“What has always defined me is this:
to protect, to serve, and to never stop fighting for my family and for justice.”
My name is María Elizabeth Ruiz. I am 45 years old and have three children: two older ones and a little boy who is six.
In Guadalajara I never imagined becoming a police officer, but when new positions opened for women, I decided to try. After nearly a year at the academy, I discovered I had a natural talent for shooting: I was precise and disciplined. That opened doors quickly. I was part of the first generation with several women accepted, and soon I was invited to work with my instructor evaluating other officers on their use of firearms.
From there I became part of the chief of police’s security detail—the only woman on his team. I learned how to manage schedules, provide high-level protection, and work under extreme pressure. Later, I was selected for the new state-wide force, Policía Jalisco, where we trained with elite instructors from the United States and Colombia. I also completed a highly competitive combat medic course.
Eventually, I joined the intelligence division. There, I carried out sensitive investigations: houses and bars linked to drug trafficking, undercover operations, missions that required precision and discretion. In one operation, we rescued missing children—one of the hardest and also most meaningful moments of my career.
“The most painful thing was always when it involved children. That hurts all of us.”
But the cost was high. The threats began. A colleague was abducted; a close commander was ambushed and murdered. My daughters began to be at risk. Even though I loved my work, I understood my first duty was to protect my children. In 2018, while on vacation in the United States with my daughters, I decided not to return. It was a sudden, painful decision, but one I had to make to survive.
Arriving here was not easy. I went from a life filled with daily adrenaline to a country where I didn’t speak the language, had no work, and everything was uncertain. At times I felt like a bird in a cage—so used to action and suddenly forced into stillness. I began the asylum process, but the pandemic delayed it greatly. My oldest daughter, Fernanda, was actually born here years ago by accident—I had traveled pregnant for a baby shower, and the airline wouldn’t let me fly back—so she has citizenship. But for me and my daughter Jimena, our immigration process continues.
In the meantime, I have tried to rebuild my life. I reconnected with a childhood sweetheart, and together we opened a photography studio. I handle the administration and clients. I’m also beginning to take time for myself: now that my children are older, I’m studying English in ESL classes and thinking about my future.
I have always been a strict mother. My daughters used to say I thought like a “police mom.” And it was true: I was tough to protect them. Now they understand better. My time as a police officer taught me how to act firmly in the moment and then let the tears come later, in private.
I dream that one day, when my immigration status is resolved, I will be able to serve again in justice or security here in the United States. Not necessarily patrolling, but in some place where I can use what I learned: discipline, investigation, protection. Because what has always defined me is this: a woman who protects, who serves, and who never stops fighting for justice and for her family.
You must be logged in to post a comment.