Nathaniel Hodges #3

Survival and Strength

Nathaniel Hodges didn’t remember how he got back to the staging area after the mob was finally driven out of the Capitol. His body was on autopilot, every step a blur of pain and exhaustion. His face was raw from the chemical irritant, his chest ached with every shallow breath, and his limbs felt like they’d been through a grinder. When he finally sat down, his legs gave out beneath him, and he slumped against the wall.

Around him, other officers were doing the same—removing cracked helmets, gulping down water, coughing, and wincing from bruises and cuts. Some were barely able to sit upright, their faces pale and their eyes hollow. Nathaniel wiped at his burning eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You good, Nate?" one officer asked, his voice hoarse.

Nathaniel nodded, though he knew the answer was no. He wasn’t good. None of them were.

Paramedics moved from officer to officer, performing quick triage. When they reached Nathaniel, they asked him to raise his arms. Pain shot through his chest and shoulder, and he winced. "You’ve probably got bruised or cracked ribs," the medic said. "You should get checked out at the hospital."

But Nathaniel shook his head. "I’m not leaving yet," he said quietly. He needed to stay—to see the Capitol fully secured, to make sure his fellow officers were safe. He wasn’t ready to walk away, not yet.

Hours later, after the Capitol was cleared and secure, Nathaniel finally allowed himself to be taken to the hospital. The drive felt like it took an eternity. He stared out the window at the city he had sworn to protect, the streets eerily quiet now that the chaos had ended. But the stillness did nothing to calm his mind. The images of the attack replayed on a loop: the crush of bodies, the hate-filled screams, the moment he felt his ribs compress as he was pinned in the doorway.

When he arrived at the hospital, doctors confirmed what he had suspected—he had several fractured ribs, bruising across his torso, and muscle strain from being pressed so hard against the doorframe. He also had chemical burns on his face from the irritant spray. The doctors insisted that he needed rest—at least a few weeks of recovery. But even as he nodded, Nathaniel knew it wouldn’t just be his body that needed time to heal.

The first night home was the hardest.

Nathaniel lay on the couch, too sore to lie flat on his bed. His apartment was silent except for the hum of the heating vent. The stillness felt like a weight pressing down on him. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the memories wouldn’t let him. He could still feel the crushing pressure of the doorway, the sharp pain in his side, the heat of the chemical spray burning his face.

He woke up gasping, his hand flying to his chest as though trying to push the weight off him. It took him a moment to realize he was safe, that he was home. But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

The next few days passed in a fog. Nathaniel’s phone buzzed constantly—texts from friends and colleagues, some checking in on him, others sharing updates as the footage of the attack spread across the news. The nation had seen what happened to him. Clips of Nathaniel pinned in the doorway, screaming in pain as the mob pressed forward, were played on every major network. He had become one of the enduring images of January 6th—a symbol of what the officers had endured to protect the Capitol.

Some messages were from strangers—people who had seen the footage and wanted to thank him for his bravery. "You’re a hero," they wrote. "You stood tall when everything was falling apart."

But not all the messages were kind. The same mob that had physically assaulted him that day found new ways to attack him from afar. "You’re a traitor," one message read. "You deserved it." Others were more direct: "Next time, you won’t get out alive."

Nathaniel deleted the messages without responding, but the words stayed with him. He had almost died defending the Capitol, and now he was being vilified by the very people who claimed to love the country he had sworn to protect.

The emotional toll of that realization was almost harder to bear than the physical pain. He had always believed in the nobility of his service. He had joined the Metropolitan Police to protect the public, to be a steady presence in moments of chaos. But after January 6th, he felt betrayed—not by his fellow officers, who had fought bravely alongside him, but by the leaders and citizens who downplayed what happened or tried to rewrite history altogether.

A few weeks after the attack, Nathaniel was invited to speak with a group of fellow officers who had also endured the events of January 6th. The meeting was informal—just a gathering of men and women who had shared the same traumatic experience.

Nathaniel sat in a folding chair, his ribs still aching as he shifted to get comfortable. He listened as one officer spoke about his nightmares, how he couldn’t walk past the Capitol without feeling his heart race. Another officer, his voice barely above a whisper, admitted that he had thought about quitting the force entirely.

When it was Nathaniel’s turn to speak, he hesitated. He wasn’t used to being vulnerable—not like this. But when he looked around the room, he saw the same pain in their faces that he felt in his own heart.

"I don’t know if I’m okay," he admitted. His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "I’ve been through a lot of things on this job, but nothing prepared me for that day. I thought I was going to die. And what hurts the most isn’t just the memory of being pinned or beaten—it’s knowing that there are people who still act like it didn’t happen."

There was a long silence. Then, one officer nodded and said, "Same here."

Nathaniel exhaled slowly, the weight of his words finally released.

That meeting was a turning point. Nathaniel realized that healing didn’t mean pretending everything was fine—it meant being honest about the pain. It meant asking for help when you needed it.

In the months that followed, Nathaniel slowly rebuilt his strength. Physical therapy became part of his daily routine, and though the progress was slow, he began to feel stronger. But the emotional scars took longer to heal. He spoke with counselors who specialized in trauma, and over time, he began to find ways to manage the memories that haunted him.

He also decided to use his voice. When congressional hearings were announced to investigate the January 6th attack, Nathaniel agreed to testify. He didn’t want to be in the spotlight, but he knew how important it was to tell the truth.

On the day of his testimony, Nathaniel stood before the microphone, his suit pressed, his posture strong despite the lingering pain in his ribs. The cameras flashed as he adjusted his notes, but when he spoke, his voice was steady.

"I was pinned in that doorway for what felt like an eternity," he said. "I felt my ribs compress, felt the air leave my lungs. And the whole time, I could hear them—the mob—calling me a traitor, laughing as they crushed me." He paused, his eyes meeting those of the lawmakers before him. "I fought to protect this building, and I’d do it again. But what happened that day was an attack on democracy, and we can’t pretend it wasn’t."