Will today be different?

It doesn't have to be this way. So what actions will we all take to demand a safer world for our children?

The weight of love is immense and heavy. We are most reminded of this when those we love are at risk of harm or we are at risk of losing them. With gun violence rampant in this country and threatening our children daily—in schools, at grocery stores, at parties, in homes—that weight feels unbearable and exhausting.

The death of a loved one, taken too young, is familiar for me and my family. So when I became pregnant, the nightmares of losing him followed almost immediately. After he was born I began having vivid dreams of losing him in crowded places, devastating fires in our home, car crashes, and bizarre accidents I couldn’t even recall when I bolted awake. What I could recall was that in each of them, I had no control over the situation or I wasn’t with him. I know so many parents and caregivers who also feel this lack of control . . . and not just in their dreams. Clinging to your child’s tiny body in a tight embrace, afraid to let go at the door of their classroom or school entrance. When your teen’s high school alerts you of another active shooter drill. Or worse, of a potential threat. Knowing that they’ll be walking to band practice like they do every day . . . but will today be different? We worry about our children constantly, especially when they are not with us. My own fears are often fueled by the question, if my son is not with me, how can I keep him safe? Spaces in our community that are designed to be and should be safe, like schools, no longer feel so. And the rhetoric of, “What’s the likelihood of it happening to you?” is rapidly losing its potency for calming our (valid) nerves.

One day a few years ago at a daycare pickup, my son was surprised to see that my car was parked in a different spot than when I had dropped him off that morning. I believe it was the first time he noticed and realized that his mama had not been waiting for him outside the building while he was enjoying his day with his class. That his mama must leave and if so, where does she go? I told him that I work on my laptop from home or at the library and that sometimes I go to a meeting with a client somewhere else, like the coffee shop with those blueberry muffins he likes. I assured him that every day I’m so excited to come back to pick him up. I didn’t tell him that I spend many days with worry buried in the crevices of my brain. Our conversation reminded me of Margaret Hass’ poem, “First Day of Kindergarten.” There were days when I had to take deep breathes as I drove away from his preschool’s parking lot, my hands tense and gripping the steering wheel. These days I struggle with the fact that my kindergartner doesn’t want a hug or kiss before he walks into his school and gets absorbed by the rooms and halls of a building I’m not in. If the worst thing imaginable did happen, what was our last exchange? I am plagued by the fear that I won’t be there to hold him close to my body. To look into his eyes and tell him that he is loved and that I will never leave his side, no matter what comes. To tell him that a life without him is not worth living (recommended reading: Kate Baer’s poem “Back to School Shopping”).

Nothing will change if we continue to take action in ebbs and flows, participating in bursts of “awareness” and news cycles. It is our collective responsibility as adults—whether you’re a parent or not—to DEMAND children’s rights to safety in all environments, to health care, to affirmation of their identity, and to fostering equitable access to resources like safe, quality education and child care. It is their right to a life without the trauma of gun violence. It is also our responsibility to raise our own children to not just be kind but to respect and care for each other. All kids have a right to a childhood. This is our responsibility as adults.

What will you do today with that responsibility? Will you bemoan, scroll Instagram, and then move on with your life? Or will you call your legislators today, and again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the week after that? Will you contact your superintendent or principal to demand secure storage resources are provided for all families and on a regular basis? Will you have the hard but necessary conversations with your family? Will you show up at your state house during a legislative session? Will you donate to grassroots orgs?

I originally wrote this essay in 2022, yet it is just as relevant today. A sobering realization. I have it in me to write a very long essay about how it’s all connected with so many other glaring issues in our culture but for today, it’s this personal essay. Because instead of writing more today, I’m calling my Governor.