Trigger warning: This post contains descriptions of gun violence.
I was in the sea of red earlier in the day, standing ten-people deep from Grand Boulevard. It was a sunny, spring-like day, a welcome relief in the middle of February, and the crowd was buzzing with conversations and laughter. Some people had clearly been there for hours, camp chairs and coolers set up to secure their spots for the Kansas City Chiefs Super Bowl victory parade. But our small crew meandered in closer to the start time, navigating around fellow fans in search of a small patch of pavement we could claim.
Music blasted from the top of a nearby parking garage and helicopters circled overhead. As the parade headed our way, I stood on my toes and laughed with a stranger about how short we felt in that moment. A cannon pumped red and yellow confetti into the air and cheers swelled as the convoy reached us. We stretched our phones above our heads and attempted to capture photos of our favorite players as they rolled by on top of double-decker buses.
We saw the team’s owner next to the Lombardi Trophy on one bus and kicker Harrison Butker waving from the front of another, his forehead smeared with ashes from that morning’s mass. We caught a brief glimpse of Patrick Mahomes before he disappeared down the steps of the bus to greet the crowd from the street.
While I love to love the Chiefs, I won’t pretend I’m an avid NFL fan. I’m into game day watch parties more for the camaraderie and the snacks than anything else, but I’ll admit that it’s really fun to have a team your whole city is excited about. The parade’s electric atmosphere was contagious, and I found myself cheering for players I didn’t recognize and couldn’t have named. It felt good to share in their excitement and to be united with our city, a small part of a jubilant whole.
As the crowd began to disperse, my friends packed up their stroller and we headed back to the car. It was a long walk but I didn’t mind. I kept turning my face toward the sun, just happy to be outside.
We’d considered going to Union Station for the pep rally following the parade, but we knew better fans than us had claimed their spots hours ago, which meant parking would be a nightmare. Besides, my friends’ fifteen-month-old needed to take a nap. Logistics won out. We’d participated in this celebratory moment, and we were content to call it a day.
As we headed home on I-35 South, we spotted the rally crowd to our left, a blanket of red stretching from Union Station up the hill to the National WWI Memorial. We gawked and laughed at people’s innovative parking solutions, sun glinting off of car hoods packed into every side street and unclaimed patch of grass.
When I got home, I scraped together a lunch of cheese and crackers and a few rogue veggies and sat down to watch coverage of the rally. The players gave speeches that mainly consisted of yelling and off-key singing. Mahomes put a protective hand up, making sure one player with the mic didn’t accidentally step off the stage in his intoxicated elation. To be honest, it was all a little cringey, so I flipped away for a while. When I turned back a few minutes later, two anchors were talking in serious voices and glancing over their shoulders. Something was happening. They said people were running and police officers were moving quickly through the crowd. Rumored gunshots. Someone off-camera asked the anchors if they wanted to move. They said no. They were going to stay and cover this. Cover what? What was happening?
I set down my plate and turned up the volume as cameras scanned the crowd from helicopters and other high vantage points. But what appeared on the screen didn’t match the anchors’ words. The rally had just ended and large groups of people were moving slowly toward the surrounding streets. Kids were throwing footballs on the hill. Some people were still sitting in camp chairs, basking in the sun and waiting for the crowd to thin out. It certainly didn’t look like an emergency. Maybe this was all a big misunderstanding.
Suddenly the cameras swung to one side of Union Station and I saw it—a surge in the crowd. People in red were running, pushing, desperate. Seeing the panicked movement, other people looked around wildly, grabbed their kids, and tried to get away.
They’re going to get trampled, I thought, horrified. This is how people die.
Then a distinct sound came through the live feed—pop pop pop. People ran out of Union Station as police officers rushed inside, guns drawn.
“That was a second round of gunshots,” one of the anchors said. They consulted with colleagues through their headsets: What did you see? Are the police still running? Ambulances are coming. Is that someone on the ground? The police are taping off that area. I see a stretcher.
The anchors started counting stretchers. I heard them get up to five. The sirens in the background grew louder and louder.
My heart raced as I Googled the shooting, vaguely aware that I wouldn’t be able to find out more than what the anchors were telling us in real time. Information was scarce, the scene still unfolding, still dangerous. The Kansas City police released a statement: Shots have been fired around Union Station. Please leave the area.
I start sending and receiving texts.
Are you watching this?
Turning it on now.
Were you there?
Are you guys okay?
Yes, I’m home. I’m safe.
I heard someone died. Is that true?
My friends were okay—everyone was at work or already home. A friend who works at a hospital said they had one shooting victim and detectives were there too.
The number of victims shot continued to rise. I teared up and anxiety tightened in my chest as I kept watching the live coverage. I couldn’t peel myself away. Everyone was so light and carefree that morning. Our biggest complaint was that someone was smoking weed nearby. We scrunched up our noses. Don’t they know this is a family-friendly event?
By late afternoon, Kansas City was the top story on CNN. There were pictures of people in red and yellow running, their faces contorted with terror; images of police officers pointing and yelling with Union Station in the background.
We’ve taken my niece and nephews to see the model trains and the Christmas displays at Union Station many times. I once led a flashmob in its Grand Hall. The lawn outside hosts concerts and movie nights and fireworks displays. The memorial at the top of the hill is a prime spot for engagements and photos with an iconic Kansas City backdrop.
To quote my friend
, it’s “surreal but not surprising” when a shooting happens in your community. Mass shootings are not hard-to-imagine things that happen in far away places. They happen in our cities, near our landmarks, at events you thought about attending. What do you do when the people running away are wearing your team’s colors?I went to a barre class on Thursday night, the day after the shooting. At the end of class, the instructor told us to find a comfortable seated position or lie on our backs. She invited us to close our eyes and breathe in and out.
“Notice how your body feels,” she said. “Notice what your heart is doing.”
I lay on my back and stretched out my legs, letting my arms fall to my sides, my palms turned toward the ceiling. I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply, feeling my heart rate slow with my breath.
As the instructor dimmed the lights, it hit me that I am lucky—lucky enough to be able to close my eyes in a room full of strangers and feel safe, to assume that I will be safe.
How many people in my city are dealing with trauma and fear right now? How many people would be terrified not to be able to see all potential threats, whose bodies would never allow them to be this vulnerable? How many never had the luxury of assuming they’d be safe in the first place?
“Feel gratitude for this day,” she continued. “Gratitude for being here.”
Tears welled behind my closed eyelids. Gratitude for being here.
At the end of class, we collectively exhaled one last time, sweeping our hands up over our heads and bringing them down in front of our hearts, palms pressed together like an exaggerated prayer. Usually this is when the instructor would thank us for coming and give a few housekeeping directions, but this time, she was quiet. The lights were still dimmed, so I couldn’t see her face. We all stayed where we were, waiting to see what she was going to say.
“It’s just so hard to know what to say in these moments,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “I don’t know what to say but I want to say something. I want you to know I’m thinking about it. We’re all thinking about it.”
I nodded vigorously as tears quickly returned to my eyes.
“I’m so grateful you’re all here,” she continued. “And I hope this helps a little—I hope moving together helps.”
I wanted to say, It does, it does help, but instead I wiped my eyes as everyone began quietly putting their weights away and moving toward the door. These are small things—moving together, breathing together, feeling our beating hearts together—but it’s a place to start. Maybe they’re not small things at all.
The shooting was more than a week ago, and most of the country has moved on by now. I’m guilty of doing it too when the violence feels distant. But one woman didn’t come home from the Super Bowl rally. More than twenty others were shot, and even more will be marked by the trauma of that day for a long time to come. The victims, their friends and families, and all the people who felt that visceral fear don’t get to just move on.
As I’ve continued to feel the sting of sadness this last week, I’ve found myself questioning it at times. I don’t personally know anyone who was hurt. Am I making this too big of a deal?
But why do I feel this need to rush it? I know we can’t possibly feel the full depth of these tragedies every time. I don’t think we’d ever get out of bed if we did. But at the same time, I don’t want to become immune to this. I don’t want to become calloused. I want to hold space for this, to grieve for my city, to risk my tears and my imperfect words. I can’t feel it all but I have to feel something.
I think my barre instructor said it best: I don’t know what to say but I want to say something. I hope this helps a little.
My heart aches with yours. ❤️💛