Uvalde, I Hear You

Laurie Taylor

I don’t know if I can write this. There’s just something about saying it aloud or writing about it that makes it very real.

 The first two days after the massacre, I couldn’t get enough information. And then I crashed. I overdosed in grief and tragedy. I know there is still a dam of emotion that will soon erupt, but for now, I am busy processing what I can do to help the children and adults in Uvalde. They are six hours away, but my heart has been intertwined with theirs from the moment the news broke.

Nineteen beautiful, innocent children and two beloved teachers are permanently housed in my soul and I will never be the same. I envision the joy and excitement they felt the first day of school last fall. Then I fast forward to the last day they spent in their classroom. And I am overcome with profound grief.

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how to fix this. I won’t get into debates or politics because I don’t have enough knowledge or expertise to suggest a viable solution. However, I do know what it’s like to hold a grieving parent. And I do know what it’s like to hold a grieving child in my lap. I see the aftermath when the TV cameras disappear and the world moves on to the next tragic event.

I don’t know how to fix the killing. I just know how to help the grieving. Maybe one day, those in all the professional disciplines who have the expertise to reduce the number of killings will sit down together and develop a viable solution. Until then, I’ll wrap my heart and arms around the grieving and I’ll hold brokenhearted children in my lap.

I tell our clients that we can’t “fix” grief. In response to my confession of feeling inadequate and helpless to “fix” what happened in Uvalde, a dear friend who lost her beautiful daughter to homicide gently reminded me, “Sometimes you just let us sit with you and weep. And in those moments, we felt heard.”

Uvalde, I hear you. I weep with you. And I offer you hope.