Panicked texts. Then, silence. One Oxford High School mother tells her story.

Dec. 1, 3:54 a.m., Oxford, Mich.

After my children had finally fallen asleep, I found myself alone in my living room. Exhausted, yet staring trance-like into the darkness, unable to sleep myself.

It had been just 13 hours since our world turned upside down. Since a 15-year-old student came to school with a gun — our school — killing four students, wounding seven others.

Looking for distraction, connection, a grounding in my shattered reality, I opened my laptop. The glow of my Facebook page sharply cut through the darkness.

My eyes bleary and swollen from crying, I struggled to focus, finally reading the words before me.

“What’s on your mind, Marcia?”

Texts from my daughter, pinging my phone, on what I did not yet know was the day of the shooting.

Silence. For five excruciating, agonizing minutes, silence.

What’s on my mind?

My daughter can’t stop shaking.

The way the color drained out of his face when my son, home from school that day with a sore throat, realized when and where it had happened in the hallway.

My husband and I racing down an icy dirt road to find her.

How will they ever get over this?

These children walked into school the morning of Nov. 30, thinking about the tests they were about to take or assignments they were about to turn in.

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These children that we have driven to soccer practice and religious education, dance recitals and school events; these children we all admire as they pose for homecoming photographs; these children, eyes shining, who joyfully shouted “trick or treat” or sang Christmas carols on my doorstep; these children who have grown inch by inch, grade by grade, year by year, in front of our eyes.

He ran over 60 yards. Touchdown!

Did you get your senior pictures taken yet?

These children, forever changed.

We are living a nightmare.

We are grieving.

We are shaken.

We are in a state of disbelief. Shock. Panic. Denial. Anger.

I don’t know how to do this. What can I do? What can we do?

I can’t stop crying. My hand has developed a tremor that has not yet left me. My children, 18 and 14, don’t want to sleep alone.

“What’s on your mind, Marcia?”

My children are emotionally gutted by each text message they received after they ran, shaking, cold, crying for safety:

Sharing their darkness … but also, sharing their light.

And later, despite the prayers, the pleading

We hear about these devastating events happening elsewhere, and we say to one another, “Did you hear?” “Isn’t it terrible?” “How does this keep happening in our country?”

We shake our heads in disbelief and say a silent prayer, guilty for the relief we feel because it didn’t happen to us. After our kids are safely tucked in bed, we turn on the news and watch the latest report, and we whisper to ourselves and one another: “Those poor, poor people. I can’t even imagine.”

We get angry because we feel powerless. We post “thoughts and prayers” on our social media accounts, and say, “When is this going to end?” And then we close up our laptops, and put our phones on our nightstands, and shut off our televisions. We sigh a heavy, heartfelt sigh, and we roll over, and we go to sleep.

And now, it’s happening to us.

Without warning, my community, my family, my friends, were initiated into a club no one should ever have to join. My sleepy little village joined the list of sleepy little villages, rural townships, big cities, where someone brought a gun to school, and for reasons too disturbing to comprehend, pulled the trigger.

I have to keep reminding myself that I am not watching a faded episode of Dateline or a broadcast from elsewhere in the country.

I am living this tragedy, in real time.

Because someone decided to bring a gun to school.

Dec. 1, 3:54 a.m.

It would’ve been easier if I had closed my computer. It would have been easier to retreat: fall into bed, fold in, fold up, try to make it all go away for a few minutes. But through the layers of grief and exhaustion, a thought bubbled up and broke free:

Now is the time. Tell your story. Untangle the emotions, the memories, the raw feelings. Use your words.

It is time for change. Real change.

All of us, citizens, parents, grandparents, teachers, advocates; some may own guns, others may not; living in large cities, in rural townships, in sleepy little villages like Oxford, Mich.

All wanting change. All wanting it now. We can’t afford to once again emit our heartfelt sighs, roll over, and go to sleep. Not this time. Not one more time. Our nation’s children are counting on us. Let’s not fail them again.

And so, with trembling hands, I began to answer the question:

“What’s on your mind, Marcia?”

Marcia Hudson and her husband, Robert, live in Oxford Twp. They are the proud parents of four children: Robert, Nolan, Lauren and Cole; Lauren and Cole are students at Oxford High School. Marcia is a retired educator who now serves as the Elementary Field Coordinator and part-time lecturer at Oakland University.

This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: After shooting, one Oxford High School mother tells her story.