Two months ago, my husband, our three young kids, and I ran for our lives through smoke and gunfire.

A man with 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 fleeing for safety. He set the building ablaze with families still inside. My 5-year-old daughter and husband were both shot. I was hit by shrapnel while holding my toddler and carrying my 3-year-old. Four of our friends died.

Since that day, fear has woven itself into our lives. We’ve tried to rebuild a sense of normalcy—to show our kids the world can still be joyful and safe. Healing is slow, and every small moment of peace feels hard-earned.

That’s why going to 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 shot at a date night. A chance to do something we used to love. An evening where, for a few hours, the attack might not consume every thought.

We arrived nervous but hopeful. We cheered. We smiled. We let ourselves enjoy being part of a crowd again.

Then, midway through the game, a chant started rising from the Cincinnati student section: “F***k the Mormons.” It wasn’t just a few fans—it was hundreds. Loud. Coordinated. Unapologetic.

To some, that chant might sound like trash talk or rivalry banter. But when you’ve been to four funerals in a week for friends murdered because of their faith, when you’ve held your wounded child and prayed she’d live, those words aren’t “just words.” They’re threats. They’re echoes of the same hatred that almost destroyed my family.

Cincinnati’s athletic director John Cunningham has since for the offensive, derogatory, and dangerous cheer. But it wasn’t my first time hearing it.

Before the attack, I knew about these chants. They 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.

That stadium chant wasn’t an isolated incident. It’s part of a willingness to demean, insult, or mock people in public. A culture that shrugs off cruelty when it’s done loudly, as long as it’s wrapped in a crowd’s energy.

Hatred rarely starts with violence. It starts with dehumanization—with chants, jokes, the idea that some groups are acceptable targets. I’ve seen firsthand where that thinking leads.

Let me be clear: this isn’t just about me or my faith. I’m speaking up now because what happened to me—in Michigan and Ohio—ties to something affecting many Americans of many beliefs.

Americans are facing rising threats. Americans are dealing with an unacceptable increase in Islamophobia. And the horrific 2012 shooting at a Sikh Temple in Milwaukee, Wisconsin made many Americans feel targeted. But no one should fear for their safety because of their faith—or lack of it. Not in a country founded on religious freedom.

Looking forward

To ensure no group is targeted, American leaders must draw real lines—and enforce them.

During the game, I heard an announcement warning that hateful chants wouldn’t 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 isn’t a sport, a joke, or part of the game-day experience. Because when contempt becomes normal in small moments, it’s 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. All I’m asking is for 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 watch my friends get 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.