The Sarah Smith Files

From the Blog of Sarah Smith: Introduction

Ab This Blog

This narrative chronicle the journey of Sarah Smith who once dreamed in color—fashion, journalism, writing, aiming to make her mark in the world through her creativity, eloquence, and vision. But dreams don’t always come true the way we imagine them. With little support, and even less belief in her corner, she turned away from what lit her up inside and stepped into a career in law enforcement — a world that couldn't have been further from the one she once longed for. This is a story about what happens when your life detours, when you end up somewhere you never thought you’d be, and the world you find there is darker than you ever expected. This is a story about Sarah Smith.

Chapter 1: Stilettos, Sprains, and the Death of a Dream

I used to think I’d grow up to work at Vogue. Or Vanity Fair. Or honestly, any publication that wouldn’t make me review hot dog stands or write copy for adult diapers. I was twelve, dramatic, and completely convinced that fashion journalism was my destiny. The world just hadn’t been informed yet.

There’s a photo of me somewhere—grimy Polaroid, early 1990s glow—wearing my mother’s stilettos (one black, one navy, because even then I understood the art of contrast), a hot pink scarf wrapped around my head like I was Carmen Sandiego’s delinquent niece, and my dad’s oversized trench coat cinched at the waist with a jump rope. I had a hairbrush in one hand and a composition notebook in the other. I wasn’t playing dress-up. I was reporting live from Paris Fashion Week, somewhere between our suburban kitchen and the cracked tile of the downstairs bathroom.

That’s also the day I sprained my ankle trying to do a dramatic pivot down the hallway catwalk. Journalism has always had its hazards. I believed in the power of image, words, storytelling. I believed in the power of believing. Then life happened. And like most people who get steamrolled by reality, I stopped writing for a while and started surviving. Dreams are easier to wear than to carry. I graduated from middle school and went to high school. Somehow I made it to college.

Chapter 2: Ivory Towers and Cracked Mirrors

I arrived at the University of Virginia, an institution for those who didn't get accepted to Georgetown—I was one such student. My college experience was a blur, yet, challenging and marked by a sense of anonymity due to the large student population, which I appreciated. I often found myself attending classes in sweats and without much enthusiasm. I joined clubs to make friends. I left clubs to avoid them.

I spent time with students from the art and music departments where I felt a sense of belonging. We exhibited unique characteristics and authenticity collectively. This contrasted with my experiences in the journalism department, where I encountered some students who were more focused on sensationalism than on reporting the truth. Over time, I realized that there was a general lack of interest in truth among the people I interacted with. I saw behind the curtain: some of my classmates, despite their modest writing abilities, secured prestigious internships in Washington D.C. and New York City through connections, and the way “networking” was just pretending to like people you lowkey resented. I started writing op-eds under a pseudonym, questioning the perceived hypocrisy on campus among students, professors, and department heads.

In my senior year, everything focused on the future. “What are your post-grad plans, Sarah?” “To vanish mysteriously and be discovered decades later through my journals,” I joked. I finished my senior thesis: an ironic essay on online authenticity. I was a solid average student without a notable distinction. As I walked across the stage, I thought: I came. I saw. I wrote weird little things no one read. Somehow, that was enough—until it wasn’t. Faced with student loans and uncertainty, I returned to California.

Chapter 3: Accidental Cop

Post-grad summer smelled like iced coffee and existential dread.

I applied to 72 jobs. Got two interviews. One was a pyramid scheme disguised as a “creative marketing collective.” The other asked me to “embody the brand voice of mayonnaise.”

My résumé said things like:

- “Published in campus literary magazine”

- “Proficient in photoshop”

- “Strong aesthetic instincts"

My bank account said: $48.32.

I was living at home again, in my childhood bedroom where the wallpaper was still collages and picture clippings from Vogue and Vanity Fair. My mom began knocking on my door at 9 a.m. every morning saying, “Any updates on your situation?”

“Yes,” I told her once. “I’ve accepted my fate as a misunderstood genius.” She replied, “Walmart’s hiring.”

One afternoon, while scrolling through Indeed with the same enthusiasm one reserves for reading food poisoning symptoms, I saw a listing:

**“Public Service Career. Benefits. Stability. No experience required.”**

I clicked. It was the police department.

I laughed. Out loud. Alone.

“Me? A cop?” I whispered, wearing mismatched pajamas and an old Marlon Brando shirt.

But the longer I stared, the more it made sense.

- Full-time.

- Health insurance.

- The world was ending anyway.

The interview was surreal. A man in uniform asked, “Why do you want to join law enforcement?” I replied, “Because no one else is hiring me.” He laughed. I didn’t.

A week later, I got the acceptance email. Subject line:

WELCOME TO THE FORCE. No. exclamation mark. Just dread.

I closed my laptop, stared into the abyss of my cold cup of coffee, and muttered, “Well, Sarah… this is not Vogue.”

The academy was a blur of tactical drills, awkward uniforms, and the realization that no one there had read Virginia Woolf.