I’m an expert in covering mass shootings. In covering pain, death, loss, autopsies, unrealized

potential, anger…and more pain.

I’m an expert in having to call people at absolute worst time of their lives and trying to get them

to tell me their story.

I’m not a war reporter.

I often say I couldn’t be one. But I am. The war zone is right here. At home.

I don’t talk about MY pain– because the pain of the victims and survivors I’ve met – is more

important, more valid, more real.

They should be the focus.

I don’t talk about how I wanted to scream seeing crosses outside of the church near San

Antonio.

The same ones I saw after Aurora.

Crosses again. More crosses.

I don’t get to scream.

I don’t get to talk about how I cope...with yet another mass shooting.

How I can’t talk through the newest horrible details with my husband because that will only

traumatize him.

How I carry the horrible with me.

How I’ve spent five years avoiding the pictures of little children from Sandy Hook.

How I’ve tried the same with the church shooting near San Antonio. But couldn’t. I was there.

How I’ve stopped interviews when too many unspeakable details were about to be shared with

me.

How the details of the last moments of people’s lives are on constant replay in my head.

I don’t get to go to the movies without anxiety or sitting near an exit.

I don’t get to look at my son’s pre-school through the eyes of an average – normal mother.

But one who’s been forced to constantly cover death and loss and pain.

It’s time I shared all this with you.

Because someone out of touch said the media loves mass shootings, loves the ratings.

I don’t wish what I can’t shake – upon my worst enemy.

And I would trade my entire career, all the ratings in the world, if I could guarantee this

wouldn’t happen to your school or my son's school.

I’m an expert in mass shootings.

I’m a journalist.

In a war zone. Here at home.