One morning, while preparing for work, my 10-year-old daughter, Lily, crept into the bathroom looking visibly upset. I paused my routine and asked her what was wrong. After a moment of hesitation, she whispered about a nightmare where someone dangerous entered her school. My heart sank.
I remembered a notice from her school regarding an active shooter drill. When I asked her if that was what scared her, she nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Mom, I’m scared to go to school,” she confessed, a statement that shattered my heart. She had encountered a harsh reality about the world, one I had tried to shield her from for as long as possible.
In the past, we introduced our children to the complexities of life through stories and history. Books like Charlotte’s Web and The Giver served as gentle gateways to understanding loss and adversity. But now, the fear that something could happen to her at school felt like an insurmountable weight. I wanted to assure her that such horrors could never happen here, but the truth felt too fragile to voice.
Lily was just a first-grader when the Sandy Hook tragedy occurred, and even though I cannot begin to understand the profound grief of those families, its effects rippled through communities far and wide—including my quiet town in Missouri. On the day I took her to school after the shooting, tears streamed down my face, a mix of sorrow for the victims and fear for my own child’s innocence.
Recently, our local police chief visited the elementary classes, discussing safety protocols; the mention of Sandy Hook inevitably came up. I trust the school handled the conversation with care, but my sensitive Lily continued to wrestle with her anxiety.
I gathered her into my arms and took a deep breath. “Lily, you are so loved. Bringing you into this world was the happiest day of my life. But no one prepares you for the worries that come with being a parent. I wish I could wrap you in bubble wrap to keep you safe—I understand your fears because I share them too.
Most people in the world are good. They want the same safety and happiness for their families as we do. But there are bad people as well, and it’s up to the good ones to stay vigilant.
Fear can be a powerful force. Throughout history, it has been used to control people, but we are fortunate to live in a country that allows us the freedom to think and express ourselves. You have to decide whether fear will control you or if you can acknowledge it and still move forward with your life.
In my work as a physician, I often plan for worst-case scenarios, whether it’s for surgeries or patient care. Before procedures, I prepare for every possible complication, packing a bag with tools for emergencies. But I always hope for the best outcome. Your school drill is like that emergency kit—I hope it remains unopened, yet I understand its importance. It’s a reality I wish didn’t exist.
I held her close until she calmed down, encouraging her to get ready for school. I reassured her that our community is a good one, even though I know that doesn’t guarantee safety. When I asked what evidence she had that school was unsafe, she admitted there was none. I felt a pang of guilt for reassuring her in a world where unpredictability reigns.
With a flurry of kisses, I watched her leave, closing the door behind her, tears welling up once more. I took a moment, gathered my thoughts, and prepared myself for the challenges of parenting in this uncertain world.
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Summary
Active shooter drills, while necessary for safety, can create significant anxiety in children. As parents, we grapple with the reality of these fears and strive to provide reassurance while acknowledging the complexities of the world.