enforcement.
Because… one day your career will end. Hopefully, it will be on your terms. If you are already retired, medically separated, or recovering from an injury like I was, know this: You are not alone. Your purpose did not retire. Your value was never attached to a badge. The world still needs your wisdom, experience, humor, and resilience. Your story.
For years, I believed I had lost everything. Now I understand something entirely different. God wasn’t taking away my purpose. He was expanding it. Sometimes we must lose one community before we are willing to build another. But whatever you do…
Don’t bowl alone.
Comments