I'm considering microschooling, hybrid learning, and other options. I don't feel safe putting my daughter in public schools because of gun violence.

• As gun violence in schools rises, I'm considering alternative education for my daughter.
• I'm looking into starting a microschool, a homeschooling co-op, or an alternative learning center.
• It's not just for her safety: I work at a university, and I'm thinking about my future, too.

It's been three days since news broke of yet another mass shooting in the US, where three young kids were killed — along with three adults — at their private school in Nashville, Tennessee. 

Right now, my daughter is 3. She loves cats and playing outside. In just a few short years, she'll start kindergarten at an elementary school. So when news like this hits my screen, I'm, of course, already thinking ahead. 

I tiptoe around my worst fear in conversations with school directors: Can you tell us about your safety protocols? Sometimes they don't know what I'm getting at. They respond by telling me about their teacher-to-child ratio, their CPR certifications, and the like.

I wish I didn't have to spell it out for them, to ask explicitly and out loud about which measures are in place to protect my child, should, God forbid, a mass shooting or other gun violence break out on the school's campus.

Yet this is the reality we're living in.

I'm planning for my daughter's future

After the shootings in Connecticut's Sandy Hook, Uvalde, Texas, and now Nashville, I'm losing faith in our country's ability to keep our kids safe. 

That I even have to ask these questions leads me to another question: Is a large school setting right for us at all? Maybe we need something entirely different. For instance, perhaps we could start our own small school. It seems we're not alone in our questioning; after all, enrollment in hybrid schools, microschools, and alternative learning centers is on the rise and has been since the start of the pandemic.

Although I'm just starting to wrap my head around the idea of starting a small school myself, a good friend of mine has run an agile learning center in Georgia for the past two years and has seen her kids grow in confidence and self-led problem solving skills while having fun at the same time.

The kids at her school are empowered by helping to set the day's plan and learn through play-based projects of their choice. Hearing about schools like this one and having a friend share her experience makes the thought of starting my own a lot less daunting since there's a blueprint or a road map laid out — a loose plan I could follow for my daughter and for the kids in our community.

I'm also thinking about myself — there has to be a better way

But it's not just my daughter's future and safety I'm thinking about — it's also mine. Since 2014, I have been working at a public university in a variety of roles, including as a graduate instructor, visiting instructor, administrative coordinator, and program specialist.

On Wednesday, shortly after 9 a.m., our building's alarm system began to blare. I covered my ears and looked to the spot under my desk where I'd already decided to hide should "anything ever happen." 

Here at the university, I've attended the active-shooter drills provided to us and have memorized the "run, hide, fight" directive just like the "stop, drop, and roll" instructions we learned as kids. And it pains me to think that we should continue to just "take it," accepting and normalizing the idea of mass shootings while going on about our days, despite our country already enduring at least 130 mass shootings since the start of 2023. 

As we gathered outside Wednesday morning, the siren's blare finally subsiding, I talked to a colleague who has two young girls, one the same age as the kids who were gunned down in Nashville. 

"I don't know what to do, but it's got me thinking ahead already," I said to her.

"We just have to pray," she said, adding: "We can't stay in the bubble wrap."

After giving me a knowing glance, she said: "What can you do?"

We walked back into the building soon after, following college students, professors, and administrators alike and avoiding the slight awkwardness of realizing we may have two different opinions about what should be done about gun violence in our country. 

Praying isn't going to stop mass shootings. It hasn't yet. And starting a microschool, to me, is not "bubble wrapping" — it's not sticking our heads in the sand and avoiding the problem. It's taking control and strategizing a realistic and feasible exit plan from schooling options that no longer feel safe. It's looking at our options, including considering full-time remote work plus homeschooling, perhaps a homeschooling co-op where other teacher-parents trade days teaching.

Honestly, I want to do anything but send my kid to a large school where they'll face active-shooter drills and could become prey to whoever decides to pick up a semiautomatic weapon that day. It's about getting creative and working to solve a real-world problem that almost nobody else seems to be doing anything about (at least not people in power). We can use the skills that we have and trade in desk jobs for, perhaps, a play-based, do-it-yourself school at a home or rental property.

Mulling over this decision isn't something that my family is taking lightly. Public school worked great for me nearly 30 years ago, but with mass shootings skyrocketing, and no plans for major gun reform in sight, I refuse to take a gamble when it comes to my daughter's life.

At night, before falling asleep, I sometimes strategize while tossing and turning, envisioning her future in a school that's a bit smaller and feels a little safer. My partner tries to ease my fears, reminding me that the statistics are in our favor and reminding me that mass shootings can happen anywhere — great.

While that's true, I can't go to sleep just hoping or praying that my kid won't be the one. And I won't.