Life can change in an instant. On June 16, 1978, I was 19 and at a Giants game at Candlestick Park. I was standing next to my bright orange Chevy Vega when I felt a powerful force that knocked me to my knees. I saw a hole in my coat and blood dripping. I said to my friends “You guys, I think I got shot.” How I knew I had been shot is still a mystery to me, as there was no sound or warning event. My boyfriend found a security guard who drove me to San Francisco General Hospital, where the doctors and team found that I had a .38 slug lodged near my spine. It entered on my abdomen above my hip bone and damaged my intestines before landing a few centimeters away from my spine. I was so very lucky to have the outcome that I did. I live with this little reminder of just how much damage caused by guns in the wrong hands. With each mass shooting that happens, my positive attitude and PTSD get triggered, which sends me into a panic and depression. I will never stop fighting for everyone’s safety.