Again.

Here we are again. I had this topic in mind months ago after helping some young students process a particularly scary active shooter lockdown drill while I was doing some teacher coaching at a campus, but I never fully drafted my thoughts. And here we are again. More children, educators, and school staff members dead. Again. 

I grew up in the midwest (shoutout to Sutton, Nebraska, population 1,100) where it was common practice to do tornado drills in addition to fire drills. I can remember huddling with other students in bathrooms or locker rooms or under desks-we all knew that the best chances of survival in a tornado were to be below ground or behind as many thick walls as possible. During the intense silence of those drills, I wasn’t scared, but my mind would wander: What would it feel like to have the walls ripping around you? How would the dust and dirt taste in your mouth? Would my glasses stay on? I wonder what other students thought during those times. I never asked, and our teachers never debriefed with us afterwards. After all, it was just a drill.

Just another drill. In 1999, we added another drill. We didn’t have to leave our classrooms for this one, and somehow that made it worse.

And now, more than two decades later, I have more experience guiding students and teachers in classrooms during active shooter lockdown drills than I have participating myself as a student. It’s maddening. My mind still wanders during these drills, and like many educators, several times a year I ask myself: What would I do if someone got through this door? What would it feel like to be shot? Would I be able to protect these kids? Would my glasses stay on?

While we continue to advocate for stricter gun laws, bans on assault rifles, and increased funding for school safety, I think there is one thing within our control that we can do for students and staff: create a regular practice for mindful discussion after each lockdown or active shooter drill.

This is something that I started haphazardly after my first real lockdown as a teacher. I was teaching 7th grade at the time, and we had been through a few requisite drills that year. While there was always that signature held breath tension during drills, my students were never visibly confused or upset. Or maybe, similar to my own student experience, they just hid their thoughts well and were embarrassed to say anything. But that real lockdown was different. Students huddled closer to each other and to my desk. It was eerily silent. Time both froze and sped. And while I passed around some silent reassuring smiles and, “It’s okay. We’re okay” whispers to my students, my eyes probably gave me away. This was not okay. And we were not okay. 

When that lockdown ended (it was a precaution for a nearby incident-nothing on school campus, thank goodness) I made a choice to pause instruction. I had yet to be trained in social-emotional learning and trauma-informed practices, but I knew we needed to talk. And let out that collectively held breath. 

I simply stated, “Wow. That felt really scary to me. Thank you all for following our lockdown procedures. You were brave and you did so well, and we are safe.” And then I prompted, “I think I need a couple deep breaths. If you want, you can breathe in with me…hold it….and let it go.” And then I asked, “Is everyone feeling okay right now?” And one student bravely admitted she felt like crying. Another student said his body felt “all tight.” Others nodded. The shares continued. And of course, eventually someone made an off-handed comment about how they “could’ve taken anyone in a fight.” Remember, these were 7th graders…it was only a matter of time before something silly came up…But you know what? That silly comment, and of course the agree/disagree shoutouts that followed signaled to me that we had somehow processed the moment. Maybe not fully or with enough care or with strategies I would learn later in my career, but we had taken time to reflect on a difficult shared experience. We had held space, and that mattered.

In the following days, students continued to ask questions and share their experiences-many times privately with me. I realized that all the drills weren’t just “another part of school” to students; they were frightening. And drills weren’t just “another part of the job” for teachers either…The “What if…” questions would not stop at our next staff meeting. The adults were clearly shaken too. Looking back, our principal letting all those questions pile up was a form of holding space, and that mattered.

Today, I like to point school leaders and educators to these resources to start building out what holding space for students and staff to decompress can look like. While it’s always wise to consider your own class and school culture when planning, in a pinch, you can’t go wrong with just being you: a human. A human who recognizes that sometimes things are scary, a human who needs to take a moment to breathe, and a human who cares about checking in with those around you.

And yes, this is a “nice/you’ve got this” type of post, but let’s cut the crap to close out: no child, teacher, or school should have to experience the level of trauma we see from the hundreds of mass shootings each year in this country. We can have all the coping techniques and best practice SEL strategies in the world, but it is unfair and ridiculous to live in a country where children’s lives aren’t safe at schools. If you’re a voter, call your representatives. If you’re an educator, thank you. If you’re not, check in on your educator friends. Now.