When Reporting Makes You the Problem: One Officer's Fight to Stay

Foreign.

Field training starts tomorrow.

Jess Ramirez had made it this far, first in her family to finish college, first Mexican American woman in her academy class to pass the physical standards.

Challenges without special accommodation, the one some instructors seemed to design specifically to wash out female recruits.

She'd proven herself on the range, on the mat in the classroom.

Tomorrow she'd ride with her field training officer, learn the job from someone with years of street experience.

She was ready.

Nobody tells you that your FTO might assault you.

That's not in the manual.

Jess found out anyway.

Not on the street.

Not during some chaotic call in his patrol car, during her second week of training, when she was supposed to be learning how to be a cop.

This episode is about what happened next.

Not just the assault, not just the investigation, but what it takes to report an officer when you're still a rookie, what it costs to stay in law enforcement after the system fails you, and how one woman turned the worst betrayal she could imagine into a mission to make sure no other officer faces this alone.

We've been in your shoes.

Lying awake at 3am replaying that call over and over again, feeling hypervigilant at the grocery store, watching peers struggle and not knowing what to say.

Police Speak was created by officers tired of seeing good people break down.

We understand the job because we've lived it and we've processed what you're experiencing.

You'll hear stories about what's worked after difficult calls.

A framework that outlines your resilience across six key areas.

We provide peer support, skills you can use starting tomorrow.

Build resilience before adversity overwhelms it.

Officers teaching officers.

Content WARNING this episode discusses sexual assault by a law enforcement officer, workplace harassment, institutional betrayal, and investigation processes.

Resources are in the show.

Notes if you're in crisis, reach out to the National Sexual assault hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE BEFORE LISTENING.

Take care of yourself.

I'm Michael Simpkins, and this is Police Speak, where we explore law enforcement trauma, resilience and the courage it takes to heal.

Today's episode deals with sexual assault by a law enforcement officer and the institutional betrayal that often follows.

This is Jessica's story, but it's also the story that too many officers, especially women, carry in silence.

If you've experienced harassment or assault within law enforcement, I want you to know reporting doesn't make you a traitor to the blue.

Staying doesn't make you weak, and healing doesn't mean forgetting.

Jess is 27 years old now, five years on the job if you count academy time, where this all Started.

She's a patrol officer in a large Southwest department.

She's also something else.

The department's sexual harassment and assault response liaison.

A position that didn't exist before.

She fought for it.

Her badge says Officer Ramirez.

But she earned that badge twice.

Once when she graduated academy, and again when she refused to let one predator take it from her.

This is about the resilience it takes to stay when everything in you screams to run.

And what it means to transform trauma into systemic change.

Phoenix in August is brutal.

Heat that makes asphalt shimmer.

Patrol cars feel like ovens.

Jessica Ramirez grew up with that heat.

South Mountain area, Working class, Mexican American family.

Youngest of three kids.

Her older brothers went into construction.

Good work, solid money.

But Jess wanted something different.

I wanted to help people.

Yeah, I know how that sounds, believe me.

But like growing up, the cops who showed up to our neighborhood, some were good, some weren't.

You know, the good ones, they totally made a difference.

I wanted to be one of them.

Specially for families like mine, you know?

First generation college student, criminal justice degree from Arizona State.

Student loans, she's still paying off.

She had the degree and the determination, the easy path that she didn't have.

The academy's physical standards were brutal by design.

Push ups, pull ups, mile and a half run, obstacle course, defensive tactics, mat work.

Some instructors seemed to add extra scrutiny to female recruits.

Especially if you were Latina.

Especially if you were first generation anything.

Jess wasn't the fastest runner, but she was tenacious.

PT every morning.

This one instructor.

You sure you're in the right place, Ramirez?

Maybe try dispatch.

I just do another rep. That's the deal.

When you're the first of anything, your mistakes aren't individual.

They represent all women, all Latinas, all working class kids who don't fit the mold that pressure shapes everything you do.

By month four, Jess was holding her own.

Decent grades, solid tactical performance, no disciplinary issues.

She made a few friends.

Not close.

Academy competition doesn't allow much vulnerability, but friendly enough.

Then FTO assignments came out.

Every rookie looks at that assignment with hope and terror.

Your FTO can make or break your career.

A good one teaches you the job, covers your mistakes and helps you develop instincts.

A bad one can bury you with shit reviews, set you up to fail, or just make every day miserable.

Just got assigned to Officer Derek Martin.

Fifteen years on the job, decent reputation.

Not exceptional, not problematic.

No red flags.

She was cautiously optimistic.

So, like, my first day riding with him was fine, you know, professional.

He explained.

The district, showed me all the hotspots, even let Me drive some, I thought.

Okay, I got lucky.

This guy's solid.

Week one was uneventful.

Routine calls, traffic stops, report writing.

Martin was patient with rookie mistakes.

Corrected her without being a dick about it.

Week two started the same way.

Predators in positions of power build trust first.

Test boundaries, isolate targets.

Martin had done this before.

Jess didn't know it yet.

Tuesday of week two, evening shift.

They just cleared a domestic.

Verbal argument.

No arrests.

Everybody separated and calmed down.

Martin suggested grabbing food.

The taco shop near South Mountain is one he likes.

Jess agrees.

She's hungry.

She knows the place.

It's near her old neighborhood.

Feels normal.

They eat, they talk.

He asks about her family, her background, and why she wanted to be a cop.

She shares carefully.

Not too personal, but enough to be cordial.

Afterward, they head back to the car.

That's when everything changed.

I'm going to be direct about what happened next.

That's what Jess requested.

She doesn't need her assault described dramatically.

She needs it acknowledged as fact.

Derek Martin sexually assaulted Jess in his patrol car in the parking lot behind that taco shop.

She was four months into her training.

She was his student.

She was 25 years old.

What she did next is what this story is really about.

She told him to stop.

He didn't.

When he finally did stop, she got out of the car, stood in that parking lot in uniform, wearing a badge that didn't feel like hers anymore, and made a decision.

She could report it or stay silent.

I knew what reporting meant.

You know, investigation, everyone knowing.

Training slot gone.

And no guarantee anything happens to him either.

I knew all that.

Those calculations happen fast when you're standing in a parking lot deciding if your career is already over.

But Jess had grown up watching her father work construction in Phoenix.

Summers.

80 hour weeks, bad back, minimal benefits.

He'd told her when she got into the academy.

Miha, you made it out.

Don't let anyone take this from you.

She wasn't going to let Derek Martin take this from her.

Got back in the car, told him I was reporting this.

He just laughed.

Said no one would believe me.

They drove back to the station in silence, reporting Met walking into hell.

Here's why.

In law enforcement culture, there's an unwritten rule you don't rat out another cop.

The blue wall, the brotherhood, whatever you want to call it, that code exists for a reason.

Officers depend on backup.

Trust is everything.

But that same code can protect predators.

When the person who assaults you is wearing the same badge you're trying to earn, reporting them means choosing between your career and your integrity.

Most people stay silent.

Jess knew this.

Reported anyway.

Within 48 hours of the assault, she'd given a formal statement to Internal Affairs.

The investigation began and her life became hell.

The investigation took four months.

Jess's FTO training suspended.

She couldn't ride with another FTO because the investigation was ongoing.

Couldn't progress with her fellow recruits.

Just waited while everyone else moved forward.

And everyone knew.

Ah.

The worst part, like, wasn't even the investigation meetings, you know, it was just walking into the station, feeling everyone's eyes on me, like a spotlight.

Some officers wouldn't even look at me at all.

Some would just stare and like, a few would ask if I was okay.

Quietly, of course, when no one else was around.

But most people, they just totally avoided me.

When you report an officer for sexual assault, you become the problem, not the officer who committed the assault.

You.

Because now there's paperwork, now there's an investigation, now internal affairs is asking questions.

Now the department has to deal with something uncomfortable.

And in cop culture, making problems visible is worse than the problem itself.

Jess's classmates started excluding her.

Not overtly, just forgotten to text about study groups.

When she'd show up to the station for mandated check ins, conversations would stop when she walked in.

Some of it was awkward uncertainty.

People didn't know what to say.

But some was deliberate isolation.

I had this one guy from my class, we'd actually been friendly, even studied together.

And he like straight up told me to drop the complaint.

He said Martin was a good cop.

Said I was like totally ruining his career over nothing.

I mean, I just asked him if you'd even been there.

He said no.

So I was like, then just shut the fuck up.

That's Jess.

Direct, sharp when she needs to be.

But that interaction cost her.

Word spread that she was difficult, that she couldn't take feedback, that she was hostile.

The narrative was being written.

She wasn't a hero.

During those four months, Jess's brain was falling apart.

The PR6 model helps us understand what looked like resilience from the outside, but felt like drowning inside.

Vision domain was first to crack.

Vision, your ability to imagine a positive future, set goals.

See yourself getting through this depends on your hippocampus and prefrontal cortex working together to imagine what might happen next.

When trauma hits, especially sustained trauma, like a months long investigation where you're publicly blamed and isolated, the hippocampus gets overwhelmed.

It stops being able to process positive outcomes.

For Jess, this showed up gradually.

She stopped talking about post training plans, stopped making plans, period.

When People asked about career goals, she'd shrug.

I'll figure it out.

That's not ambivalence.

That's a brain that can't imagine making it through.

I just stopped being able to picture myself as a cop.

You know, I'd see other officers in uniform and just think, ugh, that's so not gonna be me.

I didn't decide to quit.

Not really.

It's more like I just couldn't see myself continuing.

There's like, a big difference, you know?

Your ability to trust others, ask for help, maintain relationships.

That depends on brain systems that process social information and trust signals.

When you've been betrayed by the training system, when your peers isolate you, when reporting assault makes you the outcast, those processing systems shut down.

It's not a choice to isolate.

It's your brain protecting you from further harm.

By cutting off trust, Jess stopped reaching out, stopped answering texts unless required.

When investigators asked if she had support, she said yes.

She was lying.

Mom kept calling.

I'd say, I'm fine, just busy.

She totally didn't believe me.

But, like, what do you even say?

Oh, my FTO assaulted me.

Everyone hates me.

I'm fine.

No, you just.

You don't do that to your family.

That's cultural context.

In Mexican American families, especially working class families, you don't dump your problems on parents who already carry too much.

You figure it out.

You handle your business.

So Jess was isolated at work and couldn't be honest at home.

Textbook Collaboration.

Domain failure.

Composure.

Domain.

Your ability to regulate emotions and manage stress was hanging by a thread.

The insula, the brain region that reads your internal state like a dashboard, was overloaded.

Jess couldn't catch her stress response early anymore.

She'd go from calm to furious in seconds.

I totally snapped at an IA investigator over nothing.

He asked me to repeat something I'd already told him, like, twice.

I just lost it.

I started yelling about how if they'd actually listened the first time, we wouldn't be in month three of this total bullshit.

My hands were shaking for real.

I had to leave the room.

Her nervous system couldn't regulate itself anymore.

Months overwhelmed will do that.

Health domain, the foundation everything else sits on was deteriorating.

Sleep went first, maybe four hours a night, usually broken by nightmares or intrusive memories.

When you're not sleeping, your brain can't produce adequate bdnf.

Brain derived neurotrophic factor.

That's the protein that allows your brain to heal from trauma and build new connections.

Without sleep, without bdnf, every other resilience domain becomes harder to maintain.

She stopped working out.

The gym had been her stress relief.

Now she couldn't force herself.

Too many department officers there.

Too many.

Too many stairs.

Fast food, most meals, because cooking felt like too much effort.

Lost 15 pounds in two months.

Not healthy.

Weight loss, stress related decline.

I looked in the mirror one morning and I swear I didn't even recognize myself.

I looked like I'd been through a war, you know?

I guess I had.

Month four of the investigation, something shifted.

The department completed its internal review, interviewed Martin, interviewed Jess multiple times.

Interviewed officers who'd worked with Martin, reviewed his training records, and checked past FTO evaluations.

They found a pattern.

Jess wasn't his first victim.

She was the first to report.

Two other female officers had experienced harassment from Martin.

Not assault, but boundary violations.

Inappropriate comments.

Both had left law enforcement quietly.

One filed an informal complaint that went nowhere.

The other just disappeared from academy rosters.

The investigators did their job.

They sustained the allegations.

Derek Martin was fired.

Criminal charges filed.

He eventually pled guilty to avoid trial.

Got probation, lost his certification.

Will never work in law enforcement again.

You know what Jess felt when she heard that news?

Not relief, not vindication.

Exhausted.

That's it.

Everyone kept saying, you won.

Like this was, you know, victory.

But I didn't feel like I won.

I felt like I survived.

And there's, like, a difference.

Winning the investigation didn't undo anything.

Four months, still gone.

Relationship still broken, trauma still there.

It just meant she could move forward if she still wanted to.

Jess had a decision to make.

Quit.

Walk away.

No one would blame her.

She'd proven her point.

She'd gotten justice.

She could go back to school, get a different degree and find a different path.

Or finish training.

Oh, my dad came to visit.

And, like, he didn't even ask what happened.

My mom, of course, already told him the basics.

He just said, miha, whatever you decide, we support you.

But I know you.

You don't quit.

And if you quit now, you'll regret it.

And, like, he was totally right.

Jess told her supervisor she wanted to complete training.

They assigned her a new FTO.

Female officer, 15 years on the job, solid reputation.

Specifically selected because she'd advocated for assault survivors in the department.

Officer Sarah Ricks.

She saved Jess's career.

Okay, so, like, first day, Sarah, like, totally laid it out.

I know what happened.

You've been through hell.

But you're not fragile.

And I'm not treating you that way.

You're here to learn.

So let's go do that.

If you need to talk, we'll talk your call.

That directness was exactly what Jess needed.

No pity, no awkwardness, just the job.

For the next three months, Sarah trained Jess the way she should have been trained from the start.

Traffic stops, report writing, de escalation tactics, community engagement, how to read a scene, how to trust your gut, how to be a cop.

Oh, Sarah, she taught me that being a good cop doesn't mean being, like, tough all the time, you know?

It means knowing when to be tough and when to be, like, human.

She'd always tell me.

You don't have to prove anything to anyone anymore, Ramirez.

You already proved it.

Now just learn the job.

Jess completed her training nine months after the assault, Three months later than her original class.

But she graduated.

She earned her badge.

Earning your badge doesn't mean you're okay.

Year one as a patrol officer was survival node.

Jess was on the street doing the job, writing reports, responding to calls, and backing up other units.

On paper, functional.

But PTSD doesn't care about your work ethic.

You know, I'd be on a traffic stop, and suddenly my hands would just start shaking.

Not because it was dangerous or anything, just because, you know.

Or I'd be, like, sitting in the car between calls, and my chest would feel all tight.

I couldn't get enough air.

Panic attacks, though.

I didn't even know that's what they were at first.

This is common for assault survivors and law enforcement.

You can be tactically competent and psychologically struggling at the same time.

Jess's hypervigilance, useful for officer safety, was cranked to 11.

Couldn't turn it off.

Every male officer felt like a potential threat.

Every time she was alone in a car with a supervisor, her body went into fight or flight mode.

Composure domain still compromised.

That internal dashboard wasn't giving early warning signals.

She'd be fine.

Then a full panic attack with no transition.

Her health domain was better than during the investigation, but still struggling.

Sleeping about five hours a night, better than four.

Not enough for her brain to heal properly.

She'd started working out again, which helped.

Still avoiding the department gym and collaboration.

Her ability to trust and connect with other officers was severely damaged.

Ugh.

I'd show up to shift.

Like walking into hostile territory.

I mean, some officers were fine, professional, respectful.

Treated me like, you know, any other cop.

But others.

Oh, my God.

I could just feel the judgment, the whispers.

That's the one who reported Martin.

I just.

I hated it.

Three months into patrol, Jess's sergeant pulled her aside.

He noticed she was isolating, noticed the weight loss, the tension, the Way she tense up around certain officers.

He recommended she talk to someone.

I almost told him to, like, totally get lost.

I mean, I just proven I could totally do the job despite everything, and now he's telling me I need therapy.

But, like, he wasn't being a total jerk about it.

He said, ramirez, you're like a solid officer, but carrying this alone is going to break you.

Let someone help.

Jess started therapy two weeks later.

Her therapist specialized in trauma, specifically occupational trauma and assault.

Survivors understood the layers Jess was dealing with.

The assault itself, the institutional betrayal.

Ongoing workplace triggers, cultural pressures.

They did.

Emdr.

Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.

Trauma therapy that helps your brain reprocess traumatic memories so they're less overwhelming.

The brain science works like this.

When you experience trauma, the memory gets stored.

Fragmented, your amygdala.

The brain's threat detection center, keeps that memory tagged as current danger instead of past event.

So every time something reminds you of the trauma, your amygdala acts like it's happening right now.

EMDR helps your brain reprocess that memory so it's stored properly as something that happened in the past.

The memory doesn't go away, but it stops feeling like it's happening in the present.

For Jess, this meant she could think about the assault without having a panic attack.

Could be in a car with a male officer without her body automatically going into fight or flight.

That's the composure domain.

Starting to rebuild her insula.

Learning to differentiate between actual threats and trauma reminders.

But therapy wasn't just about the assault.

It was about rebuilding her identity as an officer.

My therapist, she asked me, who'd you want to be when you became a cop?

And, like.

It took me a while to answer.

You know, to serve my community, to represent women.

Women like me.

To be one of the good ones.

She asked if the assault changed that.

It didn't.

Martin.

He took a lot, but not that.

That's vision.

Domain starting to reconstruct.

Not the same vision she'd had as an idealistic recruit.

That version of her was gone.

But a new vision.

Someone who survived you, stayed.

You could help other officers avoid what she went through.

18 months of intensive therapy, weekly sessions.

EMDR.

Cognitive processing skills for managing triggers, building healthy boundaries solely.

Jess started functioning better.

Sleeping six hours most nights, working out regularly.

Lost the panic attacks.

Not completely gone, but manageable.

Could ride with male officers without her body betraying her.

She still had setbacks.

Month six, she almost quit therapy.

Told her therapist it wasn't working.

Took two weeks off Came back.

Recovery isn't a straight line.

Jess was functional.

I never gonna be like the person I was before the assault.

That Jess, she's totally gone.

I'm someone different now.

You know, I've, like, integrated what happened, but I haven't moved past it.

I mean, I don't know if you ever really move past something like that.

About two years after the assault, Jess started thinking about preventing other officers from experiencing what she went through.

The department had policies about harassment, about assault, about reporting procedures.

But policies on paper don't mean anything if officers don't trust the system enough to use them.

Jess knew what was missing.

Someone who'd been through it.

Someone who could tell assault survivors, I reported and I survived.

Someone who could help navigate the investigation process, connect officers with resources, advocate within the system.

She drafted a proposal for a new position.

Sexual Harassment and Assault Response Liaison.

Charles, the brass, they totally didn't love it at first.

Like, they were all worried about liability and opening up the department to more complaints and, you know, optics.

But I just kept pushing and, like, I got support from a few supervisors who totally got it.

So eventually they actually agreed to pilot the program.

That position didn't exist before Jess.

She created it from trauma.

That's vision domain, fully reconstructed.

Not her original purpose, but something more powerful.

She turned being a victim into being an advocate.

The Charles position isn't just responding to complaints.

It's early intervention.

Training officers on recognizing harassment, building trust so people feel safe reporting, ensuring survivors aren't isolated the way Jess was.

It's everything Jess needed and didn't have.

When I meet with an officer who's been assaulted or harassed, I tell them my story.

Not all the details, just enough so they know I've been there.

And I tell them, like, you have options.

You have support, and whatever you decide, I've got your back.

That's collaboration.

Domain in action, but in a way that respects her boundaries.

She's building trust, connecting with survivors, creating community.

But she's doing it strategically, in a role that protects her while helping others.

She's not everyone's friend, doesn't need to be.

But she's the officer that assault survivors can trust.

That matters two years out.

Let's be honest about where Jess is today.

She's functional.

She's effective.

She's created systemic change.

She's helping other officers.

She's also still dealing with PTSD symptoms still triggered sometimes.

Still has hard months, especially around the anniversary.

Still doesn't fully trust male authority figures in the department.

November, it's just rough you know, every single year.

I mean, that's when it all happened.

And I know it's coming.

Like, I totally prepare.

Therapy appointments are super consistent.

I give my partner a heads up that I might be a little difficult to be around.

And I try to take care of myself as best I can, but honestly, it still hits me so hard.

That's realistic recovery.

The trauma doesn't disappear.

You learn to manage it.

Her relationship with her partner, another advocate from a different organization, someone who understands trauma work helps.

They both deal with vicarious trauma from their jobs.

They get it.

But even that relationship requires work.

Trust is hard when your trust has been weaponized.

Tenacity, persistence in the face of difficulty is Jess strongest resilience domain.

She refused to quit when quitting would have been easier.

Stayed in law enforcement when leaving would have been justified.

Created a new role when the old system failed her.

That tenacity didn't prevent the trauma, but it allowed her to survive it and turn it into something useful.

Resilience first aid connects to Jess's story here.

RFA trains officers to recognize when a colleague's resilience domains are declining and intervene early with practical support.

It's peer based, not clinical.

It's about catching someone before they fall apart completely.

If Jess's classmates had been RFA trained, they might have recognized what was happening during the investigation.

They would have seen vision declining.

Stop talking about her future.

Collaboration, breaking, isolating, not responding to texts.

Composure, struggling, emotional volatility, panic responses, health, deteriorating, weight loss, exhaustion, not working out.

Instead of avoiding her, RFA trained officers would have known how to offer support.

Simple, direct, practical.

I see you're struggling.

Want to grub?

Coffee?

I'm hitting the gym.

Come with me.

You did the right thing.

That's not therapy.

That's peer support targeting specific resilience domains.

Justice Charles Rol now incorporates RFA principles when she works with assault survivors.

She's watching for those domain decline markers, offering practical interventions before people reach crisis.

I can't, like, fix what happened to me, but, you know, I can totally make sure the next officer who goes through this has, like, the support I totally didn't have.

Yeah, that's what keeps me going.

Jessica Ramirez is 27 years old, five years into a law enforcement career that almost ended before it began.

She's a patrol officer.

She's a sexual harassment and assault response liaison.

She's a survivor.

She's an advocate.

And she's angry, rightfully so.

I'm angry at Derek Martin for what he did, Angry at the officers who Isolated me instead of supporting me.

Angry at a system that makes reporting so hard.

Most people choose silence and like angry that I had to create my own position because the department didn't think this was a priority until I forced them to.

But I'm also hopeful.

Things are changing slowly.

The Charles position exists so other survivors have a resource I didn't have.

We're having these conversations.

The silence is breaking.

I don't tell my story to get sympathy.

I tell it so other officers know they're not alone.

So they know reporting is possible.

Staying is possible.

Turning trauma into purpose is possible.

Jess's story shows us how resilience actually works.

The PR6 model gives us a framework to understand what happened and how she recovered.

It's not a checklist.

It's a map of interconnected systems that all influence each other.

When health failed, sleep deprivation, poor nutrition, no exercise, it cascaded into every other domain.

Composure suffered because her brain couldn't regulate itself without adequate rest.

Collaboration broke down because trauma and exhaustion made trust impossible.

Vision disappeared because her hippocampus couldn't.

Imagine positive futures.

Recovery happened in reverse.

When she started sleeping, better therapy helped.

With nightmares, health stabilized.

Better health meant better composure.

She could manage emotions again.

Better composure meant she could start rebuilding collaboration.

Trusting select individuals strategically and rebuilding vision.

Creating the Sharl position gave her a sense of purpose that sustains her through hard days.

Tenacity was the constant.

She never stopped showing up.

That persistence didn't prevent the struggle, but it allowed her to outlast it.

Three things matter from Jess's story.

If you've been assaulted or harassed, reporting doesn't make you a traitor.

Staying doesn't make you weak.

Your anger is valid, your trauma is real, and resources exist, including officers like Jess who've been there and will believe you.

If you're a peer of someone who reports, your silence hurts, your support matters.

You don't have to be a hero.

Just don't be part of the problem.

Show up, say I believe you.

That's resilience.

First aid in action.

If you're in leadership policies aren't enough.

Assault survivors need advocates within the system.

Consider creating positions like Charles.

Train your officers on rfa.

Make it safe to report.

And for God's sake, hold predators accountable before they destroy multiple careers.

Jessica Ramirez earned her badge twice.

Once when she graduated academy despite everything trying to stop her.

And again when she refused to let trauma define her career.

She's still a cop, still serving, still fighting.

And she's making sure the next officer who needs help has a path she had to create herself.

Reporting sexual assault or harassment is your choice.

No one can make that decision for you.

But if you choose to report, know that you're not alone and that officers like Jess exist who will fight for you.

This episode was developed and narrated by me, Michael Simpkins.

For transcripts, resources and more stories of law enforcement resilience, visit our website@policespear.org take care of each other out there.

If this conversation landed, take the next step.

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Where you're strong, where you're vulnerable.

It's the same tool we use in RFA certification.

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Thanks for listening.

See you next week.

Sam.