Born in 2007, Sarah was the youngest of three. She enjoyed all things girly when she was little: glitter, dresses, purses and painted nails. She always had a twinkle in her eye and a smile.  

By the age of 4, her world grew more complicated with her parents’ divorce. Moving to new houses, a grandparent who lived with her moved out, her dad remarried, she now had step-siblings and she had changed schools twice…  

As Sarah grew and developed, she made lots of friends easily. She was the social butterfly compared to her siblings; she desired to include everyone and cared deeply about others’ feelings. She played sports, volleyball, swimming and basketball. She dreamed of learning to ride horses western style, doing barrel racing competitions thanks to several movies and shows she watched about horses. She would watch Soul Surfer and Alice in Wonderland on replay. She wanted to learn to paint and crochet and learn to do all the different crafts. She wanted to read all the books.  

And, she struggled. Her world was full of stress that she was ill-equipped to face. 

There were signs that Sarah was not coping well such as falling behind in school and having tantrums. And as the school years passed, she struggled with reading, understanding directions, and remembering how to do things. Sarah would exhibit signs of anxiety, often overthinking and worrying. She worried about presentations for school and underperforming in sports games. She would sometimes say she felt “down” and, I remember that she once made the comment that “I wish I was dead”. It was startling and hard to hear, but we chalked it up to normal angst.  

After her brother's therapist asked to meet with all siblings, we were able to connect Sarah with counseling services in 2018.  

And, still she struggled; battling emotions and feelings that were hard for her – and us – to navigate.  

An instance in May of 2019, left us both reeling from our inability to appropriately deal with all life was throwing at us. Sarah had an outsized reaction to a moth being in her room. I tried to console her. The only thing I could think of was she was having a panic attack and needed it to stop. Her reactions grew, mine rose to meet them. I know I handled the situation poorly. My inability to help her through her emotions sparked a period of isolation between Sarah and I, with her choosing to live with her Dad, ignoring me, and making increasingly worrying choices: an inappropriate Snapchat relationship that led to her phone being taken away. And self-harming behaviors.

After 8 months apart, we returned to our normal visitation routine - I was so glad for the opportunity to restore our relationship, and we were able to enjoy a family vacation.  

And, still she struggled. The warning signs were becoming hard to ignore.  

In January 2020, she revealed to her therapist that she had attempted suicide; thankfully she survived this attempt. This revelation sparked a series of more involved interventions.  

After a stay in an inpatient facility, she was referred to an outpatient program. For three weeks, she was able to learn coping strategies, how to identify and reach out to trusted adults. They also got her started on medication.  

While Sarah’s pediatrician agreed to maintain the prescribed medication plan, they would not alter the prescription. And, as her suicidal thoughts returned, without a psychiatrist to monitor and adjust her medications, Sarah had to return to an inpatient program. This began a cycle of repeated inpatient interventions.  

The last time I took her to an inpatient facility, she said “Mom, I don’t want to go. I don’t like it there. But I know I have to.” Yet, like many teenagers struggling with circumstances beyond their control, she was mad and resentful. 

When she was discharged the third, and final, time, one of the items on the checklist that I was required to sign-off on was follow-up care. I was upfront and told the nurse of our difficulty securing a psychiatrist, but that Sarah’s pediatrician would continue the meds already prescribed. She was released.  

And, still she struggled. And, still we tried.  

Over the summer, without the support of a psychiatrist and a customized plan for medication, Sarah began to lose the light in her eyes. She was no longer interested in animals, horses or crafts. She laughed less. She was tired of fighting.  

At one point, she had called me from her dad’s house crying that she didn’t feel safe. I was proud of her for using language she’d learned in her treatment. She pleaded with me to pick her up, and I told her that it was her Dad’s time and we had to follow the parenting schedule. I asked her why she didn’t feel safe. She said, “because they have guns in the house.” Ever since I knew him, her Dad had always had guns in the home, so I assured her that her Dad had secured them in the gun safe. Her response was “not all of them!” I spoke with him, and he assured us that he would put all of them in the safe. 

This would turn out not to be true.  

Looking back, that week was a series of sudden unexplained happiness, and a desire for connection. Sarah used a friend's phone to call a friend she met at one of the hospitals, but he didn’t answer the phone because he didn’t know the number. She confided in another close friend that she knew where a gun was in the home, but that she wasn’t going to use it. The child she told this to had no clue what to do with this information, and an adult was never told.  

 Sarah and I enjoyed two evenings of our beloved movie night. 

And, then came Friday. On Friday morning, I remember she looked miserable when she came to ask me to part her hair for school. I asked if she felt ok and she said yes. I wish I would’ve known to keep her home. When I dropped her off, I told her to have a good day, not realizing these would be my last words. She had a half day at school and, as planned, rode the bus home with two of her stepsiblings to her Dad’s house.  

 On Friday afternoon October 30, her Dad called and told me that she had found an unsecured gun in the house and she was gone. His matter-of-fact delivery was masking the alarm and heaviness.  

Sarah was loved. Sarah is loved. Her life was a mosaic of joy, faith, hope, laughter, and it lived side-by-side with stressors she felt she could not tackle. There were repeated warning signs, there were repeated interventions: counseling, inpatient and outpatient programs, medication and so much prayer and love. But, at the end of the day, in a moment of crisis, there was an easily accessible unsecured gun. And, Sarah used that to end her pain.  

 Like many who have been confronted with senseless tragedy, I have a renewed sense of purpose to try my absolute best to honor Sarah by fighting for what we know makes sense: safe gun storage, access to mental healthcare, the temporary transfer of firearms (CARR), and showing up for those who love us – over and over again.  

I pray Sarah’s story will live on far beyond tonight. That it will spark something within each of you, so that we can prevent this from happening again.  

 And to my sweet daughter, I love you. 

Your Mother, 

April