Oliver Miller

The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on my desk. I sipped my coffee, letting the warmth seep into me as I reviewed my notes for my psychology class. Being in my third semester, I felt a growing sense of purpose with every lecture, every assignment. At 21, I was determined to help others who, like me, had been victims of gun abuse.

Most people didn't know my story. When I was two, I accidentally shot my pregnant mother. She survived long enough to tell the police what happened, but both she and my unborn sibling didn't make it. The weight of that moment has shadowed my life ever since. My father, consumed by his own guilt, had left the gun cabinet unlocked. He never said it outright, but I knew he blamed me as much as he blamed himself. Our relationship dissolved under the strain, and we haven't spoken in years.

Therapy helped me navigate the tidal waves of guilt and grief, but nights were still hard. Depression and anxiety often crept in with the darkness. Sometimes, I’d wake up from nightmares, drenched in sweat, feeling the echoes of that day reverberate through my mind. But each morning, I tried to find strength. For my mother. For my brother. For myself.

Growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, I often thought about the statistics I had read. Every year, around 100 people are shot by children in the U.S. With about 400 million guns in civilian hands and 20,000 gun deaths annually, the numbers were staggering. It made my resolve even stronger.

I wanted to be a voice for change, advocating for stricter gun laws and offering support to those haunted by similar experiences. Talking openly about my story helped, even though it wasn’t easy. It was a way to honor my mother and brother, to ensure their memories spurred something positive in a world that had been so cruel to them.

I closed my notebook and headed to class, my heart heavy yet hopeful. Every day was a step toward healing, a chance to make a difference. I owed that much to myself—and to the family I lost.