I am a survivor of the Las Vegas mass shooting. The aftermath lingers; my eyes are still swollen and red, and I feel nauseous to the point of not being able to eat. All I want to do is retreat to my bed and hide from the outside world. As I contemplate the mundane tasks needed to reclaim a sense of normalcy, the thought of going to the gym crosses my mind. But then I remember: there’s only one exit in the front. Where would I even run?
My best friend, Sarah, was thrilled to see her favorite artist perform, and while I enjoy country music, I was mostly there to share a fun weekend with her. On that Sunday, October 1, the festival’s last day, neither of us felt like drinking. We weren’t hungover; we simply decided to leave before Jason Aldean took the stage to grab coffee at the Luxor. After some casual people-watching, we found a spot on the right side of the stage, close enough to enjoy the performance.
At around 9:40 p.m., Jason began his set, and we stood, singing along and soaking in the atmosphere. Just a few songs in, I heard several pops, distinct and alarming, above and to my right. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t fireworks.
Sarah turned to me, panic in her eyes. “We need to get out of here,” she urged. We bolted, and then the sound of rapid-fire shots echoed around us—30 or 40 in quick succession. We dropped to the ground. When the shots paused, we took off again, hand in hand, literally running for our lives.
I recognized that sound. I grew up in a small town in Northern Arizona, surrounded by hunters and proud conservatives. Many of the men close to me owned assault rifles. I’ve been to shooting ranges but never fired one myself. My father’s ATF visits due to his extensive gun collection are tales I know all too well. I even have a .38 revolver tucked away in my closet.
For years, I was a strong advocate for the Second Amendment, echoing arguments like, “Bad guys will always find a way” and “If we take away guns, only the criminals will have them.” But now, as a high school history teacher in suburban Phoenix, my views have shifted toward the center due to my experiences in inner-city schools and my evolving perspective on American history. This shift has strained relationships, including a recent heated exchange with my father over the same tired arguments I once supported.
I feel increasingly isolated. It seems that unless you’ve faced the terror of running from a barrage of gunfire, you cannot truly understand. The people I care about, including those I once stood alongside in my beliefs, cling to their views despite my near-death experience. My friend and I often say, “They don’t understand.” We share a bond forged through trauma that few can relate to. While I wish everyone could feel what I felt, I would never wish that experience on anyone.
So, what can I do? There’s a growing sense of urgency within me. We must find a way to enact change. I don’t advocate for a total ban on guns, but I believe we can implement measures to make it more difficult for individuals to unleash violence on innocent people. Countries like Australia have successfully made substantial changes—why can’t we?
Evil will never be eradicated. There will always be those with a desire to harm others. However, why can’t we come together to discuss potential solutions? We can create laws that allow individuals to defend themselves while simultaneously making it harder for mass shootings to occur.
I love this country and share its stories—both the good and the bad—with my students every day. We salute the flag each morning, proud of our freedom. But right now, I do not feel free. I am fearful. I will never feel safe in a crowd again, nor will I attend another concert or sporting event. My life has changed irrevocably. As a mother, I worry for my children; we cannot call ourselves free when we live in fear.
I urge you all to engage in discussions about solutions. Set aside your political affiliations, listen to one another, and seek practical ways to contribute. My only weapon is my voice. I may never shift the views of those closest to me, but perhaps I can reach someone, and together we can forge a sensible path forward.
If we don’t take action, I will merely be another fortunate survivor of a mass shooting. History will repeat itself, and we will respond with shock and sorrow once more. We’ll send prayers and love, yet remain stagnant in our efforts. And the cycle will continue.