Here I go again, the day after a school shooting, off to support the fearful students and staff I work with.

I wish I could tell them something like this will never happen again (it will).

I wish I could tell them it won’t happen here (it has).

I wish I could tell them they are safe (are they?)

And I wish I could guarantee the safety of my own children, but I can’t.  Because every time this happens, I think of the Newtown parents who woke up one day like it was any other morning, who got their kids dressed, fed them breakfast and hurried them out the door, as I do each morning.  They kissed their child goodbye at drop off, and that was literally the last time they saw them alive.

I think of the children, how scared they must have been, and the staff who threw their bodies over children to protect them, and those who confronted the monster head-on.  I think if I would have been as brave.  I think of how that year, Connecticut went from a place of carefree childhood elementary schools to one where police officers monitored drop off and pickup.  One where I suddenly questioned my office being in the front of the school, and where I realized the significant impact of my social-emotional interventions.

I was only a school psychologist for 3 months before Newtown occurred two towns away from me, so I don’t remember work before these horrific acts were part of it.  Now, lockdown drills, sharing school violence resources, and assessing risk for violence are just a typical part of my job.  In a time when educators are already burnt out and leaving the field, the last thing we need to worry about is if today’s day of work will be our last on earth.  We need to do better.