How to help a friend face the unfaceable

It happens every time I fill out a new medical form for one of my boys. Can your child do this? Can your child do that? I go down the list of questions checking one “yes” box after another. I leave the lines to describe any developmental delays or physical issues blank.

As I looked over the form, my eyes welled up with tears and I start to cry. I feel incredible gratitude, but I also feel such sadness. Sadness because I know it was a moment Annie has never gotten to have.

You know Annie and you know her story. Annie is amazing. Annie is brilliant. And for reasons I don’t always understand, Annie is one of my dearest friends. We first met in college. Another friend had brought me to Annie’s door. I was in the throes of a painful breakup and had convinced myself I had meningitis. Annie gave me some vitamins, a cup of tea, and talked me down from the ledge.

I wish I could say that was the last time her wisdom and wit and unending compassion prevented me from doing something crazy. However, I think that would be less than accurate...to say the least.

Over that past twelve years, we have supported each other through marriages, relocations, career changes, and many a wardrobe crisis. When we got pregnant within months of each other, I was ecstatic. I had my best friend with me every step of the way. We g-chatted constantly about labor strategies, nutritional requirements, maternity clothes. You name it we tackled it. As the months flew by, I couldn’t believe how incredibly lucky I was to face the journey of motherhood with this wonderful woman by my side.

Then, Collin was born.

When I go back and look through our emails to each other at this time, I can only see my blind optimism. Everything was going to work out. Everything was going to be fine. In one email, I told her we’d blink and be watching Collin run around and say, "And to think you were once a tiny thing that gave us such a scare."

I think about that email all the time and I hate myself for it.

In college, Annie had written an untitled poem about me.

she waltzed dramatically away, waving
her arms loosely, wildly, half-singing
half-shouting her love; and I saw us
old, eccentric, eating chocolate in our
slippers, giggling over children and husbands

I knew in the deepest part of my soul that that was how things would end for us. We would sail through this sea of change and come out the other side stronger. Sure, there would be rocky waves and the occasional storm but the destination would be the one about which we had always dreamed.

Eventually, it became very clear that was not the case and that one of the people I loved most in the world was in a huge amount of pain.

I wanted to help her. I wanted to say the perfect thing. I wanted to fix things. Then, I realized that doing anything was really not an option. At one point, a doctor had mentioned the possibility of a very scary degenerative disease that could possibly end Collin’s life at a young age. As my friend faced the unthinkable, I made a pledge. I stopped offering empty promises and offered up the only thing I knew I could. I swore to Annie that I would not forsake her. I swore to her that no matter how bad things got or how hard or painful or sad her situation became I would not turn away from her.

I know that happens. Friendships - for the most part - are based on shared experiences. Our lives change and shift and so do our alliances. You find out who your true friends are, as the saying goes.

I did not know what was going to happen to Collin or what was going to happen to Annie but I knew one thing. I was Annie’s friend and that was not going to change. Ever.

I’m not looking for praise or sympathy. Our journey together was not the one I expected. We got shipwrecked and found a new adventure. However, at the end of every day, I’m still friends with Annie - the specialness of this is something I have difficulty conveying in words.

Annie has shared her story and I only thought I would share my side of it for any of you out there trying to stand with a friend through a difficult time. Learn from my mistakes. Don’t try to fix things or say you understand when you don’t. Stand beside your friend. Hold her hand. Let her know that no matter what - you aren’t going anywhere.

Stop trolling my tragedy

Last year, my family experienced a tragedy. At 20 weeks pregnant, I found out the baby I was carrying was no longer alive. It was an incredibly difficult time made easier by family and friends - and even strangers - who reached out and said they understood or they couldn’t understand but that they loved us and were there for us just for the same.

This post is not about those people.

This post is about the people who wanted to seem thoughtful or sympathetic or supportive but who were actually there for themselves - not me or my family.

I call those people tragedy trolls.

They troll your tragedy. 

These people approach you at any time and in any place and ask you how you are doing. However, they don’t really want to hear your answer. They don’t want to hear that you cry all day and that fear keeps you up at night. They don’t want to hear that you actually aren’t doing that great and you’re afraid you never well. If they wanted to hear those things, they wouldn’t approach you in the grocery checkout line or at a party.

They want you to answer that you’re doing fine and repeat some cliche so that they can go about their day but report that they saw you to anyone who asks. 

These people ask about the intimate details of your tragedy because information is like currency in sad circumstances. Maybe they just want to know what makes you different, what you did wrong, or what they would never do so they can go along on their merry way - self-assured that your tragedy is your’s alone and that they are safe and sound. 

Or they have their own tragedy they haven’t quite dealt with so they use you as a sounding board. They want to relate how they know exactly what you’re going through because they went through the same thing - except it’s often not the same thing at all.

I’ll never forget a dear friend of mine who lost both parents at a young age. She told me people would find out she was an orphan and respond, “Oh, I understand my parents are divorced.”

These people want to witness your sadness without carrying the burden of your grief. 

Brené Brown has a fantastic talk on the difference between empathy and sympathy. She says that empathy involves perspective taking, staying out of judgment, recognizing another’s emotions, and communicating that you understand those emotions. 

Tragedy trolls are sympathetic without being empathetic. They may want to help you but at a safe distance and without getting their hands dirty.

I understand that empathy is not easy. I understand that standing with someone in their grief is an incredibly vulnerable place to be. It is painful. It is intense. It reminds us of painful things in our past or the real threat of pain in our future.

And I’m not saying we all need to reach that level of empathy with every tragedy we come across. If all you can manage is a genuine “I’m so sorry,” that’s fine.  

However, I am begging you to think before you speak to someone experiencing a loss. 

If you feel obligated to say something, don’t. If you feel like you are approaching the encounter to make yourself feel better instead of the other person, don’t. 

Tragedy is hard enough. Don’t make it harder by trolling. 

Does graciousness make you a doormat?

I wrote this post a couple of years ago but have been thinking about graciousness a lot lately so thought I'd share it again.

I stumbled upon this quote recently and immediately taped it up on my bathroom mirror. It seemed to perfectly capture how I have been feeling late. I spent so many years trying to gain confidence and learn to stick up for myself that recently I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve overshot my mark. In my efforts to defend myself, do I forget about other people?

I’ve always been extroverted. (I know hard to believe.) For many years, however, my exuberant personality was more to mask insecurity. All it took was a well-meaning “tone it down” or a not so well-meaning “abrasive” to send me into hysterics.

As I got older, I began to understand that many people’s problemata with my personality had very little to do with me and much more to do with their own issues. And what did I care? If you can’t stick up for yourself, why should I walk on eggshells in an effort to protect your fragile ego. I mean there’s a reason that my name and the word steamroll often find themselves in the same sentence.

So, when I saw that quote, I began to wonder. Am I gracious? Do I push people too hard? Should I be more concerned with how other people feel or react to me? After all, who wouldn’t want to be described as gracious, as opposed to a piece of construction equipment?

When I began to share my quote with close friends and family, I expected support for my new mission and appreciation for my little quote. Imagine my surprise when the reaction I was most often met with was skepticism. Everyone seemed to argue that signing yourself up for graciousness meant turning into a doormat. But is that true? What does gracious mean?

To dictionary.com we go!

“gra·cious –adjective

1. pleasantly kind, benevolent, and courteous.

2. characterized by good taste, comfort, ease, or luxury: gracious suburban living; a gracious home.

3. indulgent or beneficent in a pleasantly condescending way, especially to inferiors.

4. merciful or compassionate: our gracious king.

5. Obsolete . fortunate or happy.”

— dictionary.com

Hmmmm...pleasantly kind, benevolent, and courteous is definitely what I had in mind. Good taste is always good, so is merciful or compassionate. Not sure where obsolete fits in but fortunate and happy are fine by me. Three threw me a bit - although if you’re going to be condescending, you might as well be pleasant about it I suppose.

Not too far off from what I thought it meant. I want to be kind and courteous. Thinking of others more often is a cornerstone of every world religion and can’t hurt, right? Putting others before yourself (a.k.a. doormat) is a problem and maybe where graciousness got a bad wrap. However, being a doormat is about a lack of confidence—a belief that you are not worthy of others' respect.

To me, graciousness is just the opposite—at its source is complete respect and love for yourself. You don’t base your self-worth on others needing you or being intimidated by you. You know you are deserving of respect and kindness and grace and therefore others are as well.

So, that’s why if you run into me on the street, I might not look pretty (mascara doesn’t make the cut very often) and I might not be witty (that requires the quiet of nap time and a computer screen), but I will be gracious if it kills me...

And if I fall short—I am 8 months pregnant after all—I’d appreciate a little grace in return.

Bedazzled Unicorns

“Hi, can I take your order,” said our waitress.

“Hmm, what? I’m sorry?” I say sharply while wrangling my 2 year old and trying to pull the iPod out for the big boy.

“Your order?” she repeats.

Quickly I give her our order, but not quick enough. I saw the little elderly woman eyeballing us and then it happened right as I was about to say “funny face pancake” she abruptly interrupts me, walks over to my youngest, caresses his head {which totally ticked him off} and starts reminiscing about how she had a great, great, great grandfather with red hair. “And oh, I’m sure he got his red hair from his mama.”

I wanted to say, “get your hands off my child and leave us to our funny-face pancake, and by the way I dye my hair.” Instead I smiled, nodded politely and said thank you. 

After I tweeted this little scenario, a fellow redhead replied “You’d think a redhead was a bedazzled unicorn or something, people act like they’ve never seen one before.”

Yep, that’s it! I gave birth to a bedazzled unicorn, and while it’s special and beautiful it can be annoying and a little creepy.

Especially when the lady at the playground tells you that “It’s great to see a redhead after what I read on the internet.”

What?

What’s the Internet saying now?

Well, supposedly by the year 2060 redheads will be extinct. Back in 2007, the Oxford Hair Foundation reported that red hair was going to be extinct in 100 years. 

This finding is a bit suspect, as the Oxford Hair Foundation is funded by Proctor and Gamble, makers of red hair dye. Ummm, yeah...I think my little unicorn and his offspring are safe.

Upon searching the interwebs I found other interesting redhead theories...

Supposedly my little redhead could be the star of his own Twilight saga, as ancient Greeks believed that gingers turned into vampires after death.

G is a spitter, which could be explained by the fact that in Corsica, it’s common to turn your head and spit when a redhead walks by. He’s obviously retaliating.

Break out the broomstick because G could also be a witch, according to those crazy Europeans.

Studies show that redheads have a higher pain threshold, and can tolerate spicier foods. G does love a good salsa.

“While the rest of the human race are descended from monkeys, redheads are derived from cats.” - Mark Twain. This could explain the special connection between our cat and “little red”.

Not only could G be a vampire, a witch and a cat he could also be one of the descendants of Atlantis.

Lots of redheads ruled the world like Queen Elizabeth, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain and Galileo to name a few. Looks like my little G, might be a natural born leader.

Of course he could also be a descendant of a giant. Really?

Many people feared redheads probably because they were either giants, vampires, witches or cats. I fear G only when he wants Target popcorn and he wants it NOW.

Even the Neanderthals were bedazzled unicorns, but I bet people didn’t just walk up and start touching their heads.

And of course no crazy conspiracy would be complete without a mention of the illuminate who want to create a super race with my son’s genes. Well, he is super, but he’s ours.

Oh, Internet you are so full of theories, conspiracies and maybe a smidge of truth. 

However, no matter what you read or rumors you hear, G is just my “little redhead” so please don’t touch his hair, or tell me stories about your great, great, great grandfather’s red hair or interrupt our family time, because want to eat our funny-face pancakes in peace.

Brook {without the "e"} is spunky faux redhead who resides in Hawkeye country among the sweet fields of corn with her two boys and fanboy husband. She writes about fashion, fitness and family at RedheadReverie.com.

The Story of Nicholas's Proposal

Moments after Nicholas proposed.

Today is National Proposal Day. Due to the fact that Nicholas and I didn’t start our first blog until 2003, the story of Nicholas proposing to me in 2002 is one of the few facets of our lives together that hasn’t found its way on to the internet.

Well, no day like today!

I thought there is no better time than in the depths of caring for our brand new baby and THIRD child to remember how it all began.

In the summer of 2002, Nicholas and I were living together (in sin, as my grandmother liked to say) in Durham, North Carolina. I had joined Nicholas there after completing my junior year at Transylvania University because I simply didn’t want to be away from him. He was working as a research assistant for one of his professors and living alone in a four bedroom house he and his law school roommates had rented. The rest of his roommates were working in law firms in NY or DC so he had the entire house to himself.

I had planned on getting a job once I arrived in Durham and I tried my hardest but I was late to the game. I applied to every clothing store and restaurant in the Research Triangle but to no avail. Since Nicholas worked from home, we basically spent 24 hours a day 7 days a week. We didn’t have a lot of money. Scratch that. We had no money. We ate a lot of Hamburger Helper. We played so much Phase 10 we invented a new form called EXTREME Phase 10. We watched Crossfire every day at 3pm.

It was one of the happiest times of my life.

I spent a lot of that time planning our wedding. Of course, we weren’t ACTUALLY engaged yet. I had already picked out my ring with the expectation that Nicholas would propose towards the end of the summer. I also had the expectation that the proposal would be fantastic, which looking back was a tall order considering I had completely removed the element of surprise and had pre-selected my ring.

Luckily, Nicholas was up for the challenge.

One morning I awoke to find no sign of Nicholas. Instead, there was a note on his pillow that told me to go to the computer. It took me a moment to realize what was happening as I excitedly ran to the computer and found the note above.

At 10, I received an e-card (remember those!) explaining that he was beginning with an email because that’s how we started flirting with each other two years before at Transy. Instead of conversing face to face on a tiny campus with less than a 1000 students, we wrote long flirty messages to each other in the beginning. We’re weird that way.

The email also sent me to a website with instructions. I was going on a scavenger hunt through all the places and activities that had played an important role in our relationship.

The message than told me my next stop would be the movie theater. Going to the movies was not only one of our favorite date night activities (those were the days!) but three years previous we had randomly gone and seen The Insider together. It wasn’t in any way romantic, especially since I had just been cheated on by my high school sweetheart and was heartbroken. I was telling Nicholas all about it (as I was apt to do to whoever would listen) and he looked at me and said matter of factly, “You know what your problem is? You’re trying to reason with idiots and idiots don’t understand reason.” At first, I was appalled. I wasn’t the one with the problem!

Then, I realized he was right. This was about them not me.

It was also the first time I thought, “Hmmmm… this Nicholas Holland guy might be more than I gave him credit for.”

Fast forward three years and I was rapidly discovering Nicholas was still capable of surprising me. At the theater I had very detailed instructions. I was to go to specific posters out front and write down certain numbers from each time.

The numbers created a call number for a book and PAGE at the Duke Law Library. Plus, they weren't just ANY numbers. The numbers were the date of our wedding and the date of our first kiss. 

I was terrified of misplacing a number but luckily I perform well under pressure. I got to the Law Library, which was the next stop because law school had and was going to play such an important role in both of our lives, and found the book. Stuck in the specific page was a map that led me to a secluded spot in Sarah P. Duke Gardens.

The spot where I sat and waited on Nicholas.

Secluded turned out to be important because the television show Dawson’s Creek was filming on Duke’s campus that day. The episode even featured a guest appearance by Jack Osbourne, one of the stars of our favorite reality show The Osbournes. It was a fun little bonus.

I found my way to the spot and waited expectantly on Nicholas. Finally, he came around a corner and got down on one knee. He told me he loved me more than he had ever loved anyone and asked me to be his wife.

Of course, I said yes.

What I remember so vividly from that moment is how nervous he was. He had been running around all morning putting together this elaborate scavenger hunt. He was sweaty and a little bit flustered. Seeing this man put all this effort into proposing to me  - a man who didn’t particularly enjoy romance or seemingly empty gestures (since we already knew we were getting married) – cemented everything I already felt about marrying him. That he loved me unconditionally, that was going to make the most wonderful husband, and that we were going to be so incredibly happy together.

And I as I lay down next to that man every night, in a home filled with love and laughter and three beautiful boys, I know that the proposal of marriage was fun and unique but the marriage itself is the real story. 

What's the story of your proposal? I'd love to hear!

How to speak to a pregnant woman

Hello ladies and gentlemen,

We’ve come to the part in our program where Sarah needs to let off some serious steam about the ridiculous things people say to pregnant women in their last trimester. Of course, I’m always gracious in the moment after someone uses the word “huge” or “miserable” or - God forbid - “twins” but here among friends there’s going to be a little less grace and a lot more honesty.

(deep breath)

shut up shut up shut up I do not want to hear what you think about my pregnancy shut up shut up shut up before I kick you in the face for commenting on how giant I am shut up shut up shut up I don’t want to hear some unrelated and unhelpful anecdote about your brother’s girlfriend’s cousin’s baby’s daddy’s niece and her fourteen pound baby shut shut up SHUT UP!!!!!!

(exhale)

I feel better. Don’t you?

Now, let’s take a step back for some take away lessons.

I know I’m huge. I know people see pregnant women as some type of community property that must be touched, smiled at, commented on. I get it. I really do. My belly arrives in the room before I do, so I know it’s hard to ignore. And in all fairness, I had four perfect strangers come up to me in a span of two weeks and exclaim, “You look adorable/so cute/precious!” and it made my day.

I’m not saying never speak to pregnant woman. I’m just saying let’s all agree to some ground rules.

1. Never use the term “any day.” As in, “you must be due any day!” Well, no, I actually have two months left but thank you so much for inquiring. I think I got my first any day with Griffin when I was six months pregnant. It was awkward. It was unpleasant. So, let’s leave the due date prediction to the professionals and move on.


2. Don’t reference popping, blowing up, or any other type of explosion. It’s come to my attention that there are some people out there fundamentally confused about how a baby is born. (This is particularly frustrating when it is women who have had children!)  It is exciting but there is no special effects team. I am not going to blow up. My belly is not a balloon and it is not about to pop. If everything goes as planned, the baby will pass through my vagina. I’m sorry if this is disappointing for you. Deal with it.


3. Leave your assumptions about how I’m feeling at home. I love it when I’m feeling good. Nothing aches or hurts. I’m not tired. I’m bending over with ease. Everything is going as planned until someone looks at me like I’ve just stepped off a Titanic lifeboat and says, “You must be miserable!” Nope, not miserable but now a little pissed you rained on my sunny day. I also hate, “You must be ready to go!” No, I’m not ready. I have a to do list a mile long so he can just stay right there, thank you very much. Not to mention, for my friends who have dealt with pre-term labor, they probably walk around in fear of the exact thing you assume they want most of all.


4. Take your scary labor stories and shove them where the sun don’t shine. I got this ALL THE TIME with Griffin, particularly when people heard I was planning a home birth. It was like a contest to see who could tell the most frightening details of the birth that never ended/baby who weighed as much as a toddler/tear that started at your throat and went to God only knows where. (Funny how these stories seem to disappear once you’ve delivered one 9 lb 7 oz baby at home with no drugs.) It’s not helpful. It’s not supportive. If you have some issues you need to work out about your labor and delivery, I suggest you see a therapist and not take it out on the nearest pregnant woman.


5. Treat others as you would want to be treated. This is an easy one. Perhaps you remember it from childhood? Before you speak, put yourself in her very pregnant shoes. Would you want someone commenting on your weight? Would it hurt your feelings if someone assumed you were having twins and you weren’t? Is your comment helpful AT ALL? Just because we are growing a human being doesn’t mean we stopped being a human being. Like anyone else, we just need a little kindness to get through the day. Perhaps instead of commenting, you could just hold the door, offer a helping hand with the groceries, or - I don’t know - buy her a milkshake.


6. No, seriously, if you live in Paducah and you see me around town, feel free to buy me a milkshake.

My Memories of December 1st, 1997

This article was originally published on The Atlantic in the wake of Sandy Hook.

I was 16-years-old, a junior at Heath High School in Paducah, Kentucky. Born and raised in the small Western Kentucky town, I was the fourth generation of my family to attend Heath. My great-grandparents had skipped out on a basketball game to ride the ferry across the river and get married in Illinois. My great-aunt had been the home economics teacher for years. My mother had been the prom queen.

It was a cold, gray December day, the first after Thanksgiving break in 1997. Not owning a license yet, I rode to school with my friend Beth and her dad. I remember I was wearing my brand new blue fleece from the Gap that my stepdad had given me as a reward for getting all A's that semester.

We were running late, but as we circled the parking lot, I noticed a large group of students standing outside the gym -- mostly upperclassmen, including a boy I had a crush on. One of our classmates ran up to Beth's car and pounded on the window.

"Some guy just started shooting people!" he yelled. 

Beth's dad told her to drive across the street to the elementary school and park. I told both of them I was getting out to see what was going on. I suspected some boy had gotten mad at his girlfriend and used a hunting rifle to seek his revenge. Just a few months before, a student in Pearl, Mississippi, had gone to school and shot his former girlfriend. As I walked past the group of upperclassmen, I noticed my crush looked pale and shaken. I asked him what was going on.

"I don't know, but there's no fucking way I'm going back in there," he replied.

Inexplicably, I kept walking -- past the group of students gathered in front of the gymnasium next to our high school and up the steps to the south entrance. My high school is small and contained in a single building --- one hallway on top of another, with a stairway on each side. The hallways have wooden doors that close before you reach the stairwell. I realize now I must have entered the building moments after the shooting took place, because the wooden doors had not yet been closed. I simply opened the doors and looked down the hallway to see several bodies lying in the lobby of my high school.

I turned around and walked out. I wasn't afraid. I didn't panic. I just knew that that building was not a place I needed or wanted to be. I don't remember any physical reaction -- only mind-numbing shock.

The majority of the student body was being directed into the school gymnasium, where pandemonium reigned. I remember being told a friend of mine had died, then minutes later watching her walk through the doors of the gym. Very few of us had cell phones in 1997, so I used my friend's to call my mother. As I stood in the parking lot telling my mother I was safe, another friend ran up and told us the shooter was still on the loose and we should get back in the gym. I remember the panic and dread as we waited for the classes on the second floor to be released from lockdown. Most of my close friends had been upstairs and I remember the relief I felt when I saw them for the first time.

So many had witnessed the shooting that the identity of the shooter himself was never a mystery. His name was Michael Carneal. He was a shy, unassuming freshman. Few knew him personally, but everyone knew his older sister, an outgoing and very involved senior. She and I were in choir together and both worked on the school newspaper staff.

"I didn't even know she had a brother!" were the first words out of my mouth when I found out. Months later, his sister told me he had always been known as her little brother. "Now, I'll always be Michael Carneal's sister," she said.

***

As parents and other adults began arriving, the scene at the school became even more emotional. It was as if we hadn't known to feel sad or scared until we saw the fearful faces of those who were supposed to protect us. When it had been only us filling the gym and trying to figure out what to do, we could keep up a front, but as our mothers and fathers arrived, everything changed. I still remember the sight of cars with doors ajar abandoned for miles up the road as the parents got as close as they could and then got out and ran.

I don't remember when I left or with whom. I spent the evening with friends who didn't attend my high school, telling my story over and over again as the details of the shooting and the names of those injured and killed became known.

Michael Carneal had opened fire on the prayer group that met every morning in the lobby of the school. Three of my classmates were dead and five were injured. Senior Jessica James, sophomore Kayce Steger, and freshman Nicole Hadley were gone. The injuries among the other victims ranged from minor wounds to a classmate who was paralyzed from the chest down.

We learned later that evening that we would attend school the next day. At the time, the decision seemed outrageous. How could they expect us to walk back through those doors so soon? Some of my classmates' parents refused to let them go. However, my mother, a public school librarian, told me that if school was in session, I would be in attendance.

She dropped me off at the front doors of Heath High School the next morning. Directly across the street, the media had set up camp. Satellite trucks and a thick dark line of cameras captured me exiting the car and carrying flowers into the school. I would watch my entrance play out again and again on the nightly news for the next week.

The lobby looked the same as before, except for two small bullet holes in the cement wall that the custodians had already attempted to patch up and paint over. The paint hid nothing as we all went over to peer at the only visual indication that everything had changed. As everyone filtered in, we gathered in a circle. I read a Bible verse, which I don't remember, and added the flowers I brought to the ever-growing pile.

We didn't go to any of our classes that day. There were counselors and ministers there to talk with us. Mostly, we all just wandered around and did whatever felt right. I dedicated myself to forgiveness.

The fact that the shooting had happened during prayer circle seemed significant to me. I had often attended the early morning prayer meeting, and I felt both blessed I had been late that morning and guilty I hadn't been attending the prayer circle more regularly. My simultaneous feelings of guilt and gratitude manifested in a driving desire to forgive Michael Carneal. I went to the library and spent hours making signs with several of my classmates to display in the school windows.

"We forgive you, Michael," they read. There was also the one I can never forget: "We forgive you because God forgave us."

The signs made an impact. Story after story portrayed our community as a place where forgiveness lived. I was interviewed by ABC News with two of my classmates. I held my Bible in my lap and spoke of God's love and how it allowed me to forgive the heinous actions of Michael Carneal.

In my mind, forgiving Michael Carneal meant that I could move on. Even at sixteen, I knew forgiveness was the last step in the healing process. I was not injured. I had not witnessed the shooting. I felt no anger or hatred towards the shooter. Surely this meant I was OK. 

So I carried on, and moved along, and grew up. I graduated the next year and went away to college, where I met the man who would become my husband. After graduation, we married and went to law school. I moved back to Paducah and had children of my own. For years, I considered the events of December 1st to be a part of my story, but not a part of who I was.

Small things would affect me, but I never considered them indicative of anything larger. My freshmen year in college, a student died after falling off a cliff during a camping trip. His death felt like a personal assault. I felt as though death and tragedy had followed me far from the grounds of Heath High School. The odd behavior of a trench-coated stranger in a post office would send me hyperventilating, running for the exit. I can still vividly recall the shooting scene in the 2001 film, In the Bedroom, that left me sobbing in the lobby of the theater.

It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact of that day reached far beyond isolated moments of panic. I was sitting with a group of close friends. I'm not sure how the conversation began, but I was telling them that every time my husband and I parted even for a few minutes, to run a short errand, I worried it would be the last time I would see him. My constant fear of losing a loved one in a sudden and tragic way had become a normal part of my life. Every goodbye left me imaging car wrecks or crazed gunmen. If my husband or parents didn't telephone a change in plans or late arrival, I began calling emergency rooms or police stations without hesitation.

I thought everyone felt that way, but as I looked at my friends, it became very clear that the way I felt was not normal. I could see the shock written across each and every one of their faces. I had expected reassurance that they thought the same things from time to time, but instead I received only stunned silence.

***

Over a decade after the shooting at Heath High School, I went to counseling. After only a handful of sessions, my counselor diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. She told me that the traumatic way I had been introduced to death as a teenager had left me with an unhealthy obsession with it. I began to realize that for years I had lived in fear of December 1st. I had lived in fear of that moment that comes out of nowhere and leaves you broken, shattered, and crying on the floor. I had thought if I could anticipate that moment, if I could prepare for it somehow, it wouldn't be as bad. I realize now the absurdity of that response. The pain of a trauma cannot be lessened or protected against, and I only rob myself of present joys with my futile attempts to do so.

Of course, that realization is hard to hold onto in the aftermath of the tragedy at Sandy Hook. I am now the mother of two small boys -- the oldest of whom will be entering elementary school sooner than I'd like. A level of grief I never imagined at 16 opens up to me when I think of those parents. I knew then that losing a child was terrible thing, but I know now that it is a pain so unimaginable my brain will not allow me to process it. It's as if a security gate slams shut when I try to think about the loss of either of my children. "Do not enter," my brain seems to be saying.

I find myself asking questions that seemed silly when raised by the concerned parents of my classmates 15 years ago. "What are they doing to keep my children safe?" "What security procedures are in place?" As if there were some way to fathom the unfathomable and protect against it.

Mostly, I find myself thinking of the survivors. My classmates and I learned a very difficult lesson in high school. We learned that the world was not a safe place and that truly terrible things can happen when you least expect it. To think of more than 600 students at Sandy Hook Elementary School learning that lesson at nine years old and younger is heartbreaking. I can remember a time when I felt safe, when I didn't constantly anticipate the worst. Perhaps they never will.

They escaped with their lives. But their lives will be forever changed by December 14th. I know this. December 1st taught me.

20 Things That Can Make A Pregnant Woman Cry in 48 Hours

Earlier this week, I posted this status on Facebook.

Post by Sarah Stewart Holland.

All my incredibly caring family and friends expressed their concern. As I've gone through my week, I've had several people ask if I'm ok and said they were worried about me after reading my status.

Let me just tell y'all. There is no reason to worry. Highly emotional is not the same as sad. As way of example, I thought I'd take y'all on a little tour of what has actually made me cry in the last 48 hours. 

1. Garth Brooks singing "The Dance" to this lady.

In my defense, my friend McCall justified my reaction. "Well, that was just sad."

2. Going to therapy

Let's see. I TALK about my emotions for an hour. I was pretty much crying before I sat down.

3. Listening to Act One of a This American Life on discipline in school.

4. Writing a blog post inspired by Act One of said episode of This American Life. 

I cry a lot when I write. I figure if I don't cry it's not that good.

5. Listening to Act Three of a This American Life on discipline in school.

"Oh, I live here. I live in Brooklyn." Whew. Just trust me.

6. The sight of the sunlight through the autumn leaves as I stood at my kitchen sink.

7. Watching Amos and Carrie, my awesome hairdresser, converse for 15 minutes straight. 

8. Recounting Amos and Carrie's conversation to Nicholas later that day.

9. Singing "The Dance" in the car by myself as I looked at the sunlight through the autumn leaves. (See #1 and #6)

10. Thinking about my friend Donna as I put on my purple dress for World Pancreatic Cancer Day.

A photo posted by Sarah Holland (@bluegrassred) on Nov 11, 2014 at 12:31pm PST

11. Amos running up to me and yelling, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" when I returned from my morning walk.

12. Griffin telling us that he thought he hadn't been good enough for Santa to bring him presents.

13. Which led to THIS conversation, during which I also cried.

Post by Sarah Stewart Holland.

14. Finding this turkey Griffin made on the walls of his elementary school and seeing "My Mom" as one of the things he was thankful for.

A photo posted by Sarah Holland (@bluegrassred) on Nov 11, 2014 at 2:14pm PST

15. Thinking about how lucky I am as I drove Amos to school ... triggered by the sun and the damn autumn leaves (see #6 and #9).

16. Facebook's WILD insensitivity to my delicate emotional state.

Post by bluegrass redhead.

17. One of my awesome clients giving me a little unexpected present. 

Let's all try to replicate this one!

18. Checking on my babies sleeping peacefully in their beds before I turn in for the night.

At least there are no autumn leaves?

19. Basically every 5th kick from the baby, when I stop and think about this little guy and his impending arrival.

20. Seeing how concerned y'all were about my crying fits.

A bit self-perpetuating but still! 

Don't leave me hanging. What's the silliest thing you've ever cried over in an emotional state?