No one tells you how much harder it gets.

How in the beginning, for those of us that were lucky enough to not have been thrust into it forcefully but by a world in which we consider lockdown drills normal and active shooters regular, rather than by a gun to a loved one,

It feels far away, impossible to touch, but important.

And that as you learn the statistics you realize you’re not safe and that no one is.

And then something happens nearby and no one tells you how you can feel it creeping closer to home,

And then the knock out punch comes because it did.

But even before that you grieve because the other thing no one tells you is

The longer you’re in this movement the more personal each death feels because you’ve been here for so long working for so hard and nothing’s working and it feels like no one is listening and it feels like no one cares because so many people don’t.

And you read the comments while the shooting is happening saying “it was a black guy so watch it disappear” and “this isn’t the time for politics” and for god’s sake could you just shut up and care?

Also but when is the right time because every day it creeps closer to your door and I don’t want you to have to feel these emotions

Because I have and they’re the ones that give you nightmares and cause you to not sleep at night and worse yet,

People die.

So when is the time? When can we talk about it?

Because my heart is shattered into a thousand pieces and your guns aren’t more important than anyone’s damn heart.

Than anyone’s goddamn life.

No one tells you how hard it becomes. How every death, every day of inaction makes you want to scream, and cry and rage. How personal it becomes and then it becomes personal.

Because 58% of adults in America are survivors of gun violence. And I am one.

And you will be too.

I’m begging you. Enough. Please.