Among the top ten most dangerous jobs. High risk of deathly diseases. Faced with the risk of being blindsided by an inmate. Possibly attacked with the bare hands of an inmate. My father puts on his uniform everyday, walks out that door, does his duty, returns home to my family, and repeats. He's gone early mornings. Everyday. Holidays. Weekends. Weekdays.

From as long as I could remember, I knew my dad was a corrections officer but never truly understood what it meant. Never knew what a day in this career consisted of, what my father faced every single day he went to work, or never realized every holiday that passed was another holiday I would miss with my dad until I further investigated. All I know was I was proud to call my father a corrections officer and I am so grateful I told everyone when I could.

As a daughter of a corrections officer, i've heard it all. Listened to the good and the bad comments that came along with being labeled "a corrections officers daughter". He must be strict. He must be mean when you bring a guy home. He must be overprotective all the time.

Yet, none of the negative comments made sense to me. He was my father. A human being.

My dad is a corrections officer by day and my father by night. In a uniform or not, carrying or not, working or not, he's human. He's like you. He's like me. He is just like any other dad instead he's at risk of death, diseases, and injury more than the typical human. A man who's willing to be the first person a drug addict sees coming off a high, making sure an inmate does no self harm, mandatory force list, working on holidays, and remaining alert CONSTANTLY during an 8 to 16 hour shift. He's there for someone else's loved one who may be a murderer but also may just have failed to pay child support. He respects another human being as they're human, so why was my dads job title not respected? What made him different?

He spent long days and nights away from my family and I. He supported my family, he came to my sports events when he could, school activities when he could, but he missed many due to his career. I never complained because I knew what he was faced with everyday. I was thankful he returned home after his work shift with no bruises, diseases, or injuries. He's doing a job not suited for everyone. While my friends all spent holidays with their family, I was waiting at home for my father to walk through the door with my mom. How could this occupation ever have a bad name? My father is extraordinarily brave, educated, and outstanding in my eyes.

My dad has taught me all I needed to be independent, well behaved, confident, understanding, supportive and persistent. All fathers could do that, of course, but a corrections officer as a father is different. He listens to my concerns, listens to my ideas, and understands my way of thinking. My dad wants to hear what I have to say just like the inmates. He listens to them, makes sense of what their saying, interprets their thoughts, and understands their way of thinking. He only wants what is best and I watched him take the positive principles he's learned in work and carried them over to me, his daughter.

His occupation does not define the man he is. His uniform does not define who he is. No ones outlook defines who he is. He defines who he is. He is the strongest, bravest, caring, considerate, selfless, and hands down most amazing man. He's my best friend. He's my hero in a uniform. He's my dad.

Thank you for what you do with and without your uniform on. Thank you for making me the women I am today. Thank you for allowing me to reflect you in all the best ways I can. Thank you for coming home and being my father. Thank you for the holidays, days, minutes, hours, seconds, and milliseconds I actually get to spend with you. Thank you for being not only a corrections officer but my father.

I respect his career, I honor him, I love him. I support the thin blue line.

I love you. Forever. Always.

- Your daughter