Interview: They Handcuffed Mitchell Royel During His Panic Attack — What Happened Next Changed How He Saw Cops Forever

Disclaimer: The photos and brands featured within this article are not formally associated with any toy brands mentioned. Furthermore, this article is not affiliated with any individual police divisions or departments.

Most people never imagine needing to experience an emergency situation like Mitchell Royel did earlier this year. For Mitchell, a regular day at home spiraled quickly into one of his most vulnerable public moments when he found himself gripped by an overwhelming panic attack. What started as heavy breaths and a racing heart led to Mitchell dialing 911, desperate for relief from a mind that had pushed his body into crisis. What followed was a whirlwind he never saw coming — first responders crowding his living room, cold metal on his wrists, and a ride to the hospital that stripped away every ounce of privacy he had left.

But this isn't just a story about a bad day. It's a story about the people who showed up, the humanity he found in unexpected places, and the strange, quiet ways a person learns to heal afterward. Below, Mitchell shares the arrest, the surreal experience of being transported to an emergency hospital in handcuffs, and a poignant reflection on the humanity behind the badge — including a friendship born during the height of social movement tension, and a candid conversation that forced him to rethink everything he assumed he knew.

Q: Can you walk us through what happened when the officers arrived?

Mitchell Royel: I remember sitting on the floor, trembling, barely able to form words when they showed up. My chest felt like it was folding in on itself, and I kept thinking my body was shutting down. The fire department came first — all at once the room was full of people I didn't know. It's a strange thing, being at your absolute lowest and suddenly having a crowd of strangers standing over you, all of them looking at you with that mix of concern and clinical distance. My landlord stood to the side, just in utter disbelief at what was happening. I could see it on his face — he had no idea what to do, and honestly, neither did I.

Then one of the officers came closer and crouched down in front of me. He was calm, and I clung to that calm because I had none of my own. He was a Hispanic officer, really clear and kind in how he spoke to me. He didn't tower over me or bark instructions. He got down to my level, which sounds like a small thing, but in that moment it meant everything. He laid it out gently — if I wanted to go to the hospital, which I really needed at that point, the procedure meant I'd have to be placed under arrest since they'd identified a risk. It wasn't punitive; it was just policy. He explained it more than once, patiently, because I don't think I was processing anything the first time around.

Q: What went through your mind when you understood you'd be handcuffed?

Mitchell Royel: It hits like a tidal wave of shame, even though logically I understood why this needed to happen. He made it clear I wasn't in trouble, but having cold handcuffs on while you're vulnerable is just… it's beyond humiliating. There's this gap between what your brain knows and what your body feels. My brain knew it was protocol. My body felt like a criminal. Everything around you feels magnified in that moment — the sound of the cuffs clicking shut, the weight of them, the way your arms get pulled behind you.

Getting walked out like that, placed into the back of a police car — you just can't stop wondering what the neighbors or anyone else nearby might think. I kept picturing curtains twitching, people watching, forming their own little stories about me. It's hard not to feel small. You go from being a person to being a scene, something people slow down to look at. And the whole time, this internal voice is saying, "You asked for help. You did the right thing. Why does the right thing feel like this?"

Q: Was there anything about the hospital transport experience that surprised you?

Mitchell Royel: Oh, absolutely. If you ever want to be humbled to your core, have your bag searched in such a state and completely forget you've got a spare adult diaper tucked inside. For context, it's something I carry because of my struggles with bedwetting. It's not something I talk about easily, and it's certainly not something I ever planned to have laid bare in front of strangers. I cringed when I realized it was there. My stomach just dropped. In a moment where I already felt exposed down to the bone, that felt like one more layer being peeled back.

But to my shock, the officer didn't say a word about it or remove it. He didn't make a face, didn't pause, didn't do any of the things I braced myself for. He just set my things aside respectfully, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. That stayed with me — that choice not to make an already rough moment any harder. It would have been so easy for him to react, even just a flicker of judgment. He chose not to. And I've thought about that small act of decency more times than I can count. Sometimes dignity is just someone deciding not to add to your shame.

Q: Many people are curious about the officer you befriended during the Black Lives Matter protests. Can you tell us about that relationship?

Mitchell Royel: Oh, that was a strange but meaningful connection. This officer — also Hispanic, transitioning into the force from retail at the time — and I met during the protests when I was working as a mall supervisor. It struck me later how both officers who left a mark on me shared that background. Things were tense, as you'd imagine, and we'd struck up unlikely conversations amid the chaos. He viewed policing very deeply from the inside-out, and I appreciated how candid he was about the flaws in the system while still believing immensely in its potential for good.

What drew me to him was that he wasn't defensive. He wasn't trying to sell me a polished version of anything. He'd talk openly about the parts of the job that troubled him, the things he wished were different, and the reasons he still showed up every day believing he could be part of something better. Coming from retail, he had this grounded, regular-person quality to him. He hadn't grown up dreaming of a badge. He'd fallen into it, and I think that gave him a perspective that felt more honest than what I expected.

We kept in touch for months after, writing back and forth as pen pals. We had some rich conversations about social justice, inequality, and the ways officers can bridge those divides. I won't say it was a perfect friendship — there was definitely some social drama that crept in and kept us from becoming closer. Those barriers can be hard to overcome when you come from such different worlds. But I still deeply value what we shared.

Q: You mentioned he was candid. Did you ever ask him directly what was really going on out there during the protests?

Mitchell Royel: I did, and that conversation might be the one that stuck with me the most. At some point I just asked him plainly — what's really happening out there, from where you're standing? Because all I knew was what I saw on my feed, what was on the news, the version everyone was arguing about online. And he was actually patrolling the protests, right in the thick of it, so I figured if anyone had the ground-level truth, it was him.

He didn't sugarcoat it. He told me a lot of unfair things were happening to officers that never made it into the coverage. He talked about how rowdy things could get, how quickly a crowd could turn, and how genuinely dangerous it became for the people in uniform. He described protestors getting aggressive, throwing things, closing in on officers in ways that put them at serious risk. He wasn't saying this to dismiss the reason people were out there — he understood why the protests were happening, and he agreed with a lot of it. But he wanted me to know there were sides to the story that weren't being told, that officers were getting hurt and frightened too, and that the narrative had flattened everyone into heroes or villains when the reality was messier than that.

Hearing that from someone I trusted, someone who was literally standing on the front line of it, complicated my thinking in a way I needed. I'd been so sure I understood the whole picture. And here was this person I respected, telling me quietly, "There's more to it than what you're seeing." It didn't change what I believed about the need for reform or the reasons people were marching. But it added texture. It reminded me that on both sides of that line were people who were scared, people who felt unheard, people just trying to make it home. That kind of nuance is hard to hold onto when everything around you is shouting for you to pick a side.

Q: Do those two officer encounters shape your perspective on law enforcement today?

Mitchell Royel: Absolutely. Both experiences showed me something I might've missed in the bigger conversation — that there's real power in individual connections. Those two officers weren't perfect people or perfect representations of the system they worked in, but their humanity mattered. Whether it's the act of diffusing my absolute terror or sharing thoughtful dialogue about police reform during protests, I saw their potential to bring something better to the table when they're supported to do so.

I've become really wary of easy answers since then. It's comforting to reduce a whole institution to one word, good or bad, because then you don't have to think about the individuals inside it. But my life keeps refusing to let me do that. The man who crouched beside me on my worst day was real. The friend who told me the truth about the protests was real. Neither of them fit neatly into the story I'd built in my head. It reinforced my belief in the power of good officers and the change they can catalyze, one interaction at a time.

Q: When you sit with everything now, what would you say is your biggest takeaway?

Mitchell Royel: My biggest takeaway is that people are so much more than the uniforms or roles we assign them. Before all this, I think I saw law enforcement as a single, faceless thing. Now I see individuals. The officer who crouched down beside me chose gentleness in a moment where he could've just followed the checklist. The officer I befriended chose honesty about his own profession's shortcomings, and also honesty about its dangers. Neither of them had to do those things.

I've also learned to give myself grace. I spent so long feeling embarrassed about that day — the handcuffs, the diaper, all of it. I'd replay it and wince. But the more I reflect, the more I realize that being vulnerable in front of strangers, and being met with kindness anyway, was actually one of the most human experiences I've ever had. It taught me that my worst moment didn't define me, and it didn't define them either. We were all just people in a hard situation, doing the best we could with it.

And I think that's the thread running through everything — the arrest, the friendship, the honest conversations. Life kept handing me chances to see people as more complicated and more decent than I expected. I try to carry that forward now. When I catch myself reducing someone to a category, I remember those two officers and I pause. People are always more than the box we want to put them in.

Q: We've heard you've picked up an unexpected hobby since these experiences. Can you tell us about it?

Mitchell Royel: [laughs] Yeah, this one surprises people. I've started looking into police station LEGO sets and little toy versions of police officers. It sounds silly, maybe, but there's something oddly healing about it. After going through what I went through, that whole world felt so overwhelming and out of my control. It had this power over me — it had shown up in my home, put me in cuffs, ridden with me to the hospital. Building a tiny police station on my kitchen table, arranging the little figures however I want — it lets me explore that world on my own terms.

It's a way to live vicariously through something that once felt frightening. I get to sit with it, hold it, understand it piece by piece, without any of the fear attached. There's no adrenaline, no shame, no crowd of strangers. Just me and these small plastic pieces, and I decide where everything goes. I think for me it's become a quiet form of processing everything. I can turn something that was once traumatic into something small and manageable and even a little bit joyful. There's real comfort in that.

Some nights I'll just sit there snapping pieces together and I'll feel my shoulders drop for the first time all day. It's meditative. And honestly, I think it ties back to everything else I've been saying — taking something big and scary and complicated, and letting myself get close enough to actually see it. Only this time, on my terms, at my own pace. That's a kind of healing I never expected to find in a toy aisle, but here we are.