Hello friends,
In just a little over a week, it will be twenty years since my Mom was murdered. The weeks that lead into this horrible day every year are what I (half) jokingly refer to as ‘spider season.’ The spiders that live in the dark corners of my brain get more active. The cobwebs are thicker. Everything takes more effort as bit by bit, I brace myself for December 5th.
Bracing for it this year has been more difficult. Twenty is a big number and so much has happened since. I have found myself wondering about the 26 year old kid who was walking around the world on December 4, 2003. I won’t ever be able to account for all the things that I lost - that my family lost - on December 5th. But sometimes, I do wonder about it. What would I be doing? What would the arc of my life look like?
You see, the thing about surviving my Mom’s murder is that I have to spend some part of every day making sure that it doesn’t kill me too.
In the 12 years before my Mom’s killer was brought to justice, that work was harder and more complicated. My pain lived in the shadows; it was hard to hold without shame seeping in. When you’re treated like you must have known something or seen something or been implicated in something, it makes the loss and trauma more incomprehensible and dissonant. I had to carry the trauma outside of myself, like a slippery, toxic parcel. The work of grief was solitary too. And I worked hard. I built a life for myself and with my family that was anchored in the present, that rotated on an axis of joy, and mostly kept the pain and trauma locked away in a dark closet - one that I had to visit periodically. I had to tend to that pain, in hopes that it would stay put, not escape and destroy the life of light that I wanted and needed so badly.
In 2014, the indictment and in 2015, the trial came. Everything that I had put away and tended so carefully came barreling out. The trial was disorienting and grueling. On November 2, 2015, we were told that the jury had reached a verdict. I was terrified. I had risked it all to be in that courtroom every day. To bear witness and to represent my parents. To try and vulnerably integrate this new part of my life’s experience. I knew that a split verdict was a genuine possibility and I wasn’t sure that I had the strength to rebuild my life again, to parent my children, to be a good partner, to work at my job, to breathe in and out, if I had to find a way to carry the searing pain of injustice too. I was so afraid.
I also knew that I find out, sitting in a courtroom surrounded mostly by strangers and, always, the gaggle of press.
When my mom’s killer was convicted of her murder that day, in count 7 of 10, I was overwhelmed and so relieved. I knew a different life was possible now, but I wasn’t sure at all what that meant. For awhile, I felt, maybe, the euphoria of having ‘beaten’ a disease that should have killed me.
Bit by bit, I realized that justice could give me something more: the chance to live one, coherent life.
You know the story of the marathon. I’m still running.
Each time I reach a new crossroads, I keep trying to just do the next right thing.
You may know that now, I’m at Brady full-time. This year, I got promoted to Chief Development and Engagement Officer. Bringing people into this fight to end gun violence is a big part of my job - and that’s perfect. Because I believe that it will take all of us. Americans overwhelmingly agree with us. We need to align beliefs with action. That’s what it will take to create the safer world that our kids deserve, rather than one where guns are their leading cause of death.
After my Mom was killed, we didn’t have a public wake. But, we did have a private one. I remember sitting alone with her body and being filled with a certainty that what she wanted more than anything was for me to not worry about her, to just take care of the living. For so long, that meant taking care of myself. Of my dad, my brother, my family. My kids.
Now, though, I’m free to take that on in a bigger way. I do this work in my Mom’s memory, yes, but I also do it to remember that 26 year old kid who wanted to make the world a better place. I do it to look kids - mine, yours, all of them - in the eye and know that I’m doing everything I can to spare them the pain that I shoulder every day. The kind that gets even heavier and harder to carry in these days and weeks.
I’m relentless in my desire to grow Brady’s impact, to make us more effective, and I’m able to bring all that I’ve done and all that I’ve learned and all that I am to the fight every day.
I’m writing because I’ve heard from some folks, who have asked how they could help me mark the twenty years that have passed since my Mom was brutally murdered. Here it is:
Give to Brady. I’m hoping to raise $20,000 in my Mom’s honor in the next 8 days. If you want to make a tax-deductible gift, do it here. If you want to directly support our political advocacy, do it here. Thank you for consideration and support - and feel free to share these links if you're so inclined.
On December 5th itself, I’m going to take the day off. I think it will take a lot of intentional work, and probably a really long run, to keep those pesky spiders at bay. Please also consider these things - and I'd love to hear about it, if you're able to share:
Recording a moment of joy. One of my big tricks over the years is to focus on little joy when big happiness feels too painful to hold. In the early weeks (and on my toughest days, still), I catalog those little joys. It was something I was lucky enough to learn from my Mom and is absolutely one of the reasons that I survived. Observe a moment of joy, big or small, in your day and really revel in it.
Light a candle. We all get a chance to be part of the light. It would be wonderful to connect to you on the 5th in light, as I light twenty luminaries outside my home, honoring my Mom.
Thank you for supporting that run more than 6 years ago. Thank you for supporting Brady's work to free America from gun violence and for helping me see that a coherent life was possible. I'm grateful for all of you.
Sincerely,
Liz