This is an opinion column.

Feel what you feel. All of it.

Feel all that you poured into it. All the anxiety. All the fear. All the prayers. All of yourself you gave to what you believed was a nightmare—one that gripped us all. She was gone. What happened? Where is she?

Dear God, many young Black girls thought … it could’ve been me.

It could have been my daughter. Our daughters. Any of ours.

Please find her. Please find her safe. And alive.

Feel all you feel now, too, young sisters.

Feel all you feel now that your trust has been crushed, it seems. Now that your fear and anxiety were abused, it seems. That your deep, heartfelt concern was brushed off with little more than a shrug, it seems.

That your prayers were mocked, it seems.

We don’t yet fully know why Carlee Russell did what she did. Or what we know she did, according to the Hoover police investigation, during those agonizing 49 hours after she vanished from the side of the highway.

We don’t yet fully know why she pilfered a robe and a roll of toilet paper from the spa where she worked, why she ordered food at Taziki’s, then stopped at Target for Cheez-Its and a drink.

We don’t yet fully know why she searched “Do you have to pay for an Amber alert?”, “How to take money from register without getting caught Reddit”, and “Birmingham bus station”.

Why she also searched for a one-way bus ticket from Birmingham to Nashville? (Beyonce’s Renaissance Tour was that following Saturday; just FYI.)

Why she searched the movie ‘Taken’, about the kidnapping of a retired CIA agent’s daughter while she was traveling in Paris.

We don’t yet fully know why she did all of this in the days and hours before calling 911 and claiming to see a toddler on I-495, before rolling 600 yards on the shoulder in her red Mercedes, before leaving her car and poof—to, well, we don’t know where.

We don’t yet fully know why she left behind her cell phone, the food from Taziki’s, and her wig.

And we may never fully know why.

You may never know why, young sisters.

You fully know how it all makes you feel: Betrayed. Belittled. Burned. Bitter.

You joyfully celebrated (as did we all) her safe return home late Saturday evening—maybe even leaped from your slumber rejoicing when a phone or social media notification alerted you she was home. And alive.

You were relieved, almost overwhelmingly so—as were we all.

It could’ve been me.

It could have been my daughter. Our daughters. Any of ours.

You feel it all, Including unapologetic anger—understandably.

Anger at all you poured in.

Try to feel this, too: Empathy.

Empathy for decisions not yet fully explained. For decisions that now seem nonsensical and abhorrent. For decisions that pierced us all.

Anger that you now wonder, understandably: If it happens again, if it’s me, will they believe me?

Will the community rally and search for me?

Will law enforcement move heaven in search of the hell that may have gripped me, grabbed me, or worse.

Be assured, sisters, they will.

Just as Hoover police did for Russell; law enforcement, wherever it may be, will believe you. It will unleash all resources to find you. To find you safe. To find you alive, all will pray.

Be assured, the community will believe you, too.

It will fear for you and mobilize to find you, to find you safe. To find you alive, all will pray.

They will believe you because they must. Because we must.

Because we must not allow the days when Black girls and women went missing in the dark absence of media coverage, when local law agencies too often shrugged and searched no harder than someone looking for loose change in a couch.

Because we must continue to honor Aniah Blanchard, whose horrific abduction and murder changed us. Changed how we respond when a young Black woman vanishes.

We must not let what Carlee Russell did—or why—diminish what all we must continue to do when it happens again.

No matter what we ultimately learn. Or don’t.

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