In light of the most recent school shooting in Texas, I just don’t have the heart to write a fun blog. I already wasn’t going to complete my office makeover in time for the reveal this week, and I’d made peace with that.

What weighs heavy on my heart is the number of children who have died in school shootings. I don’t typically talk about anything political because, with everyone else’s opinions out there, mine would be lost.

So what I’ll do is tell you a story.

It was May 20, 1999. I was sitting in the commons area at my high school before school one morning, and in true procrastinator fashion, I was finishing up some homework with my friends.

We always sat in the same area in the commons area—right by the library, by the 3 sets of double doors to one of the entrances, closest to C hall. We had a great view of the entire space: we could see the front office; we could see the kids getting their hot breakfast on the other end; we could hear kids playing basketball in the gym across the way; we could see kids coming in from the busses; we could see all the other groups just hanging out with their friends.

It was a normal Thursday morning. Laughing, checking our homework against each other, talking about the upcoming weekend. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Our sophomore year was almost done!

All of a sudden, we hear a loud “pop!”

My first thought was, “Is it Senior Prank Day? They must be setting off fireworks.”

Another loud pop. And another.

Silence and confusion. That didn’t sound like fireworks. I look over to my right, and there he is. Standing in front of the double doors from the bus entry. With a rifle in his hands.

It just didn’t compute. There’s a kid. Standing maybe 30 yards away with a rifle in his hands.

I remember grabbing my binder and shielding my face. Then a friend pulled me up, and we started running.

We were literally running for our lives down C hall.

I just remember hearing shot after shot and running as fast as I could with my friends. I don’t even remember if I was screaming or crying.

We finally make it outside, and teachers are swarming around, telling us, “It’s okay! It’s okay. It’s just a senior prank.”

Then our friend speaks up and says, “I think I got shot.”

We turn to look, and we see blood on his pants. He’d gotten shot in the hip.

He was running right behind me. And that moment has never been lost on me.

The next hour or two remains a blur. I remember being ushered to the football field. And wondering if our shooting was as bad as Columbine…the school shooting that had happened exactly a month prior.

A helicopter airlifted a student off the football field. I believe 7 students were shot, and miraculously, no lives were lost. I remember stricken faces and news cameras. I remember getting back home, and my brother had driven back from college just to make sure I was okay.

We gathered at my friend’s house for the rest of the day and stayed overnight. All we could do was watch the news. What had happened to us in this small town outside of Atlanta…how was it us? We were even interviewed by the GBI (Georgia Bureau of Investigation). The nightmares I had after that day were terrifying.

I didn’t like the sound of fireworks for years after that.

Fast forward 23 years…

When May 20 rolls around every year, I’m taken back into that commons area and relive that day. I’m so grateful that our shooting didn’t end up like everyone else’s.

The trauma is still there. Reliving that day. 23 years later. It never goes away. And I experienced it as a teenager. I can’t imagine experiencing it as a child.

23 years later, I have a better relationship with firearms. I know and understand how to use them. I’ve been to shooting ranges. And I still retain a healthy fear of them.

23 years later, I make an action plan in my head when we go places with a large number of people: concerts, football games, hockey games, church. What’s the plan if there’s an active shooter? It’s always in my head.

23 years later, and the news of another school shooting is like a punch to the gut. It brings back my experience. And I still feel unbelievably blessed and somewhat guilty that we all made it out alive.

As a dear friend from high school once wrote, we joined a club we never wanted to be members of. You don’t want to be in this club, and yet, there’s no way out. You’re in it for life.