What Sandy Hook did to me

It’s worse than you think.

My daughter was seven months old when I dropped her off for her first day of daycare on December 14, 2012.

I handed her into the arms of a stranger, went home and tried to work. That afternoon the news came.

Twenty first-graders and six adults. Massacred. They had to DNA match a kid’s hand that they found on the floor, because a round from an AR-15 blows six-year-olds apart like carnival ducks.

When I picked up my daughter that day, the creature who ran the daycare informed me proudly that she was “pro-gun.” We never went back.

Here are some things I did in the aftermath:

• Plummeted into a depression so severe I couldn’t eat, sleep, focus, or bring myself to hold my infant daughter. Every time I looked at her, I was forced to pre-emptively mourn her death.
• Joined Moms Demand Action. Became a chapter lead, wrote countless letters to the editor, went to the Illinois statehouse to talk to legislators, marched in parades, worked tables at recruitment events, attended and ran meetings, went to Gun Sense University in Albuquerque where I met Lucy McBath, and got a tattoo:

• Researched and wrote a book refuting 25 stupid arguments against gun control, and sent copies to legislators.