Living in Tucson comes with an annual pause—a moment that gently but firmly asks us to reflect, to remember, and to recommit to kindness and civility. Each Janu…
Living in Tucson comes with an annual pause—a moment that gently but firmly asks us to reflect, to remember, and to recommit to kindness and civility. Each January, the anniversary of January 8, 2011 serves as both a wound and a wake-up call for our community.
I remember that day as vividly as if it were yesterday.
I was in Mesa, Arizona, at my daughter Haley’s volleyball tournament when I walked into the gym and overheard someone say, “Gabby Giffords was shot.” My jaw dropped. I stood frozen, then glued to the news feed for the rest of the day. Shock doesn’t quite capture it. This had happened at a place that felt so familiar, so safe—the Safeway parking lot at Oracle and Ina, during a Congress on the Corner event on the first Saturday of the new year.
The devastation felt impossibly close.
That same horrific day, something else happened—something I’ve carried with me ever since.
Later that night, around 10:30 p.m., the tournament had ended and we discovered my son had accidentally locked the keys inside my brand-new Lincoln MKT. My phone battery was below 10%, my husband was on a flight and unreachable, and we were stranded in a remote area of rural Mesa—miles from what felt like civilization.
Then a man in Wrangler jeans and boots approached and asked if we needed help.
As he leaned toward the window, my daughter quietly whispered, “Mom… he has a gun.” It was tucked into the back of his waistband. For a brief moment, uneasiness washed over me—but when he noticed we saw it, he calmly said, “Sorry about that. I always carry it for safety.”
His tone, his demeanor—everything about him made us feel safer, not threatened.
He offered to drive us to the nearest hotel—or even all the way back to Tucson to get our spare key. We declined the longer trip, but he drove us about 20 minutes to a nearby hotel, talking along the way about his faith, his family values, and what it meant to help strangers simply because it was the right thing to do.
On a day marked by violence and hatred, we were met with kindness and trust from someone we didn’t know—someone who asked nothing in return.
In the days that followed, the grief deepened.
I learned that one of the victims was Christina-Taylor Green, a nine-year-old girl who lived right across the street from us. She had been inspired by President Obama and eager to attend the event with her neighbor. I also learned that the shooter had attended Mountain View High School—our neighborhood school, just a couple of miles away.
Our home felt surrounded by pain.
Across the street was Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton—my daughter’s school and the church that would host many of the funerals, including for Gabe Zimmerman, whom I had spoken with just weeks earlier. I had been eager to meet with Congresswoman Giffords to discuss ideas around healthy communities and civic engagement. At the same time, I had just launched my first magazine, Tucson MOVE, focused on sports, recreation, family, and celebrating all the goodness of our community.
Everything stopped.
The next issue didn’t come out until May—and the cover featured children running in memory of Christina-Taylor Green.
On January 8, 2012, something powerful emerged from the pain.
Beyond Tucson was formed—not to forget, but to remember and to move forward. Its mission was simple and profound: to take tragedy and transform it into action through movement, nourishment, connection, and exploration of our diverse community.
For years, I participated in Beyond Tucson events—often through hula hoop gatherings held at places like St. Philip’s Plaza, Mercado San Agustín, Himmel Park, and even in classrooms. These events often aligned with National Blood Donor Month, allowing us to pair movement with a public health message through a project close to my heart: My Cardio Girl.
The message was clear:
This work connected deeply with partners like Team Lizzie Bell—a nonprofit born from lived experience, supporting families managing long-term chronic care. Their daughter Lizzie lived with Diamond-Blackfan anemia and required frequent blood transfusions for much of her life. We also partnered with the Southern Arizona Red Cross and, more recently, the Sickle Cell Foundation of Arizona.
What began as a community message has since grown into an empowered STEAM game and club within The Force for Health® Network.
The past two years, I haven’t been able to lead hula hoop gatherings—after my red Mustang convertible was stolen from my driveway in January 2023, along with the 20 hoops I used for classes and events. But my commitment to January 8 hasn’t changed.
Instead, I’ve shown up through the Saguaro (Seguro) Fun Run, choosing either the one- or four-mile option—one of 20–30 Beyond Tucson events spread across two weeks.
For me, January 8 through January 15—MLK week—has become a personal reset.
I intentionally avoid over-committing the first few days of January. I need space to breathe after the holidays. But January 8 marks a shift. A moment to ground myself. To recommit to being a kind, compassionate human. To honor nature. To practice better civil discourse. To move forward with intention.
Beyond Tucson reminds us that while we can never forget January 8, we can choose what we do with its lessons.
As we prepare for future Reality Health Games, we will be intentionally including visits to the January 8 Memorial and the Arizona History Museum—inviting participants to remember, honor, and reflect, while also embracing the call to move, nourish, connect, and explore.
As you move through January—and especially the days between January 8 and January 15—I invite you to pause with intention.
Choose one simple way to honor the memory and the message:
These small acts matter.
They are how we move, nourish, connect, and explore—not just for a week in January, but throughout the year.
As part of the Reality Health Games, we will continue to create space for remembrance, reflection, and forward movement—because honoring the past and caring for our collective future are not separate acts.
They are one and the same.
May this January be your reset.
May kindness lead.
And may we continue to move forward—together, and beyond.