I’ve been living abroad for over two years now, far from Rhode Island, far from the places that shaped me. And yet when I learned about the recent mass shooting at Brown University, my body reacted as if I were right there.
I wasn’t in direct danger the way people I know were. I wasn’t navigating lockdowns or waiting for updates from nearby buildings. But I felt sick, anxious, unmoored- because this happened at home. Because Brown is woven into the fabric of Rhode Island. Because violence like this doesn’t respect distance.
As a therapist, my first instinct was to check on the clients I work with who are affiliated with the university to make sure they were safe and to let them know I was thinking of them. I was technically on vacation, but it didn’t feel optional. And now, back in session, I’m holding space for those who are trying to process what happened- fear, grief, anger, numbness, familiarity they never asked for.
It wasn’t until the following day that I realized the shooting occurred on the anniversary of the Sandy Hook tragedy. Thirteen years. Sandy Hook was, until now, the closest mass shooting to home that I could name. I remember exactly where I was when I heard about it. And I know I’ll remember where I was when I heard about Brown. These events have become tragically commonplace in the U.S., but that doesn’t mean they land softly. For many of us, they stack, each one stirring old memories, old fears, old grief.
One of mine goes back to my freshman year of high school. I was at a school dance when we heard what we thought were balloons popping. They weren’t. A student from another school had entered the hallway outside the cafeteria and shot a rival from my school. I remember all of us huddled behind a table in the corner, confused, in disbelief, unsure what to do. This was before Columbine, before lockdown drills, before the scripts existed. In the days that followed, I walked past bullet holes still visible in the lockers. At the time, it felt unthinkable. Now, it feels like a chilling foreshadowing.
Gun violence on this scale is a uniquely American phenomenon. And I can’t help but wonder what we are losing alongside our sense of safety: empathy, connectedness, the ability to tolerate conflict without annihilating one another. We do not teach emotional intelligence or meaningful conflict resolution in our schools, yet we expect children- and later adults- to navigate unbearable emotional loads without tools.
After COVID, my husband and I were terrified every day we sent our daughter to school. We gave her a cell phone before we believed she was ready, simply so she could call us or 911 if the unthinkable happened. We had regular conversations about active shooter scenarios, guided by our own values, sometimes at odds with the drills and protocols being taught. No parent should have to make those choices.
Since moving to Peru, I’ve often named one quiet relief: I don’t worry about my kids being shot at school. I don’t scan public events for exits in the same way. That safety is real, and so is the grief and helplessness that surfaced after Brown. Being far away means knowing that if someone I love were hurt, there would be nothing I could do from here. Distance protects and it also renders us powerless.
I don’t have a neat ending or a call to action. What I have is an invitation: to notice what this brings up for you, to honor the way your body and heart respond, and to resist the urge to minimize or normalize what should never be normal.
If you’re carrying this quietly, you’re not alone. And if you need space to process- personally or professionally- I’m holding that space with you.
