I am one of the many who survived the horrific mass shooting in Las Vegas. My eyes are still swollen and red, and I can’t shake the nauseous feeling that’s settled in my stomach. All I want to do is curl up in bed and shut out the world.
After the chaos, I found myself thinking about the small steps I need to take to regain a sense of normalcy. I considered hitting the gym to release some stress, but then the thought struck me—there’s only one exit in the front. Where would I even run?
My best friend, Sarah, couldn’t wait to see her favorite artist, Jason Aldean. I enjoy country music as well, but I was there primarily to have a fun weekend with her.
On that fateful Sunday, October 1st, the last day of the festival, neither of us felt like drinking. It wasn’t a hangover; we just weren’t in the mood. So, we decided to leave before Jason Aldean took the stage, opting instead to grab coffees at the Luxor across the street. After some light people-watching, we made our way back and found a spot on the right side of the stage, eager for the show to start.
At around 9:40 p.m., Jason took the stage, and we stood there, singing along and soaking in the excitement.
Then, just four songs in, I heard it—several pops, coming from above and to my right. And in that moment, I just knew. It wasn’t fireworks.
Sarah turned to me, her eyes wide with fear. “We need to get out of here,” she said, and we started to run.
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted again—this time, it felt like dozens of shots in rapid succession. We dropped to the ground, then sprang back up to run again as the gunfire paused. This pattern repeated several times until we finally reached a distance where I felt safe enough to keep running. We held hands, sprinting for our lives.
I recognized that sound; it was not the fireworks that many were claiming. The men in my life own assault rifles, and I’ve heard them before. I’ve never shot one myself, but I’ve been to the range with them. I know that noise.
Having grown up in a small town in Northern Arizona, the majority of the men around me were hunters and proud conservatives. Many of my loved ones have served in the military. I used to be a devoted Republican, even starting the Young Republicans club at my high school. My father has been visited by the ATF for having an extensive gun collection. In fact, I have a .38 revolver in my closet right now.
Despite my previous beliefs in the Second Amendment, today my views have shifted. I’m now a high school history teacher in a suburb of Phoenix. My experiences in inner-city schools and my teaching of American history have reshaped my perspective. While I don’t claim my views are superior, they have changed due to my life experiences. This shift has strained some of my personal relationships. Just today, I hung up on my father during a conversation that echoed the usual pro-Second Amendment arguments I know too well.
I feel more isolated than ever. It seems that unless you’ve had to flee for your life from a barrage of gunfire, it’s hard for others to grasp the depth of this experience. Some of the people closest to me still cling to their beliefs, despite knowing I nearly lost my life just days ago. They don’t understand.
Sarah and I often remind each other, “They just don’t understand.” We’re forever bonded in this way, and while I wish others could see into my heart, I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.
So, what can I do? There’s a growing urgency inside me that tells me action is necessary. I don’t support a total ban on guns, but I believe we can implement measures to make it harder for someone to unleash chaos on innocent people. Australia took action, and it worked—why can’t we?
Evil will always exist, and there will always be those with a desire to harm others. They will find a way, but can’t we at least make it more difficult? I believe we can create laws that protect individuals while also limiting access for those who wish to commit mass shootings.
I love this country. Every day in my classroom, I share stories of its highs and lows. I stand with my students and salute the flag each morning. We cherish this land of the free, yet today, I don’t feel free. I’m filled with fear. I know I’ll never feel safe in a crowd again, nor will I attend another concert or sporting event. My world has changed forever.
As a mother of two amazing children, my fears for their future weigh heavily on me. Living in fear isn’t true freedom.
To my friends and fellow citizens, please be open to discussing solutions. Set aside partisan divides, listen to one another, and think about concrete ways to help. I may not change the minds of those closest to me, but maybe I can reach someone who understands. Perhaps we can collaborate on a sensible solution that accommodates everyone.
If not, I risk becoming just another fortunate survivor of a mass shooting. It may happen again, and we’ll all be left shocked and heartbroken once more. We’ll offer thoughts and prayers, yet do nothing to prevent the next tragedy from occurring. And the cycle will continue.
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Summary
Jenna Matthews, a survivor of the Las Vegas mass shooting, reflects on her harrowing experience and the emotional aftermath. She grapples with her changing views on gun control and urges society to come together to find sensible solutions. Living in fear for her family’s safety, she calls for open dialogue and action to prevent future tragedies.
Keyphrase: Las Vegas shooting survivor reflections
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