Two months ago, my husband, our three young children, and I ran for our lives through smoke and gunfire.
A man with hatred in his heart rammed his truck into our Latter-day Saint meetinghouse in Grand Blanc, Michigan, walked into our chapel, and opened fire. He shot people who were fleeing for safety. He set the building on fire with families still inside. My 5-year-old daughter and my husband were both shot. I was hit with shrapnel while holding my toddler and carrying my 3-year-old. Four of our friends were killed.
Since that day, fear has woven itself into our lives. We’ve tried to rebuild a sense of normalcy—to show our children that the world can still be joyful and safe. Healing is slow, and every small moment of peace feels hard-won.
That’s why attending the recent football game between Brigham Young University, where I met my husband, and the University of Cincinnati meant so much to us. It was our first real attempt at a date night. A chance to do something we used to love. An evening where, just for a few hours, the attack might not dominate every thought.
We arrived nervous but hopeful. We cheered. We smiled. We let ourselves enjoy being part of a crowd again.
Then, in the middle of the game, a chant began rising from the Cincinnati student section: “F***k the Mormons.” It wasn’t a handful of fans—it was hundreds. Loud. Coordinated. Unashamed.
To some people, that chant might sound like trash talk or rivalry banter. But when you’ve been to four funerals in a week’s time for friends murdered because of their faith, when you’ve held your wounded child and pleaded with heaven that she would live, those words are not “just words.” They are threats. They are echoes of the same hatred that nearly destroyed my family.
Cincinnati’s athletic director John Cunningham has since apologized for the offensive, derogatory, and dangerous cheer. But it wasn’t the first time I had heard it.
Before the attack, I was aware of such chants. It always stung, but I told myself it wasn’t worth making a fuss. But after surviving a religiously motivated attack, everything feels different. Heavier. Sharper.
The chant in that stadium was not an isolated incident. It’s part of a willingness to demean, insult, or mock people in public. A culture that shrugs when cruelty is performed loudly, so long as it’s wrapped in the energy of a crowd.
Hatred rarely begins with violence. It begins with dehumanization. With chants. With jokes. With the idea that some groups are acceptable targets. I’ve been an eyewitness to where that thinking leads.
To be clear, this isn’t only about me or my faith. I am speaking up now because what happened to me—both in Michigan and in Ohio—is connected to something affecting many Americans of many beliefs.
Jewish Americans are seeing rising threats. Muslim Americans are facing an unacceptable increase in Islamophobia. And the horrific 2012 shooting at a Sikh Temple in Milwaukee, Wisconsin made many Sikh Americans feel like targets. But no one should fear for their safety because of their faith or lack of faith. Not in a country founded on religious freedom.
Looking forward
In order to ensure that no group is targeted, American leaders must draw real lines—and enforce them.
During the game, I heard an announcement warning that hateful chants would not be tolerated. But without action, warnings are little more than background noise.
Universities and athletic programs can’t control every fan, but they can set expectations and educate students. They can make clear that hostility toward any group is not a sport, not a joke, not part of the game-day experience. Because when contempt is normalized in small moments, it becomes easier for someone with darker intentions to believe their hatred is justified.
And we all need to prioritize kindness and courage.
I’m not asking anyone to agree with my beliefs. I’m not asking for special treatment. What I’m asking for is a willingness to reject cruelty—wherever we see it.
If you hear someone attacking a religious group, speak up. If you see hatred treated as entertainment, refuse to join in. If hostility becomes casual, call it out.
I never imagined I’d see my friends murdered in our place of worship in our quiet Michigan town, but it happened. I don’t want any other family—of any faith—to run for their lives in a place that should be safe. We can stop hatred from growing, but only if we stop accepting it.
We can choose something better. But we have to choose it together.
