By Lisa Copeland, PTMP:
It’s been a couple of months since our campus was thrust into a moment none of us were prepared for, and I’ve been thinking a lot about how the emotional landscape shifts with time. In the first days following the campus shooting, later defined a terrorist attack, everything felt sharp and disorienting — a kind of collective vertigo. Now, a couple of months later, the edges have softened, but the weight hasn’t fully lifted for me. It hasn’t disappeared. In many ways, it feels as though it’s settled quietly beneath the surface.
Faculty show up for their students. Staff keep the university running. Students reclaim routines even when in unfamiliar settings. Alongside these routines, I’ve also noticed something else — a kind of quiet that feels heavier than I expected.
We’ve continued moving forward, as we must, but I find myself wondering what might be left unspoken in simply moving forward. What happens to experiences like this when we don’t fully give them language? How do we move beyond something if we don’t, at least at some point, allow ourselves to talk about it?
I still feel a lingering numbness — a sense that part of me is waiting to thaw, though I don’t often talk about it. It’s a strange thing to know the contours of this kind of grief without wanting to verbalize them. And yet, I’m beginning to wonder if part of healing is not just acknowledging where we are internally but also allowing space for these shared experiences to be spoken aloud.
I don’t have answers for how long this numbness stays or what finally loosens its grip. I only know that healing doesn’t follow a schedule. Perhaps part of finding a way back to ourselves is not only sitting with where we are but also giving ourselves permission – individually and collectively – to name what still feels heavy.
Lisa Copeland, PTMP, is an Associate Director for Data & Administration at Old Dominion University. Lisa can be reached at lcopelan@odu.edu.
Forum Question: What role does vulnerability play in personal growth?