Every so often, America is starkly reminded of the ongoing crisis of mass shootings. Over time, these tragedies become mere names of towns: Columbine, Sandy Hook, Aurora—communities once seen as safe havens for families. Recently, Orlando has once again thrust us into the forefront of this painful reality. Yet, for us mothers, there was never any complacency to begin with.
In the aftermath of these horrific events, our fear is palpable. They say that when you become a parent, your heart walks outside your body. We don’t fear for ourselves; our worry centers on our children. The victims in Orlando were once someone’s children. Imagine the agony of their mothers, repeatedly calling their children’s phones, only to hear the relentless sound of voicemail. They are living every mother’s worst nightmare: their child shot and alone, feeling fear and pain. We are afraid; we mothers are terrorized.
This terror is precisely what these individuals—people like Nathan Reyes and Timothy Lanes—aim to instill. They are, in essence, terrorists, committing acts of terror. While we strive not to let them win the battle for our minds, they have already claimed our hearts. We are consumed by the fear of losing those we love.
We find ourselves anxious in the mall, questioning whether the car carts our kids ride in could shield them from gunfire. Can we crouch behind them if the unthinkable happens?
In the aisles of Target, as we pass through racks of clothing, thoughts race through our minds: I could hide here. I could tear a dress to create a makeshift tourniquet before a child bleeds out.
Wandering through Walmart, the thought strikes again: Would I be able to keep my children quiet while we hide? What if the baby cries?
At the movie theater—where Timothy Lanes unleashed chaos—we remember that flimsy seats offer no protection against gunfire.
In places of worship, we worry that violence could erupt, and we might find ourselves shielding our children’s bodies with our own, praying that we can absorb the bullets meant for them.
For those of us who are people of color, there’s the fear of a white supremacist attacking because of our skin color. We envision children bleeding, screaming, and dying.
If we identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community, we are haunted by the fear that a hate-fueled attack could occur at a Pride parade, leaving us with no escape in the crowded chaos.
Sending our children off to school is another source of dread. We picture kindergartners practicing active-shooter drills, recalling the tragic loss of young lives at Sandy Hook. We kiss our high-schoolers goodbye, remembering Columbine, wondering if there are any suspicious characters among their peers, and if educators would react in time to prevent tragedy.
Every outing is now tainted by the thought of angry individuals wielding guns, adding yet another layer of anxiety to our already fraught lives. The fear of accidents, speeding vehicles, and lurking predators now includes the specter of violence, with each new worry a way to harm our precious children.
After mass shootings, our minds spiral out of control with concern. We are desperate to keep our children safe, to ensure they remain alive, and the anxiety is relentless. Yes, this is terror, and yes, we are victimized repeatedly. Yet we continue to visit the mall, Target, and movie theaters. We send our babies to school. We refuse to let fear dictate our lives or allow terrorists to triumph. But as mothers, we are undeniably terrorized.
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In summary, the fear that mothers experience in today’s world is profound and all-consuming. The threat of violence looms large, casting a shadow over every outing and every moment spent with our children. Yet, despite this terror, we continue to move forward, striving to protect and love our children amid the uncertainty.