And now I wonder, what’s next?

Once again, “trigger warning” (example: I can’t even write that without getting “triggered” myself.

The past 3 weeks have earned a place in my memory as one of life’s unforgettable experiences. We graphically walked through the horrifying experience that took place on March 22, 2021, moment by moment, together as families who lost our loved ones, hand in hand.

It has been 3 years, and if you had asked me how I felt about this trial leading up to it, I would’ve said, “no big deal, I just want to keep moving forward in my life, let’s get it over with, it doesn’t matter what happens, whatever will be, will be, and I will be okay.”

I was wrong. It all became so real on day one of opening statements. Hearing the 911 call from Logan, as all of the shots captured in his call rang out in the background, louder than I imagined, stopped hearts in the courtroom, and stopped mine. 

It broke me hearing the shots that took my mother’s life, knowing the count of which ones took hers, and which ones belonged to those in the front of the store.

It broke me listening to a witness describe running for their life while hearing body’s fall next to them, remembering a woman cry, “No.”

It broke me when a still from the self checkout security camera flashed on the projector, capturing this witness running away for their life.

It broke me when I recognized their precise location in the store, realizing, that body she heard fall, that woman saying “No,” was likely my mother. It broke me examining the still photo even further, where man pointing an AR style gun at this witness, was standing in cash lane 5.

Completing the walkthrough of the store after the shooting taught me that the self check out in aisle 5 was where my mother had died. And now here I am a few years later, in this trial, looking at this still photo of evidence belonging to this witness’s testimony.

It broke me to see his gun aimed at his next victim in cash lane 5, while crouching over a pair of black shoes, the rest the body, hidden from the camera, thanks to a shopping cart. Shoes I knew belonged to my mother.

I broke in that moment. Seeing him standing over my mom’s body, having just killed her in this still image, I wanted to lurch across the courtroom to him. (If looks could kill.) And needless to say, the prosecution didn’t realize how much I put together in that moment, and they brought me into a room after asking for somewhere to go to crumple to the floor and let all of the pain out.

It broke me, but something I learned from being repeatedly broken, is when something breaks you, it opens up places inside you. It’s your choice what you place there, and I consistently choose strength, love & resilience, because I want to actually enjoy my life despite all of these reasons not to, for how much I get to live of it.

We finally got to hear from other people who witnessed that awful day, and you wonder, what would you do if you were in that store? Where would you hide? Could you go back in and save people? We heard from these remarkable people. Human beings faced with the unimaginable. What would you do in face of death?

We learned what people did, where I now religiously wonder what I will do if it happens to me. And then, we learned what our loved ones did in their final moments. 

Yes, this trial was traumatizing, where people might ask, why would you do this to yourself? Well, I don’t believe things in life are obsolete. Grief is ugly, it is also beautiful.  This trial was traumatizing, beyond traumatizing, and it was also healing.  Incredibly healing.

Where I naively believed this trial would have no impact on my current flow of life, and I wouldn’t care what the outcome was, from day one, I was instantly humbled, and it did matter. 

Out of this horrifying day, these difficult few years leading up to this trial, and these past few weeks living it, has come so much relief, love & strength, I did not expect. 

All the kindness sent our way mattered. It made a difference. Thank you to everyone who showed up to send love our way, however you did. It does help.

On Monday, we eagerly waited for a verdict. On Monday, March 22, 2021, I eagerly waited for a verdict too, and I lost that day.

We had 30 minutes to get to the courthouse & be prepared for it. When we found out they had one, the anxiety spread across the courthouse. When it was time to hear it, we walked through a human hallway made of almost 40 officers supporting us. Tears began to flow, and we were ready. 

I’ve never felt the feelings of honor and justice stronger in my life than when the first count of murder in the first degree was read aloud. Guilty. We bent in half with relief. Jurors turned to look at us for the first time in 3 weeks with tears in their eyes, nodding that yes, we see you, we hear you, and we are sorry. 

I watched defeat form across the faces of the defense, and in years of losing, losing, and more losing, we finally had a win. A big win.  And it was strange, because as every count read aloud for guilty, our smiles grew and our tears of joy and relief flowed. I was worried one count would be read as “not guilty” like it was beginning to feel too good to be true, but none were.

In this immense feeling of honor and gratitude, I also felt the grief in the hearts of his family, and I felt… sorrow and pain, for them. 

Then, my heart felt sorry for him, when on our 15 minute break after the verdicts were read, we returned, and there he was, now wearing a prisoner’s jumpsuit, and handcuffs. “ that was fast,” I thought.

I felt for him. (I know!)

I didn’t expect to feel relief, I didn’t expect to care what the outcome was, but as we remembered and realized the impact this has had on everyone, and how great the ripple effect has been, we realized that what happens here does matter, and we hope it makes a difference, even if it’s marginal. 

A heavy darkness that loomed over Boulder, Colorado (for me, anyway) feels as if it has lifted. There is gratitude and awe in place of disgust and fear. I can’t believe this happened, still, and I am amazed at life and all of the unexpected turns it takes, and now I’m asking myself… what’s next?

(I’ll probably be writing about it)

The photo I had on the stand while reading my impact statement. My mom, my superwoman. Lynn ❤️