Born Into War Zones: Serenity was in the Room

A Story of Presence, Grief, and What Still Grows

For Daylon Burnett, and the children who carry on.

Monday, March 1, 2021, is a day I will never forget.

We had just returned to school after being out for two weeks. The first week was due to a snowstorm. The following week, our city faced a water crisis. Before anything ever happened inside the building, we were already living as roses growing through concrete.

That morning, I had a conversation with my students that I hold sacred. I told them I would not be returning the following school year. I told them this decision was not made lightly. I told them it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with obedience. God was calling me to more.

There’s a quote that says, “Sometimes you don’t know where you are going, but you do know where you can no longer stay.” I lived that truth.

I’ve learned that God does not give us the full picture because He is painting it as we go. He gives direction. We get lost trying to figure out the details.

I told my students I loved them.

I held the hand of the student who pulled the trigger that same morning. He was in my first period class.

I wish there was something I could have said or done to change the outcome of that day.

But instead, I found peace in knowing I had that conversation before gunshots ever rang through the building.

And I need to be clear about something.

Things were dark before the school shooting.
The shooting did not create the darkness.
It brought it into the light.

Whenever a culture allows complaining, blame, fear, and dysfunction to become normal, children pay the cost.

Code Black

Gunshots rang out inside a school building.

A place meant to be safe.
A place meant to hold our children’s hope, not their fear.

I still hear my principal’s voice over the intercom.

“Code Black. This is not a drill.”

Children ran through the hallways looking for somewhere to go.

Second period had just ended.

Third period was usually empty, but that day thirteen students ran into my room in terror. We were instructed to write the number of people in our classroom.

I still have the picture of my sign.

“14 people.”

Children hid in my closet. Others sat on the floor in front of my board, shaking, panicking, calling their parents, crying, while I held myself together the best I could.

I had always referred to my ninth graders as my babies.

That day, I understood exactly why.

Holding Other People’s Children

Daylon’s sister, Serenity, was in my classroom. She was in seventh grade.

We did not know who had been shot. Rumors spread quickly, and I stopped them.

“Even if that’s what people are saying, his sister is right here. Would you want to hear someone talk about your sibling being shot before anything is confirmed?”

We focused on what was happening inside the classroom.

We breathed.
We stayed present.
And they listened.

When his mother called my phone, Serenity stood in front of me. I held her hand.

“This is Ms. Newby. I have Serenity. She’s right here with me.”

Her mother asked me to stay with her; I promised that I would.

I have kept that promise.

Today, Serenity is a graduating senior with college acceptance letters from schools all over the United States; so many, I’ve lost count.

I share that not as a happy ending, but as a reminder that children are more than the worst day of their lives.

Growth is still possible. Hope is still alive.

And love, when it is steady and present, matters more than we will ever fully know.

The Safety of the Room

There is something else I carry with deep gratitude.

No one in my classroom witnessed the shooting.

That mattered more than I can fully explain. It meant we were able to hold onto hope just a little longer. My classroom remained a refuge.

I told my students what I believe to be true.

“Joy, peace, and love are promised in the present moment. We must just be here. Right now. And be grateful that we are breathing.”

In.
Out.

By the time law enforcement came to escort us, my students were calm. Some were playing with broomsticks. Some were smiling again.

My room was safe.

Daylon had spent most of his ninth grade year virtual. Before returning to in person learning, he asked me to look after his siblings.

I said yes.

That day, gratitude kept my mind. With every breath, the words stayed the same.

In. Out.

I know now it was the Holy Spirit keeping me.

When We Tried to Disappear

When it was time to move, every law enforcement presence imaginable was already there. Local police. Sheriff’s office. SWAT. The largest weapons I have ever seen in my life were present that day.

As we were escorted through the building, we were met with fast, stern commands.

Guns pointed.

“Hands up.”

“Move quickly.”

“Don’t run.”

We were being treated as suspects, not teachers, not children, not human beings, just bodies expected to comply. 

Everyone was following policy. Everyone was doing their job. 

And in the middle of that, adults instinctively moved closer to children, placing themselves between fear and small bodies, because that is what care looks like when systems forget it.

By the time we reached the gym, it was already full.

Parents wanted their children. Police wanted control. Staff wanted quiet so instructions could be heard. Cameras were rolling.

The world was watching.

We lost more than one life that day.

Not all of them took their last breath in that building, but many lives were forever changed.
Childhoods. Families. Teachers. A community.
What we were walking through would not end when the sirens stopped.

I held Serenity’s hand as we entered the gym.

No one told us where to sit.

We chose the floor.

I did not want Serenity to feel watched. We wanted to be invisible. 

We did not know where her brothers were. We did not know if Daylon was still in the building or already on the way to the hospital. Rumors were everywhere.

Truthfully, we did not ask questions.

We did not speak. We sat in silence, inside our own heads, side by side.

Not knowing, for a little while, was mercy.

It was later that I learned there had been a student wearing a burgundy hoodie who police mistakenly believed was the shooter, even though the shooter had already fled campus. Guns were pulled on him. Our principal pleaded with him to “just do what they tell you to do.”

In that moment, the fear shifted.

We had gone from fearing gunfire from a student to trying to protect students from possibly losing their lives because of fear.

It was also later that I learned a teacher, overwhelmed by terror, jumped out of a window that day. In those moments, students were left to find their way through the fear on their own. She never returned to the classroom that school year.

I share this not to dramatize the moment, but to tell the truth about what trauma looks like when safety collapses and people are left to survive however they can.

Some staff and students had witnessed the shooting.

Others witnessed something else entirely. The cost of panic. Misidentification.

A system stretched beyond its ability to care.

Later, staff found us and brought us to Desmond, Daylon’s 8th grade brother, who was already in the locker room with friends he considered family.

I had later learned that Desmond witnessed the shooting. He had his brother’s blood on his shoes.

We still had no answers. Only prayers from a chaplain and tears.

We waited.

Alone After

When they were finally picked up, I walked them outside in the rain.

And for the first time since the gunshots rang, I was alone.

I could not breathe.

I tried entering the building. They told me no.

I pleaded with God in the parking lot until I heard small voices say,

“Look at Ms. Newby.”

Little eyes were watching.

I put my breathing back in manual.

I stayed until the gym was empty.

The Days After

We, as staff, were told to return the next morning.
Then again the following day.

Daylon was fighting for his life.

The decision had already been made.

“Students would return to the building before Daylon even took his last breath.”

We gathered as staff in the library and pleaded with the powers that be for time. 

Teachers shared that they had witnessed the shooting and that it replayed in their minds every time they tried to sleep.

Coaches stood and said plainly, this is not right. This is not how healing works. We need more time.

I stood and read a poem I had written the night before titled “Who Will Cry for the Little Black Boys?”

When you ask the system that question, the answer is clear.

No one.
No one.
No one.

Our cries for time, space, and care were not heard.

The bullet hole in the ground had not even been repaired.

A rug was placed over it.

We were expected to walk over the spot where his body had laid days before and pretend this was normal.

It was not.

Daylon passed on Wednesday, March 3, 2021 at 5:35 PM.

Once he took his last breath, I took back my authority.

I decided I would take bereavement days. Other teachers did the same.

We showed up to support our school and one another, but not the system that forced us back before we were ready.

That same day, the students made their own decision.

They had no intention of returning to class.

After an assembly where adults explained all the support that had arrived, and to be clear, it was beautiful, students were instructed to go to third period.

Third period was the same class many of them had been headed to when gunshots rang three days before.

It was not even time for third period, but that was the plan on paper. Compliance was expected.

Instead, students gathered outside.

I remember whistles, news cameras, and students huddled around a picnic table with Daylon’s siblings, passing out candles and choosing to grieve together instead of obey quietly.

I had a choice to make.

I could stand by.
Say nothing.
Do nothing.
Let it get worse.

Or I could help.

I stood on a picnic table that day, surrounded by students, school officials, reporters, and community members, and said one word.

“Marco.”

They replied, “Polo.”

We did it again.
And again.
Until there was silence.

In that stillness, I shared that students had planned a balloon release and candlelight ceremony. Their words were tender, but heavy. When they fell short, I filled in where I could.

What followed was full of love.

After the ceremony, the students returned to the building or left for the remainder of the day.

I took the remainder of Thursday and Friday to grieve.

Sunday March 7, 2021, I received a phone call that my daughter’s father had passed.

I returned the following Monday to share what I needed to share. That I would still be present, but that my daughter needed me in this season too.

I took the remainder of the week to be with my child. And I do not regret that choice.

What happened after the shooting was not separate from what happened before it.

It was all connected.

What I Carry Forward

I had spent years caring for my babies at school.

Now my baby, who was in kindergarten, needed her momma more than ever.

So I did the work.

We went to grief therapy.
We went swimming often.
We cultivated joy, because joy is not accidental. It is chosen.

I stopped trying to do everything right and focused on what was necessary.

It was a pandemic school year. There was no normal.

Systems expected performance without protection.

I chose to measure growth, not control.
I chose compassion over compliance.
I chose people over policy.

What Still Matters

My students were suffering long before bullets rang.

We’ve been living in War Zones.

We did not suddenly need support after tragedy.

We needed it all along.

Healing does not start with authority.

It starts with what we practice in the moment.

That day, what carried me was not policy or title.

It was presence.

What I Practice and Invite Others Into

I want to be clear about what I am offering now.

Not condemnation.
Not perfection.
Not another system that tells people they are failing

But practice.

Practice of presence.
Practice of breath.
Practice of gratitude.
Practice of the Fruits of the Spirit, not as scripture to quote, but as tools to live by.

Love, when fear was loud.
Peace, when chaos demanded my attention.
Patience, when answers were unavailable.
Kindness and goodness, when systems fell short.
Faithfulness, to the children entrusted to me.
Gentleness, in how I spoke and moved.
Self control, when my body wanted to shut down.

These are not abstract ideas. They are moment by moment choices.

Mindfulness is not trendy language.

It is survival.

Breathing in.
Breathing out.
Staying where my feet were.
Naming what was present instead of spiraling toward what I could not control.

Choosing Gratitude even in the midst of hell.

These are practices anyone can carry.

In living rooms and boardrooms.
In whispered prayers and difficult meetings.
In crowded spaces and lonely ones.
Wherever fear threatens to speak louder than love.

You do not need a title to create safety. All you need is a regulated nervous system, an open heart, and language rooted in dignity.

This is the work I do now.

I walk with people as they learn how to slow down, breathe, choose peace, and respond instead of react.

I help people find language that honors humanity in spaces that forgot how.

I believe healing happens in relationship, not isolation.

I am not here to question you.
I am here to walk with you.

Because we were hurting before bullets rang.
We needed support long before crisis forced the conversation.

And we can still choose a different way forward together.

This is how gardens grow in warzones.

One breath.
One practice.
One person willing to stay present with another.

I’m here.