After hitting snooze a few times, I started my morning by checking my Twitter feed. I saw #wearorange was trending and orange selfies were popping up all over (no, they weren’t of Donald Trump). I read through the tweets of out of touch celebrities and socialist-leaning politicians whom were promoting the “movement to end gun violence” and literally had to facepalm. I chose a navy dress to throw on for work today because (and call me crazy) I wouldn’t care to point out the fact that I am opposed to guns and therefore likely NOT carrying concealed.

But hey, I could have a whistle or maybe a call box within 100 yards. Beware, criminals.

When I think of the color orange, all that fills my mind are mental images I catalogued first hand ten years ago. I still remember the melodic “clink” of handcuffs as they locked around my rapist’s wrists. It sounded almost as redemptive as hearing “we find the defendant guilty” spoken by the jury foreperson moments beforehand. The prison jumpsuit he had worn since June 3^rd of 2006 will forever embody that blazing color to me.

As I walked out my front door into the world that is predictable only in a way that consistently proves evil can lurk around any corner, I reflected on the tangible things I’ve done to help end violence.

I reported my rape.
I testified in court.
I put a rapist in prison.
I suffered through traumatic side effects no person should ever experience.
I released my name.
I spoke out for victims.
I testified in front of legislators.
I confronted the president on gun control measures that chip away at our constitutional rights.
And I had the resolve to know I’d continue to do so.

So no, I didn’t wear orange to magically end gun violence today. I exercised my constitutional right as an American by wearing my Smith & Wesson on my hip, and headed out of the house knowing what I was wearing truly could make a difference.