Somehow the World Keeps Moving.

The morning after the shooting, I woke up numb.

Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just suspended somewhere between shock and disbelief.

I walked to the coffee machine and started making coffee like I do every morning, half awake and moving on autopilot. The sound of the machine brewing filled the silence of the kitchen.

And then I realized I had forgotten to place a mug underneath.

Coffee spilled everywhere.

Across the counter. Onto the floor. Running over the edges faster than I could stop it.

And for some reason, that was the moment it all started to feel real.

Because grief is strange like that.

Sometimes it doesn’t arrive as sobbing or dramatic collapse. Sometimes it looks like your body continuing a normal morning while your mind still refuses to accept what happened.

And somehow the world kept moving the next morning.

The coffee machine still brewed.
The sun still rose.
People still went to work.

But something felt permanently altered.

The day before had also started like a normal morning.

I had my phone in my hand when I looked down at the time: 11:55 AM.

Then a notification came through in a group text.

“Active shooter at ICSD.”

I looked up at my son standing by the sink and read the message out loud.

At first, it didn’t even feel real.

We immediately called one of the security guards we’re close to. He wasn’t working that day and had no idea what was happening yet.

“I’ll call you back,” he said.

Those next few minutes felt endless.

Then the phone rang.

"Brother Amin got shot and died.

And the men were still inside the mosque."

My close friend’s son is a third grader there. Inside those classrooms.

I texted her. No response.

I called her, and she answered so cheerfully.

“Hey! What’s up girl!”

And instantly, I knew she had no idea what was happening.

How do you say those words?
What do you even say when you know someone’s entire world could fall apart in seconds?

I told her something was happening at the school.

Her voice changed immediately.

She asked, “Did anyone get hurt?”

And I said, “I don’t know.”

Because how do you tell a mother that the first line of defense protecting her child was already gone?

We got in the car and drove there immediately.

At that point, we still didn’t know the full outcome. We didn’t know how far they had reached or what was still unfolding.

I cannot even begin to imagine what the parents were feeling in those moments. I had no idea how I was going to comfort her or any other parent, if things had gone differently.

All the children were safe.

But three adults lost their lives and left behind families who had no idea their entire world was about to shatter that morning.

This tragedy hit home for so many reasons.

My son went to that elementary school when he was younger, and I knew it was a place that had received threats throughout the years. When he eventually left the school, part of me felt relieved because that fear was no longer sitting quietly in the back of my mind every time I dropped him off for school.

We also used to live less than a block away from the mosque, and Noah still lives there part-time with his dad.

So during his free time, guess where he would hang out?

Not at the park.
Not at the mall.

At the mosque.

Hanging out front with the security guards.

Two of the three men, he knew very well.

Brother Amin would tell Noah that if he could choose the way he died, it would be protecting the house of God.

And he did.

The second victim, Abu Elizz, was another familiar face to Noah.

During Ramadan, Noah wanted to volunteer in the kitchen at the mosque. At the end of Ramadan, Abu Elizz quietly paid him out of his own pocket for helping.

That was the kind of men they were.

Not strangers.
Not headlines.

Fathers. Protectors. Gentle people woven into the everyday lives of our children and community.

As sad as I am, all I can think about is how, if this had happened on a different day, Noah could have been standing right there.

Even if the shooters had arrived just ten minutes earlier, the children would have been outside on the playground for recess.

None of this makes sense.

And yet, somehow, divinely, so many people were still protected.

It was an ordinary Monday morning.

Until it wasn’t.