Nobody should walk this path alone.

II have written before about what happens after the cameras leave. About the families that are still there long after the news cycle ends. About Lisa Wobbe-Veit, who has been the Family Liaison for the Parkland families for nearly eight and a half years..

This week I want to go deeper. Because there is another part of this story that almost nobody talks about.

It is not just the families that are left to carry this alone. It is also the people whose job it is to help them.

At the conference, Lori Alhadeff and I sat down with four professionals who are leading, or have led, the mental health recovery efforts in their school communities following shootings. Lori is the founder of Make Our Schools Safe and the mother of Alyssa Alhadeff, who was murdered in the same classroom as my son Alex during the Parkland School Shooting.

The first thing that stood out to Lori and me in speaking with them was how different each of their paths into this work has been. Nate was already working within the school system at the time of the shooting and was asked to lead the mental health response. Lisa, a Parkland parent, began as a volunteer and has remained actively involved in a support role for the past eight and a half years. Todd was hired to lead the recovery after Oxford High School shooting, while Kelcie was hired from outside the district five months after the Apalachee shooting.

Different paths. But they all said the same thing

Four communities. Four tragedies. Four people who showed up.

Lori said something during our conversation that I think every school district in this country needs to hear. She talked about the day of the Parkland shooting. Standing in a cold room in a tank top while her body went into shock. Signing paperwork. Driving herself home. Nobody with her. No communication. No plan.

She said the trauma is as real to her as the loss itself.

Recovery starts in the moment parents wait to learn if their children are safe. I question how many school districts have truly envisioned what it is like for a parent standing in a parking lot, unsure if their child is alive.

The group started with a conversation at a conference, a moment of recognition between two helpers who understood each other without explanation. A few weeks later, they added another voice. Months later, they rallied around a new recovery coordinator stepping into the work. What began as a small circle has grown through word of mouth into a network of helpers supporting one another.

Because the work is isolating. You cannot tell your friends about it. You cannot tell your family. The details of what you carry are confidential. The grief you absorb every day from the families you support does not have a place to go.

These four professionals came together because something terrible happened in their community, and they showed up—and stayed. That is what matters most.

Lori and I understand this from the other side. We know what it is like to be the family waiting for a call back, trying to help children make sense of what happened, and still carrying that experience years later.

The people in this work are often what help families get through. Yet most communities are not prepared for the long-term need.

Every school district should think about this—not only what happens in the immediate aftermath of a crisis, but who will still be there one year later, five years later, and eight years later. Right now, most communities do not have a clear answer.

I’m grateful Lori was in the room with me. We have lost someone we can never get back. And we have both found people like Lisa, Nate, Todd, and Kelcie who make sure families left behind are not forgotten.

For Alex. And for all of them.

— Max Schachter