The silence afterward

Kindergarten dismissal had begun.

Parents gathered outside the gates, greeting their children with hugs and backpacks. Many had younger siblings tucked into strollers and were chatting with one another as they waited for their kindergartners to emerge from their classrooms. Teachers stood at their doors, smiling and waving goodbye. On the playground, older students laughed as they chased one another across the blacktop, squeezing in a few more minutes of recess before returning to class.

It was the familiar rhythm of an elementary school, the kind of afternoon that felt predictable, joyful, and safe.

Then the guns were drawn.

Just beyond the fence of our campus, an armed confrontation triggered an overwhelming law enforcement response. Officers from multiple agencies arrived within minutes, searching the surrounding neighborhood and our school grounds for an armed suspect. Armed officers moved onto the campus with rifles drawn as the search unfolded.

Everything changed in an instant, and almost immediately, our training took over.

Teachers ushered students indoors. Classroom doors were locked. Blinds were closed. Students who had been laughing on the playground moments before now sat quietly on classroom floors, looking to the adults around them for reassurance.

What I remember most vividly, though, were the parents.

Just moments earlier, they had been enjoying the simple routine of picking up their children. Many had babies and toddlers in tow. It was a daily gathering place, one of those quiet moments of community that naturally happens around an elementary school.

Then there was nowhere for them to go.

Without hesitation, every classroom door opened. Teachers pulled parents inside, helping maneuver strollers through narrow doorways and directing families into classrooms, offices, conference rooms, anywhere we could safely lock a door. Educators simply did what educators do. They protected every child and every adult they could reach.

Within minutes, the campus had transformed from the joyful bustle of dismissal into the unsettling silence of a lockdown.

As principal, there was no time to process what was happening or how I was feeling. My mind raced through an endless stream of decisions: account for every child, secure every classroom, stay connected with law enforcement, reassure staff, keep everyone calm. I was simply focused on what needed to happen next.

Hours later, the danger passed. Parents were reunited with their children. Staff began resetting classrooms. Reports were written. Phone calls were made. The school day finally came to an end.

From every outward measure, the crisis had been handled successfully.

Then I went home.

I remember sitting alone on my front porch that evening. For the first time all day, I stopped holding everything together.

I cried. Hard.

Not because our emergency procedures had failed. They hadn’t. Not because anyone had been injured. Thankfully, no one was. I cried because the emotional weight of carrying an entire school community through a traumatic event had finally caught up with me.

Looking back all these years later, I don’t remember every operational decision we made that afternoon.

But I remember sitting on my front porch after it was over, hoping someone from the district office might call. Not to review what had happened, or ask about procedures. I think I simply needed someone who understood the responsibility I had carried that day to ask, “How are you doing?”

That call never came.

I don’t remember that with anger or blame. What stayed with me was the realization that when a crisis is over for everyone else, it may not be over for the person who led others through it.

Over the years, I have participated in countless conversations about emergency preparedness. We have strengthened comprehensive safety plans, practiced lockdown procedures, refined communication protocols, partnered with law enforcement, and trained for situations we all hope never occur. Every one of those efforts matters. They save lives.

But experience taught me there is another dimension of school safety that deserves our attention.

What happens to the people who lead everyone else through the crisis?

School leaders are expected to absorb fear without displaying it. In the middle of a crisis, we project calm and make decisions, reassure teachers, respond to frightened parents, and try to create a sense of stability for everyone around us. There is rarely time in that moment to consider what the experience is doing to us.

That comes later.

When the last police car leaves, students return to class, and life begins to look normal again, principals often begin carrying the emotional weight of what has happened. The adrenaline fades. Questions begin to surface. Fatigue settles in. Sometimes, only then, does the full impact of the experience become real.

Years later, when I became a superintendent, I found myself thinking back to that afternoon and to the phone call I had hoped would come.

Whenever one of my principals experienced a crisis, whether it was the unexpected death of a student or staff member, a campus emergency, or a tragedy that shook an entire school community, I remembered what it felt like to sit on my own front porch after everyone else had gone home.

It changed the questions I asked.

When something happened at one of our schools, I tried to begin with, “How are you doing?” There would be time to review what happened, examine procedures, and determine what needed to come next. But I wanted the principal sitting across from me to know first that I understood the emotional toll leadership can take and that they were not carrying it alone.

Over time, I came to believe that one of the most important responsibilities of district leadership begins after the crisis appears to be over. We rightly devote enormous attention to the systems, training, and partnerships that keep students physically safe. But when the campus is secure and the reports are written, we also need to remember the leader who carried others through it. Sometimes that means a phone call, a visit to the campus, or simply a quiet conversation behind a closed office door.

Because the silence afterward may be when a leader needs us most.

Candy Singh, Ed.D., is a retired superintendent and leadership coach.