Hey bud, I need to talk to you.

Tonight my school hosted a viewing of a movie about the Sandy Hook shooting in Newtown, Connecticut back in 2012. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone.

Those words keep screaming in my ears. I shouldn't have gone. Why did I go? I'll tell you why. It was because I've literally avoided anything to do with Sandy Hook for the last five years. Because pretending like those events never happened for the sake of my sanity makes me feel so incredibly guilty. Because all my friends were going and I wanted to pretend I could handle it just like them. Because going to this event would give me credit in two clubs I'm involved with, as we were strongly encouraged to attend. Because I was told that the film would not be about the event itself, rather the way the community came together after the tragedy, and the ways they worked through it together. Because I thought if nothing else, I'll finally be able to learn about what transpired, I'll be more prepared as a future elementary school teacher, and I'll feel inspired or changed somehow if I go. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone.

But I went.

The movie opened up with real footage of 911 calls and camera views of the school. I saw the actual window that the man broke through to enter the building. I saw the account of a nearby neighbor who described the heartbroken children standing on his lawn, reporting on what they had just experienced. I saw social media posts pop up on the screen, announcing which families had made it home safely. Then a family who had to formulate the words to tell the world that their "sweet angel had not made it". I saw Daniel's father, scrolling through pictures of him taken just days before the incident. I saw real live footage of when Daniel was participating in some sort of class show or concert at a time when he was still alive and well. I saw him embracing his siblings. I saw heartbreak and loss of this sweet innocent little boy and all I could think of was you. All I could think of was you. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone.

I literally couldn't breathe. My eyes were blinded by shards of glass, my heart was exploding inside my chest, and I could just barely mutter the words, "I can't- I have to leave." I was in the front row. I stood up and ran out of the at auditorium. I could feel everyone watching me. My friends ran out after me, sharing my tears and holding me close. One of my favorite professors came and checked on me, and as thoughtful as she was, that's when the embarrassment set in. I had totally caused a scene, a disturbance, and an uproar in a setting where I'm sure everyone else felt uncomfortable too. I'm sure people were whispering. I'm sure people were judging. I'm sure some people have already forgotten about it. I'm sure others told their friends. "Why did she even come? It's only been five minutes." I'm sure some felt bad. I'm sure others were annoyed. All I know is that I was so incredibly humiliated in that moment. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone.

As I explained to my professor, our story has nothing to do with the events of Sandy Hook. You did not lose your life in the same way. You were not as old as the children in Newtown. You died fifteen years ago during the month of July, not a December morning five years ago. Really, there is absolutely nothing in common between our story and this one. That's why I am so humiliated. Unless you know how deeply I feel the pain of those who lose their children; unless you know what it feels like to lose a sibling so suddenly, unless you know who I am and what I stand for; no one will understand why I reacted in the way that I did.

All I could feel was a physical ache in the pit of my stomach for the family who lost their little boy, not to mention all of the other families who may have been mentioned in my absence. All I could feel was the undeniable heartache that our mommy and daddy still feel to this day, fifteen years after losing you. All I could feel was the heavy truth of Daniel's father's words, as he explained that the more time that passes, the farther away he is from his son. All I could feel was the ever-growing space between you and me as we grow farther apart. All I could feel was how stupid I am for thinking I could handle something like that. All I could feel was how stupid I am for not being able to handle something like that.

All I could feel was that I am suffocated by the pain of my own heart which makes me hide from anything that could trigger a memory of loss. All I could feel was failure. I tried really hard to be okay and I wasn't. Not even close. And I hated that. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone. I shouldn't have gone.

But I went.

The next morning I found a sticky note written by my perfect-haired sunset-watcher that said, "They say showing up is half the battle. So don't forget, you are strong for showing up."

I've been pondering this for a while now. Because the words, "I shouldn't have gone" are still stuck on replay across my brain. But what if it's actually okay that I went, even if it was for five minutes? What if it's okay that I went, even if I completely embarrassed myself? Maybe it's okay. Maybe I'm okay.

Because now I know that I was willing to try and be brave. Now I know that I really can't- and will not ever force myself to- go through that again. Even though I feel too much, it's okay because my emotions are a huge part of my story. Even though I think too much, it's okay because my thoughts and prayers are a huge part of my story. Even though I had a meltdown in public setting because all I could see was you, it's okay because you are a huge part of my story.

You are a huge part of my story. You always will be, my sweet boy. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I love you to the moon and back. No matter what.

XOXO,

Your Big Sister