An Inspired Chat with Dylan Bates of Charles County, MD

We’re looking forward to introducing you to Dylan Bates. Check out our conversation below.

Hi Dylan, thank you so much for joining us today. We’re thrilled to learn more about your journey, values and what you are currently working on. Let’s start with an ice breaker: Are you walking a path—or wandering?
If you’d asked me a few years ago, I would’ve proudly declared myself a wanderer—armed with a very wrinkled map, questionable navigation skills, and probably two mismatched socks. There’s that famous saying, “Not all those who wander are lost,” but, honestly, if wandering were an Olympic sport, I could’ve taken home the gold…and misplaced it somewhere in my car.

Truth is, I wandered so far, I became the definition of lost. But the beautiful thing is that the lost can get found. That’s what happened to me. Like the Good Shepherd searching for a single missing sheep, Jesus found me right in the middle of my mess—at a time when I was a hollow shell, full of anger, self-loathing, and a deep longing to belong.

Sure, I’d called myself a Christian for years—but I was living like I’d cherry-picked the rules and had an unlimited forgiveness coupon. My faith, at the time, was more of a life jacket I grabbed when the storms came, only to toss aside when the skies cleared. It wasn’t until I met my now-husband—who gently (sometimes bluntly!) asked questions that no one else had—that I realized faith isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card; it’s an invitation to a journey you can walk, stumble, or sometimes trip spectacularly on.

He held up a mirror I’d been too afraid to look into, and with his encouragement, I began to truly reflect. The path God planned for me was there all along—I just had to stop bushwhacking my own detours to notice it. Do I still stray? Obviously! If they ever pave a road just for the stubborn, I’ll probably be the ribbon-cutter. But now, the wandering isn’t lonely. There’s purpose, there’s peace—internal, hard-won, and rooted in knowing I am seen, loved, and called for a reason beyond myself.

My husband and I center our marriage and our life around God. Every day—chaotic or calm—I remind myself to recenter on Him. When things get overwhelming (and in my life, that’s not rare!), I find grounding in His presence. My feet are on the path, and even on the days I veer off-trail, I know exactly Who to call for directions.

So, am I walking a path or wandering? With Jesus as my guide, I’ll say this: the footing may get wobbly, the steps aren’t perfect, and my sense of direction might make you nervous—but I am definitely walking forward, and for the first time, I truly know where I’m headed. And trust me, there’s plenty of room on this path for every wandering soul who wants to come along.

Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
We all want to be the hero of our own story. As a little girl, I pictured myself in that iconic police hat, chasing after justice with wide-eyed determination. Nearly a decade in law enforcement later, I can honestly say I’ve made the 5-year-old version of myself beam with pride—and the 15-year-old me shake her head in disbelief and maybe mutter, “You actually did it?!” That is what I remind myself of on my worst days.

My journey has taken me from the icy, rugged frontiers of Alaska to the bustling communities of the Nation’s Capitol, specializing in investigations no one dreams of having to do: sexual assault, crimes against children, financial crimes, and even homicides. I discovered that law enforcement is as much about heart as badge—about holding space for people on their worst days, hugging a grieving stranger, facing the unthinkable, and sometimes missing Thanksgiving dinners to answer someone else’s emergency.

Let me let you in on a secret: the uniform changes, the patches and the rules might look different across city, county, and federal lines—but when we stand together, we’re united by more than just our chosen profession. Race, politics, and religion melt away when we’re side by side on the toughest calls. What doesn’t melt away, unfortunately, are the scars, because nobody gets out unscathed. Every first responder—officers, nurses, dispatchers, everyone—carries invisible weight, the kind you can’t shake off at the end of a shift.

For years, I struggled with the tension between stepping into the public eye (which honestly seems to follow me around like a puppy) and protecting my privacy. I’ve tried to balance a certain femininity and softness with being that tough woman who can handle herself in any crisis. Turns out, you really can be both—glossy lipstick and steel backbone all wrapped up in one rather unique package.

Now, though, I’m reaching for a new kind of heroism. My husband and I are working on becoming a healer of heroes. My passion is giving back to my brothers and sisters in blue—and all first responders, veterans, and their families—by supporting their mental health, offering peer support, and building resources that put healing front and center. Peer support is just the start. Eventually, I want to grow my nationwide peer support network to provide free full-time counseling services to first responders, veterans, and their families. I’m pursuing advanced training to become a licensed clinical mental health counselor, so I can serve those who serve, better than ever.

Currently, we offer a nationwide peer support program featuring daily articles on Patreon.com/blondeinblue and weekly live peer support sessions online where connections are made with first responders, veterans, and their families from all over the country. We also provide training for forensic interviewing, leadership, and peer support programs for departments and the public. Additionally, we have begun several public speaking engagements for mental health advocacy for first responders, veterans, and their families.

And because I apparently can’t help myself, I’m looking to shine a little light in new ways, too—our podcast, Badges and Breakthroughs, launches in October, for those more creative outlets that bring hope and laughter to the heavy places. We also connect with people posting videos, shorts and clips, on Instagram, Youtube, and TikTok. Our main hub is through Patreon and everything filters through there.

If there’s a theme to my story, it’s this: we’re all a little more heroic—and a lot more human—than we realize. Sometimes the real bravery isn’t in what we face out there, but in how we show up for each other, and for ourselves, day after day. And if that means telling some good stories, sharing a laugh, and inviting more folks to walk this path of healing together? Well, I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Okay, so here’s a deep one: Who taught you the most about work?
If I had to give credit for my entire work ethic (and arguably my sense of humor… and occasional stubbornness), it would go to my dad, John Grogan. You might know him better as “The Lie Detector Guy,” but to me, he’s the champion of rolling up your sleeves and showing up, no matter what.

In the last twenty years, I’ve only seen my dad take a day off work twice. For one, I practically wrestled him into the hospital when he was so sick he should’ve been horizontal. For the other, he tried to sidestep my wedding—not out of reluctance, but because he thought maybe he’d just “pop back in the office real quick.” Yes, I (lovingly) threatened him. No, he didn’t win.

My dad built his business from the ground up, and he pulled me into every part of it—especially polygraphs, or “lie detector tests.” From reading cues in a person’s voice to troubleshooting the printer (which was usually the real villain in the room), he taught me to adapt as the world changed and to have strong boundaries in work and life. I might’ve always been Daddy’s Little Girl, but thanks to him, I ended up with a backbone of steel (and the ability to spot a fib at twenty paces).

Truth is, I got more than just my high tolerance for coffee and the habit of never sitting still from him. I learned that you always show up, especially when it’s hard, and if today’s left you looking a little ruffled, you get up again tomorrow and try with better hair. Never take yourself too seriously: we practiced humility—and practical jokes—together, usually to the tune of my mom’s exasperated glare. If he landed in the doghouse, he made sure there was room for both of us.

But beyond all of that, my dad worked so hard so that my mom and I never wanted for anything. His “work” was really love in action—making life easier, fun, and full of just enough mischief to keep things interesting. He worked so I could live and dream. That’s the energy I want to give to others through my own work.

I became a cop because I wanted to help and protect, but now I dream of wrapping my world around my family, just as he did for me, by running my own business—giving, teaching, and making life meaningful. I hope to take everything I learned, the good and the stubborn, and build something new, dedicated to him. Because if there’s one thing Dad’s shown me, it’s that work isn’t about the hours—it’s about heart.

What did suffering teach you that success never could?
Oh man, suffering is the ultimate, undesired teacher—nobody lines up for its class, and yet, if you live long enough, you end up front row, scribbling notes in the margins of your worst days. Here’s the funny thing: Those who never suffer rarely understand the depth of joy, just as those who know only suffering forget what it’s like to truly rest and let their guard down. When you’ve spent your life in survival mode, even when peace finally arrives, it’s easy to keep living like danger is always right around the corner—swinging at shadows, missing the softness of serenity, sabotaging your own wins because your mindset is still chained to the struggle.

We all suffer—uniquely, secretly, sometimes even in ways of our own making, and other times at the cost of someone else’s comfort. What success could never teach me, suffering did: humility, gratitude, and the kind of resilience that’s built from picking myself up when my ego was scraped raw and my pride severely dented. I’ve been thrown from high horses more times than I care to count, and—spoiler alert—it’s a lot less glamorous without the saddle.

Suffering taught me who really stands with me when things fall apart, and who quietly exits stage left. It’s sobering, but it’s clarifying. It shows you what you’re made of: the grit, the flexibility, the stubborn hope that keeps you inventing new ways to move forward on days when giving up felt like the only option.

There’s a strange gift in learning to find peace right in the thick of chaos and pain, discovering there’s still hope, even when things seem impossibly dark. Suffering has taught me patience—well, at least she’s tried. It’s an ongoing lesson, like being stuck in a class where the teacher has a big heart and absolutely no intention of letting you coast.

Most of all, suffering taught me that as long as I have a beating heart and breath—granted by God—there’s purpose for my being. Even if I don’t yet know what’s next, I’m here, and that’s something to be genuinely grateful for. Sometimes enduring is itself a privilege, and each trial is a reminder that I’m still in the running. Success can fill your trophy case, but suffering fills your soul—and if you let it, it can light the way forward with a peace and a purpose that success alone could never provide.

Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. Is the public version of you the real you?
Wow, hit me with the hard questions! Honestly, talking to the media feels a bit like going on a first date with someone you really want to impress. You try to be yourself, put your best foot forward—then, the moment you open your mouth, all bets are off. Suddenly, you’re blurting out those things you told yourself to avoid, tripping over words, and desperately hoping your date (or in this case, the world) doesn’t take it out of context and rewrite your story before you even get to the best part.

I’m the first to admit: I write worlds better than I speak. My spoken words sometimes trip over one another, but my written words can stretch out, breathe, and fill up a page with cadence and poetry. That’s not just my comfort zone—it’s my safe space.

But here’s the thing: I’ve had one of my hardest seasons in life put on public display for someone else to tell my story, and I still pay a price for that professionally. Most people get to keep their tough days private. Some of us—by choice or circumstance—have our lowest moments become public entertainment for others to judge and dissect, spinning their own narrative overtop our truths.

So, is the public version of me the real me? Yes… but it’s only one slice of an infinite cake. That public side is the me I aim to be on my best day, with a full glam team, the world at my fingertips, and a meticulously managed filter. It’s not everything, but it is an authentic layer—a real side, just not the whole pie. That is reserved for better or worse, to my husband.

We all wear masks, whether for survival, sanity, or self-preservation. I make a conscious effort to be authentic—I don’t say things I don’t mean, but sometimes I focus as much on not saying the things I shouldn’t (my inner sass and sharp tongue are part of me, after all!). I fall short, as a woman and as a child of God, every single day. Yet, I’ve learned that if I hold on to authenticity—even if it means biting my tongue or staying silent when I want to retort—I am at peace with myself.

Those who truly know me aren’t shocked when my humor gets a little spicy or my words come out with more color than intended. They know my heart is never filled with malice; I’m impulsive, strong-willed, and fiercely loyal. I might skip small talk, but you can bet I show up whenever I’m needed—especially when no one else will.

That’s the core of what I strive to show the public. You aren’t just your mess-ups or your lowest ebb. I refuse to let any past version overshadow the bright future ahead or rob me of my peace, my love, or my joy. The public me is real—but she’s just one chapter in a very complex book. The best I can do is to keep that chapter honest, humorous, and hope-filled, even if some pages are a little rough around the edges.

Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
If I get to choose the story people tell about me, I hope it’s less about the words I said and more about how I made others feel—even if just for a fleeting moment. In law enforcement, I’ve seen too many people walk through the darkest chapters of their lives. My greatest hope is that survivors, victims, and colleagues felt genuinely cared for; that even in the moments I couldn’t fix a problem, offer the perfect solution, or turn a “losing day” into a win, they knew they truly mattered to me.

That’s the legacy I want: the person who, when the phone rings—no matter the hour—answers. The one who showed up and stood beside you, win or lose. I want people to remember the extra mile I walked for them, the attempts to do the right thing, even if it ended as a total disaster worthy of a sitcom episode. I’d love for some of the stories to make people laugh: the ridiculous things I said or did, my goofy moments, my misadventures—all proof that my heart was always in the right place, even if my sense of direction wasn’t.

Honestly, I can’t recall every word spoken by those dearest to me. Yet, what stands out—always—is how they made me feel: less alone, more hopeful, comforted, or somehow lighter, even after just a few minutes together.

That, more than anything, is what I hope my legacy will be. That when people talk about me, they’ll say: “No matter what else was going on, she made me feel that I mattered. I felt seen. I felt less alone.” If even one person can say that, I’ll know my life—and my heart—were in the right place.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.kdiconsultingservices.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/blondeinblue72
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/dylan-bates-732105b9
• Other: TikTok @Blondeinblue72