Columbine 26 Years Later

 

My thoughts from Instagram:

April always feels heavy.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how tragedy and trauma go hand in hand—and how nobody really knows how they’ll react in a moment like that. The brain tries to protect you. It looks for anything familiar, anything “normal,” even when the world is falling apart.

I remember exactly what I was wearing on April 20, 1999. I remember hearing two loud bangs and not knowing what they were. A few seconds later, I saw students running toward us… and then I saw my principal running too.

My brain couldn’t make sense of it.

I thought maybe there was a fight in the gym. Or that a cheerleader had fallen off the pyramid. I thought they were all running to help. That was the only version that made sense in the moment—because the truth was too big to grasp.

It’s strange the things you remember. The little details. The way your mind rewrites reality just to help you survive it.

For years, I carried the weight of that day like armor. But eventually, I realized that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And forgiveness doesn’t mean what happened was okay—it just means I’m no longer letting it keep me stuck in pain.

Forgiveness, for me, has been one of the most freeing choices I’ve ever made. It opened the door to peace. To possibility. To life beyond survival.

As April 20th approaches, I’m holding space for the confusion, the memories, the progress, and the grace. All of it matters.

To anyone walking through trauma or trying to let go of something that hurt them deeply: you're not alone. Healing is possible. And forgiveness—when you're ready—can be the start of something lighter.

I recently read the book written by Dylan Klebold’s mom.

It was hard. It was triggering. It was heavy.

But I’m glad I read it.

For so many years, I’ve only thought of Harris and Klebold in the context of what they did that day—defined by their actions and the horror they caused. They felt distant, terrifying… old, even. Murderers.

But this book allowed me to see Dylan through a different lens—through his mother’s eyes. And I think that’s okay.

To be clear, she never excused his actions or justified them. She didn’t try to make it easier to understand. But she did offer another perspective—one I’d never considered before.

I had never really focused on the fact that they died by suicide. I always thought, “They killed themselves so they wouldn’t get caught,” and left it at that. Maybe we’ll never fully understand their intentions. But this book made me stop and think. About a lot of things—some of which I still can’t even put into words.

She also shared about the people who showed up for their family in the aftermath. The ones who offered support when most of us couldn’t—or didn’t think to. That really moved me. I’m grateful for the ones who extended kindness in the middle of something so unimaginable.

She described how easily Dylan was able to hide what he was really going through. On the outside, he seemed like any other teen—supportive family, involved parents, a social life. But inside, he was unraveling. And he kept that hidden.

I don’t blame his family. Sometimes, yes—there are homes with violence or addiction or clear signs of dysfunction. But in this case, none of that existed. And that shifted something in me. It reminded me to leave room for grace. To hold space for the families left behind, too.

This year has been harder than others. I think it is in part to reading the book and taking in all that information and having it bring up old thoughts and memories.

Some years are easier to remember- this one isn't one of those years, but I'm still grateful for it to fall on Easter Sunday.

I'm grateful for my Savior. For the knowldege of eternal life and the peace that brings me.