My Daughter Refused The Field Trip. Hours Later The School Called: The Bus Went Off A Cliff.

The truth mattered more than my job security. Justice mattered more than convenience, and the lives of those 25 people mattered more than any institution’s desire to protect its reputation.

I taught middle school math for 11 years before the crash. Afterward, I became something different—an advocate, an activist, someone who understood that silence in the face of preventable tragedy is its own form of complicity.

The Cascade Ridge Safety Foundation grew into a regional organization, working with school districts across three states to implement proper maintenance protocols and safety oversight. We helped pass legislation, trained administrators, audited bus fleets, and shared Zoe’s story whenever it might make a difference.

Four years after the crash, I received a letter from Patricia Dunn. She was the mother who’d given that devastating quote about her son’s life not being worth the cost of brake pads.

“Dear Catherine, I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done to honor our children’s memories and to prevent other families from experiencing what we went through.” She wrote.

“When I learned that you’d been suspended for speaking out, I was furious on your behalf. When I learned that you’d turned that retaliation into a nonprofit dedicated to safety reform, I was inspired.” The letter continued.

“My son Thomas is gone and nothing will ever fill that void, but knowing that his death and the deaths of his classmates led to real change—that it meant something beyond grief and loss—that helps. It doesn’t fix anything, but it helps.” Patricia wrote.

“You gave us that. You refused to let their deaths be swept under bureaucratic excuses and insurance settlements. You demanded accountability and you got it. Thank you. I will be forever grateful that you had the courage to speak when the district wanted everyone to stay silent. Sincerely, Patricia.” The letter concluded.

I kept that letter in my desk drawer and read it whenever I felt tired or discouraged. It helped me when I wondered if any of this advocacy work actually mattered.

It mattered to Patricia. It mattered to the other families, and it mattered to the thousands of students who rode safer buses because of the reforms we’d fought for.

And it mattered to Zoe, who was growing up knowing that her survival had meaning beyond random chance. She knew that the nightmare that had saved her life had also helped prevent future tragedies.

On the fifth anniversary of the crash, Julie Brennan published a retrospective piece examining what had changed. The statistics were encouraging: school bus safety violations had decreased by 63% statewide, and maintenance funding had increased by 41% on average.

The number of buses operating with expired certifications had dropped to nearly zero. But the article also noted that the changes had only happened because of public pressure following a tragedy.

“Systemic change shouldn’t require dead children,” Julie wrote in her conclusion. “But in this case, it did. The Cascade Ridge crash exposed failures that had existed for years but were only addressed after 25 people paid the ultimate price.”

“The question now is whether we can maintain these reforms without the emotional impetus of fresh tragedy, or whether we’ll gradually slip back into the cost-cutting mindset that made the crash inevitable.” She asked.

“The answer to that question will determine whether those 25 lives lost on Cascade Ridge Road truly mattered, or whether they become just another cautionary tale that’s eventually forgotten.” She concluded.

I read that article and thought about my daughter and the morning she locked herself in the bathroom. I thought about the choice I made to listen to her fear instead of dismissing it as childish anxiety.

I thought about the other parents—the ones who’d said goodbye to their children that morning and never saw them alive again. They were parents who trusted that the school district would keep their kids safe and were betrayed by that trust.

I thought about what I’d learned over five years of fighting for accountability. Institutions will always protect themselves unless forced to do otherwise.

Speaking truth to power has consequences, but silence has worse ones. The only way to honor preventable deaths is to prevent the next ones.

Zoe is 13 now, thriving in middle school. She still sees Dr. Quan occasionally when the anniversary of the crash brings back difficult memories.

She knows she survived because she trusted a feeling she couldn’t explain. She knows that her mother risked her career to make sure those deaths weren’t covered up or forgotten.

“Do you think they’d be proud of you?” She asked me recently. “Your old students, the ones who died. Do you think they’d be happy about what you did?”

“I think,” I said carefully. “That if they could see how many children are safer now because of the changes that came from their deaths, they’d want that to continue.”

“I think they’d want us to keep fighting to make sure no other class loses an entire generation of friends because adults chose money over safety. And I think they’d want you to know that surviving isn’t something to feel guilty about.” I said.

“It’s something to honor by living fully and speaking truth and never accepting that preventable tragedies are just accidents we have to accept.” I concluded.

She nodded, processing that in the way teenagers do—half understanding and half still figuring it out.

“I’m glad you didn’t make me get on that bus,” She said finally. “Even though I didn’t know why I was scared, I’m glad you listened.”

“I’m glad I listened too,” I said. “And I’m sorry I ever considered not listening, even for a moment.”

The memorial wall in Milbrook has become a place where people leave flowers year-round now. It’s become a symbol of both loss and accountability.

The 25 people whose names are etched in that granite died because of choices that could have been different. The Cascade Ridge Safety Foundation continues its work auditing fleets and advocating for maintenance funding.

We’ve expanded into other areas of school safety—building maintenance, playground equipment, and food service protocols. This is because the same mindset that led to the bus crash exists everywhere budgets are tight.

My career changed the day I decided to talk to Julie Brennan. I stopped being a middle school math teacher and became someone who fights institutional failure by refusing to stay silent.

It’s harder work, emotionally exhausting and sometimes thankless, but it’s work that matters. It matters in ways that teaching algebra never quite did.

I know what happens when people trust institutions to protect children and those institutions choose budgets over safety instead. I’ve seen the granite wall with 25 names and I’ve met the families who wake up every day without their children.

I’ve held my own daughter close and known that the only difference between her survival and their loss was a nightmare I could have dismissed but chose to honor instead. I’ve learned that the most important thing any of us can do is tell the truth, even when there are consequences.

Silence protects the people who made the bad choices. Truth protects the people who might be next.

The bus that crashed has been preserved as evidence, and will probably be preserved forever as a teaching tool. I saw it once in a state police evidence facility—a crumpled yellow wreck that used to carry children.

Looking at it, I thought about all the moments that led to its final journey off Cascade Ridge Road. I thought of the budget meetings, the failed inspection, the extensions granted, and the decision to keep operating it because new buses were expensive.

Twenty-five people died because someone decided to take that gamble. If my daughter hadn’t locked herself in a bathroom and if I hadn’t listened to her fear, she would have been one of them.

I think about that every single day. It’s why I can’t stop fighting for the reforms that make tragedies like this less likely.

It’s why I show up to legislative hearings and school board meetings. It’s why I tell Zoe’s story over and over, even though reliving that morning never gets easier.

Somewhere right now, there’s probably another school district deferring maintenance to save money. There is likely another bus with failing brakes still carrying children.

Maybe if enough people hear this story, the next district will make a different choice. Maybe the next child who has a nightmare about a bus will be listened to instead of dismissed.

That’s the only justice I can offer the 25 people whose names are etched in granite in Milbrook. That’s the only way their deaths mean anything beyond grief and loss.