I was elbow-deep in my phone, looking for my friend’s address when, all of a sudden, I heard the familiar WOOP WOOP followed by the lights of a squad car in our rear-view mirror. My mind went straight to annoyance that we were probably going to get a ticket. As I sat in my privilege, I looked over at my mother who was now both stiff and trembling. I had never seen her like this. This was the same woman I had only seen cry twice in my entire life. The same woman constantly tearing down misogyny in her workplace. And now she was scared? Of what!? A traffic stop? But, as she spoke to the officer, she stuttered over her words; her voice took on an almost child-like quality. I don’t really remember now what the reason was that we were pulled over. I know the cop didn’t give us a ticket, but I also know that my mom definitely still paid a price that night. In that moment, I saw the trauma that she never spoke to me about; trauma she blanketed as “strength.” She was triggered by this police officer and I already knew why.