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Sarah Walker Caron is an author and writer who lives in Maine with her two children. She is a former Bangor Daily News editor.
In the hours and days that followed the mass shooting at Sandy Hook School, I found myself fixating on “normal,” as if achieving it would erase all that had happened. It was a craving for what was, and with it a mourning of all that seemed to be slipping away from my life.
But my 7-year-old son had just survived something horrific. He’d heard gunshots and screams outside his classroom door as they drew nearer and nearer. He’d crouched in a corner with his classmates, the hinge of a door pressing into his small back. And by the grace of God, everyone in his classroom came out alive.
Just across the hall, so many families couldn’t say the same.
I felt so guilty feeling the things I was feeling. How could I be upset when my son came home and others didn’t?
That concept of normal was my carrot, the dangling thing I chased through dark nights and tear-filled mornings. It was what I thought we needed.
It’s been several weeks since a mass shooting in Lewiston upset the “normal” for many Mainers. And in talking to friends and former colleagues, I am hearing things that ring all too familiar.
Sleepless nights. A craving for normal. Feeling like a stranger in their own lives. Short tempers. An impatience with the minutiae of daily life and others. The guilt.
It hurts my heart to know my friends and colleagues are experiencing what I did all those years ago. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Eleven years later, I know that the “normal” of the time before the Sandy Hook School shooting is long gone. It was never coming back, no matter how much I chased it. And the reason is simple: We cannot unknow what we know.
The same is true of Lewiston. The “normal” of before is gone. It won’t come back, no matter how hard anyone wills it to.
Like me, you cannot unknow what you know.
I’ve thought about the kids in the bowling alley who survived and their families, navigating a harsh reality where any sense of personal safety has been lost. It’s hard to feel secure after something like that happens. And I’ve thought about the families who lost someone that night. And I’ve thought about what the next few months and years will look like.
There will be times when those people — really anyone touched by this tragedy — feel so alone, like the things they are thinking and feeling are abnormal. But I want them to know that if they are feeling something, chances are others are as well. One of the gifts of what happened after Sandy Hook was the strength of community that lives on. The parents whose children survived with mine remain some of my greatest allies in surviving life after a mass shooting. They’ve raised brilliant children who’ve thrived. So have I. And along the way, we shared the sadness and upset, the devastation and hope, the recovery and path forward. Doing it together made all the difference.
I hope those affected by Lewiston find that community, whether with friends, family, neighbors, coworkers or strangers who are in similar circumstances.
There will be times when the loss of the old normal feels like an insurmountable hurdle. Like everything that they fought for before is gone. It’s not. Continue on, and look for the bright spots and the moments of grace that come with the aftermath of something like this.
Those affected may find themselves more deeply affected by future mass shootings. If that’s you, know that you aren’t alone. Know that so many of us from so many mass shootings are feeling it too.
At times, the world is an ugly place. There will be fighting. There will be unrest between those left behind. There will be ugly moments. But see the beauty instead. Seek it out. Focus on that.
I want people to know that they will find their new normal eventually, and when they do it will feel like peace. They won’t forget what happened, but they’ll learn to live with it. There’s no timeline for this. I can’t say when it will happen. Just know that it will.
I know how deep the craving for the time before mass violence can be. I know how devastating it is to hear that it’s not coming back. But 11 years later, I can say that despite it, life can be beautiful again.