I’m a survivor of the Las Vegas mass shooting. Believe me, my eyes are still puffy and red, and my stomach feels so unsettled that food is the last thing on my mind. All I want to do is crawl into bed and disappear from the world. As I think of the little things I ought to do to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, the thought of hitting the gym crosses my mind — to run and release the pent-up stress. But then I remember, there’s only one exit at the front. Where would I even run to?
My closest friend, Sarah, was ecstatic to see her favorite artist, Jason Aldean, perform. I enjoy country music myself, but more than anything, I was there for a fun weekend with her.
For some inexplicable reason, on that fateful Sunday, October 1, the third day of the festival, neither of us felt like drinking. We weren’t hungover; we just weren’t “feeling it.” So, we decided to leave before Jason’s set to grab some coffee at the Luxor. After some light people-watching, we made our way back to the right side of the stage, close enough for a great view of the show. We were buzzing with excitement.
At around 9:40 p.m., Jason took the stage, and we stood there, singing along and soaking in the moment. Just about four songs in, I heard a series of pops above me and to my right. And I knew. I knew it wasn’t fireworks.
Sarah turned to me, her face mirroring the panic that had taken over mine. “We need to get out of here.” We turned and bolted.
Then, more shots rang out — it sounded like a barrage of 30 to 40 in quick succession. We hit the ground. The shooting paused, and we jumped up to run again. This terrifying cycle repeated until we finally reached a distance where I felt it was safe enough to keep running. We held hands, quite literally running for our lives.
I recognized that sound wasn’t fireworks, despite what many insisted at the time. The men in my life own assault rifles; I’ve heard them before. I’ve never fired one, but I’ve been to the shooting range with them. I know that sound.
I grew up in a quaint town in Northern Arizona. The majority of the men around me were hunters and staunch conservatives. I have several family members who served in the military, and I was a proud Republican for many years, even starting the Young Republicans club in high school. My father has had the ATF knock on his door due to his extensive gun collection. I even have a .38 revolver tucked away in my closet.
This background has made me a strong supporter of the Second Amendment. I’m familiar with all the arguments: Bad people will always find a way. It’s not the gun; it’s the person behind it. If we ban guns, only criminals will have them. Our founding fathers wanted us to defend ourselves against tyranny. I’ve echoed these sentiments not too long ago.
Now, however, I’m a high school history teacher in a suburb of Phoenix. My life experiences have shifted my views. Working in inner-city schools and teaching American history has nudged my beliefs to a more centrist position. I would never claim my views are superior; they’re just different due to my experiences. This change has impacted my personal relationships significantly. Just today, I hung up on my dad when he fed me the predictable “there’s nothing we can do” pro-Second Amendment rhetoric.
I genuinely feel alone. It’s as if unless you’ve fled from a barrage of bullets, you can’t understand. Some of the people close to me still cling to those arguments, even knowing I was nearly a victim just days ago. They don’t get it.
Sarah and I keep saying to each other, “They don’t understand.” We share that bond forever. While I wish everyone could grasp my emotions, I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.
So, what can be done? I feel a pressing need for change. I don’t advocate for an outright gun ban, but I do believe we can implement measures to make it tougher for someone to unleash such violence on innocents. Australia managed to do it, so why can’t we?
Evil will always exist; there will always be those who wish to harm others for various reasons. They will always seek a way to do it. But why can’t we band together to find ways to make it more difficult for them? We can establish laws that allow people to defend themselves while still making it harder for mass shootings to occur.
I love this country. I share its stories — good and bad — every day in my classroom. I stand with my students and salute the flag every morning. We cherish this land of the free. But today, I don’t feel free. I feel fear. I will never again feel secure in a crowd. Concerts and sporting events are now off-limits for me. I’m forever changed.
As a mother of two wonderful little ones, I worry for their safety. We aren’t truly free if we have to live in fear. That’s not freedom.
I urge everyone to be open to discussing potential solutions. Put aside your political affiliations. Listen to one another. Consider actionable ways to help. The only weapon I have is my voice. While I might not change the minds of those closest to me, perhaps I can reach someone else. Maybe there are others out there who understand, and together we can formulate a reasonable solution that respects everyone’s rights.
If we don’t, I’ll simply remain another lucky survivor of a mass shooting. The cycle will continue; we’ll be shocked and saddened again. We’ll send our thoughts and prayers once more. And yet again, we’ll do nothing. It’s a vicious cycle…
If you want to read more on this topic, check out our post on home insemination kits that might give you a fresh perspective on navigating complex issues.
Summary
A survivor of the Las Vegas mass shooting shares her harrowing experience and the emotional aftermath of that day. While she has long been a supporter of the Second Amendment, her experiences have led her to reconsider the conversation around gun control. She emphasizes the need for dialogue and practical solutions to prevent future tragedies, while expressing her fear and anxiety about attending large gatherings again.