As I began to tell the story my voice faltered and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to continue. But a voice in my head told me to “do it anyway” and I pressed on. “I could start by sharing with you my experience on December fourteenth around nine-thirty in the morning, but my story begins far before that,” I said. “So I must start with what is at the core of this: wanting to become a teacher, the journey that brought me there and all of the important lessons that I learned along the way.”
I looked out at the audience and saw a sea of compassionate faces, and it gave me strength. These were teachers. My people. I should have known—they understood before I even began to explain. “We each define our purpose when we answer these questions: Who are we? What are our desires, our goals, our ambitions? What is it that we want to do? December 14 is why you know my name, but it tells you nothing about what defines me as a teacher. There are days when our job as a teacher causes us to go far beyond our call of duty . . .” I continued.
After the story about what happened in our classroom that awful day, many in the audience were crying. It was enough of that. I cleared my throat and continued. “The possibility that your life can change in an instant is always possible. Sometimes fortuitously so and others not. Avoiding a head-on collision because you just switched lanes, leaving your home minutes before it burns to the ground, a miraculous healing after suffering a long illness. But then the change can also be for the worse. Your car being side swiped on the highway, a loved one drowning, an angry man entering a school with a semi-automatic weapon intending to take the lives of as many innocent people as possible. Knowing this, there are two things to take away. One, you must live your life in a way so that, if it were your last moment, you would feel good about the choices and decisions in life that you made. Second, you are the one who has the power to choose how you react to these situations. You can react with anger, resentment, or hate, or you can react with love, compassion, empathy, and hope. That choice will define your life going forward.”
My students and I were living proof of that. I went on to tell the audience about our classroom project and how helping the class in Tennessee had provided so much joy for my first-graders. “I was reminded on that day that children are able to understand the importance of helping others, of giving, and of making a difference, even after such a tragic situation,” I said. “I thought: If, after such a horrific event, we are going to choose: love, consideration, compassion, empathy, hope—which I so believed we should—then we, as teachers, need to teach that to our students and this was a way to teach them. We need our students to have the opportunity to be a part of something that exhibits all of these things, to be a part of something bigger than themselves, bigger than all of us.”
Our class was the first class to reach out to another class and say, “What do you need? How can we help you?” My students were able to experience, firsthand, that giving and making a difference in someone else’s life is the way to enact positive change. It was our way to give back, after all we had been given. This is where the idea for the nonprofit organization I started was born.”
My hour-long speech seemed to go by in a flash and afterward a line snaked around the auditorium. Teachers and administrators and aides and janitors all waited to speak with me. I must have shaken a hundred hands when a woman walked up and said her friend, who was also a teacher in the school, had been diagnosed with cancer earlier that week and was feeling hopeless, but listening to my story, that had changed.
The friend, a lovely woman, middle-aged, was a few people back in the line, and when she reached me I saw a glimmer in her eyes. “I’m going through a very tough time right now,” she said. “Earlier this week I got some awful news. I want to thank you for being here and I’m so grateful for having heard your message.” She realized, she said, that she had the power to change the way she was looking at her diagnosis and that, rather than focusing on something she had no control over, she was going to focus on what she could do.
Speaking with that woman had a profound impact on me. I had taken a huge leap of faith when I accepted that speaking engagement. I had walked onto that stage with such trepidation, so unsure of my decision to put myself out there, and wondering, Is what I say going to make a difference? Will it change someone’s life for the better? Because that was the only reason I agreed to be there. My moment with that beautiful woman reaffirmed for me that sharing my story, which was so hard for me to tell, was the right thing to do. She had heard my message in exactly the spirit in which it had been given, and it helped her to change course in her own journey. She had chosen hope, and I was certain that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And that had been my prayer.
A Beautiful New Sunrise
When I was growing up, my dad and I would often head down to the reservoir after dinner to feed the geese or the ducks or the fish. It was our special time together and I always looked forward to it. Sometimes we’d just walk along the water’s edge looking for rocks to collect. When we found a good one, Dad would always say, “Katie, we found a keeper!” Keeper became our way of referring to anything special.
My fiancé, Nick, fit into that category. This is the kind of guy he is: In 2009, on our second date, I’d been telling him about how I had been looking, so far in vain, for a special bell I could use as a gentle reminder for my students when things got a little too spirited in the classroom, the type of bell you tap and it rings once, like the bell in a short-order kitchen that signals when an order is ready. I couldn’t find one anywhere. Our next date was the night before the school year began and, when I got into Nick’s car, he handed me a gift. As I carefully unwrapped it, I was filled with anticipation, but I never, not in a million years, would have guessed it would be the bell I couldn’t find. How thoughtful he was. I had known him a week and he’d taken it upon himself to find what I hadn’t been able to after weeks of searching. Five years of being together as of this writing, and he is still just as considerate and kind.
Through all of the tumult after the tragedy, the ups and the downs, the good days and bad days, the dark and the light, the one thing that remained constant was Nick. I couldn’t imagine life without him. Nick was a keeper.
We married on August 16, 2013, eight months after that tragic morning at Sandy Hook. Most of the arrangements had been made prior to that day, but the last-minute details had provided a welcome distraction from an otherwise emotionally draining year.
My mom and I left suburban Connecticut three days ahead of the wedding, stopping first in Manhattan to pick up my dress, then heading east to Westhampton to oversee the final preparations for the celebration. Those mother-daughter memories from those few days together are something I will always treasure. The special dinners, the long walks on the beach, the final meetings with the florist and the caterer and the hotel manager to make sure that everything was just right. During those days, I couldn’t help but think about how different things might have been. I’m sure my mom was having the same thoughts of gratitude.
Nick and my dad arrived on that Thursday afternoon, followed by a steady stream of friends and loved ones who traveled to Long Island from all over the country. In a matter of hours, our beach day grew from five to twenty-five chairs in the sand, and the expressions of love from our company was as soothing as the summer sun. I could hardly wait for Friday to be able to say “I do” to a lifetime of support, nurturing, friendship, and love.
The wedding day dawned with a huge red sun on a canvas of blue sky. It was a perfect eighty degrees. Shortly after I awoke, my maid of honor delivered a card from Nick. “He wanted you to have this before makeup,” she said.
The four-page handwritten letter began:
Tuesday, August 18, 2009, my life changed the moment you walked through the door. I remember going home that night thinking I had met the most beautiful girl. I remember getting butterflies in my stomach, a feeling I never felt before.
. . . This past year has had many ups and downs. I know that no matter what life throws at us we will get through it together. With everything that has happened, you have showed me you are strong, caring, and an amazing person, and I am so lucky to have you in my life. You have made me so proud and humble to be with you.
. . . You are my best friend, my soul mate, my confidant . . . I can’t believe our day is finally here.
Nick once again surprised and surpassed my highest expectations with the letter. It was the most beautiful sentiment from the most beautiful man. I sat on the bed choking back tears, but it was no use. Good thing I read this before makeup, I thought, as I tucked the letter back in the envelope. How well he knew me.
I spent the next few hours with my mom and the bridal party, sharing bagels and mimosas, while having our hair and makeup done. I’d read about wedding jitters, but I didn’t have a hint of any. I couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle to begin my future as Kaitlin Roig-DeBellis.
There was a bittersweet moment, just before my dad walked me down the aisle. He adored Nick, loved him for loving me, but he was losing his daughter and I could see the emotion on his face. Standing there, waiting for the music to begin, my mind wandered back to a conversation I had with my mom, years before. It was after I had suffered a particularly difficult breakup and Mom tried to comfort me by saying that it just wasn’t meant to be, there were better things ahead for me. When my spirits still weren’t lifted, she added, “All your father and I have ever wanted, and especially your father, is for you to be treasured, to be treated the way you are meant to be.” Something changed for me that day, knowing that my dad was aware I was selling myself short and deserved better. I decided, at that moment, that I wouldn’t settle for anything less than being treasured. Nick did treasure me, treasure us, and my dad knew that. He respected and admired Nick. In fact, he was so comfortable with who I was marrying that, just as we began our march down the boardwalk to the beach, he joked to me, “You’re Nick’s problem now, Katie.” We both laughed. Dad was grateful that I had found someone who loved me as much as he and my mom did.
As the music played and Dad and I crossed over the dunes on our long walk down to the ocean, I looked out over the water. It was calm and sparkling with the reflection of the sun. At this moment, life is truly good, I thought to myself, and I am going to cherish every second of it. Because who knows what the next moment will bring.
Nick greeted me with the biggest smile. He was standing with his godfather, who had gotten ordained to be able to marry us and written a personalized wedding script just for us.
“Kaitlin and Nicolas, this day is the culmination of all the dreams and hopes you two have been planning for a very long time,” he said, his face beaming. “This is truly the beginning of the new vision of your life together. You have not come to this day without much thought and much anticipation as to what the future holds for you.” And then a special word for Nick. “I am sure that today your mother, Lynn, is looking down and celebrating right along with us.” How I wish I could have known her, but I knew she had to have been so special to raise such a kind and loving son.
Then it was time to take our vows.
Nick was more comfortable reciting traditional vows, having recited his most intimate thoughts in his letter to me, but I had decided to write my own.
One thousand four hundred and sixty days: That is how long I have known you. That is when you came into my life and from that day on my life has never been the same. It is now complete.
. . . You have brought light and love to my life. I needed a ride and you picked me up. I needed a bell and you searched one out, found one and bought it for me. You told me you loved me, and I knew I loved you too (I’m sorry I waited a month to tell you).
. . . Life happens. Sometimes we get so caught up in it, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s truly important. My hope for us is that we will always hold our love at the center of everything we do. That we will wake up every morning and cherish it. That every minute, moment, hour, we will live our lives in a way that honors one another and every person that has gotten us here today. Because in the end it’s as much about our friends and family as it is about us.
You are my light when it is dark. You are my rock when I am weak. You are my joy when I am sad. You are my five-year-old when I am feeling way too mature. You are the most amazing man that I have ever met and I thank God every day that you are mine, and that I am yours. Always and forever.
I love you to the moon and I know it’s true. And what I want to tell you is . . . I DO!
At that moment, for the first time since a gunman changed my life, and the lives of so many other good and decent people, I felt true happiness.
A few weeks later, a belated wedding gift arrived at my door. Tucked inside was a handwritten note. “Dear Kaitlin and Nicholas,” it said. “Sending my congratulations and love on this beautiful new sunrise. Love, Diane Sawyer.”
Moving Forward (Not On)
I had a sign on my desk at school, a paraphrase of a famous Henry Ford quote: “If you think you can, you will,” it said. I wanted to be that person who could, but to do that I needed to have faith in myself and in my choices. I realized that the more I put myself out there, the more I would be subjecting myself to that handful of critics who questioned everything from my motives to my character and my genuineness. I needed a thicker skin to flourish. Either that or I would just have to take the arrows in the heart and keep moving forward.
My new mission was never about me. It wasn’t about winning awards or soliciting accolades or praise. I would never have sought to have my face on TV or in newspapers or magazines. But I’d chosen to contribute with Classes 4 Classes, and that was about to grow into a larger mission of helping people, by example, to work through their own trials.
I’d chosen hope in the midst of what seemed like a pit of hopelessness and it lifted me out of my despair. I wanted to inspire others to do the same, but to do that I had to share the story of coming back from the darkest moment of my life.
As a teacher, I learned that to bond with my students, I had to be willing to share parts of my life with them that sometimes felt private. Opening myself up created the trust that allowed them to feel safe and speak freely with me. When I accepted that first speaking engagement, the one for the educators near Pittsburgh, I knew I would have to do the same thing. My audience had changed from first-graders to young adults and adults, but, still, for them to feel connected to me and believe in my message, I had to share this very intimate piece of myself. I had to share the story of my adoption, and my path to becoming a teacher and lessons I learned along the way. And the hardest part of all, I had to share what happened on that terrible day in Newtown, the misery of the aftermath, and how I had chosen the new path that had led me to today.
I began my talk this way.
“I’m here with you today to share my story. My story as a teacher, a learner, a leader, my story as a survivor. I share it with you because I think it will make a difference in how you view each minute, each moment, each day—when you are truly aware that your life can change in an instant. I share it with you because in life we each have a very definite purpose. My purpose has always been to be an educator, to work with, engage, and empower children to be their best selves. We each have goals and ambitions at our core and it is of the utmost importance that we strive to define them, for it is only then that we are able to actively pursue them.”
After t
alking about my early life, my quest to be a teacher, and, finally, the story of what my students and I went through on December 14, 2012, I ended on a hopeful note.
“I am an ordinary person. I am a first-grade teacher. I am just like you. I am someone who, after experiencing the worst tragedy imaginable, made a conscious choice that it wasn’t going to define me. I had to choose a path for my own healing. I had to choose to focus on the abundant good that is all around. I had to choose to focus on the positive ways in which I could impact teaching children to care. In your life you will go through hard times, you will have times when you are left searching for answers. You will have times where you feel lost and alone. In the best of times or the worst, I encourage you to always choose hope and to always persevere.”
After witnessing the effect my story had on others, like the teacher who had just been diagnosed with cancer, I accepted a second invitation to speak, then a third. At every gathering, the same thing happened. When my talk was over, people waited afterward to share their own struggles, and many said they were leaving feeling more hopeful than they’d felt when they came. The more people I came into contact with on those speaking tours, the more certain I was that I was on the right path. Not only was I able to spread the word about Classes 4 Classes, I was able to help people in despair to see that all was not lost. That no matter how bad things seemed, they, like me, could choose hope.
Choosing Hope: Moving Forward from Life's Darkest Hours Page 14
