People say they can’t imagine, but they can.

Every parent knows what it’s like to even briefly imagine their child being hurt or killed – your stomach lurches and grows warm as a deep heat creeps into your chest. Your heartbeat increases and your fight, flight or freeze instinct kicks in.

Parents have to push away that terrifying thought in order to drop a child off at school, the mall, a church or a movie theater.

Jessica Hernandez and Gloria Cazares no longer have that luxury. Neither do the parents of 17 other children in Uvalde, Texas, and the thousands of parents across the country whose children have died in mass shootings.

_{A memorial dedicated to the 19 children and two adults killed on May 24, 2022 during the mass shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The world has moved on, but for families of the victims, time stopped that day. Brandon Bell / Getty Images}

For 12 months, Gloria Cazares has been either frozen or fighting. When she is not spending time in her daughter Jackie’s perfectly preserved room – the clothes the 9-year-old wore the day before she was killed in her school still lay on the edge of her bed – Cazares attends rallies, marches and legislative hearings in support of gun laws.

“You’re tired, but when we come home it’s so quiet that you’re just in your thoughts,” Cazares tells TODAY.com. “It’s just my way of grieving, the advocacy, because it’s a lot easier than being home and not doing anything.”

Meanwhile, Jessica Hernandez has alternated between the "freeze" and "flight" response. After her daughter, 10-year-old Alithia, died inside Robb Elementary School, Hernandez says she couldn’t eat or sleep.

“It was like a nightmare,” Hernandez, 31, tells TODAY.com, holding back tears. “It was so much all at one time and really, really painful.” In the year since the shooting, Hernandez and her family have moved three times. Her life is still in boxes she has yet to unpack. Her daughter’s belongings – except for a box of Alithia’s art that she can’t be apart from – remain in storage, untouched.

One year later, both moms have come to a stark realization: The world has continued to spin madly on, with the days of grief, mourning and anger all blending together. And no matter whether they sit in the pain or try to run from it, their little girls aren’t coming home.

Gloria’s story: ‘The pain has not gotten any easier.’

Gloria Cazares can still recall the morning of May 24, 2022, in vivid detail. Her daughter, Jacklyn “Jackie” Cazares, had just received an award for her hard work as a fourth grader at Robb Elementary School.

“I remember walking out of the cafeteria with her and her friends,” Cazares, 41, tells TODAY.com. “I was showing (the girls) some pictures of their pre-K graduation and Jackie asked me to send them to her.

“As we’re walking out, I’m sending them to her,” she continues, reliving that moment with her daughter. “Just before she turns the hallway, I give her a hug, say ‘I love you’ and we said goodbye.”

That was the last time Cazares saw her daughter alive. An hour later, she was shot and killed inside her classroom, along with 18 of her classmates and two teachers.

_{Home videos of Jackie Cazares, provided by her family.}

As Cazares recalls the hours and days that followed, her clarity crumbles. What follows in her memories are a flood of scattered, blurry and out-of-body experiences.

She remembers she couldn’t fall asleep until 8:00 am the following morning.

She remembers attending a press conference later that day – not because she wanted to, but because her family insisted.

She remembers “people coming in and leaving food and condolence cards” in the days that followed, but still can’t recall who was actually inside her home.

“The next thing I remember is leaving the house to plan Jackie’s funeral,” she says.

Jackie was buried in her First Communion dress, the one she wore 16 days before she died. The family remembers her dancing with her uncle, Jesse Rizo – spinning in circles in her white dress and making sure her hair was perfectly placed behind her shoulders at the end of each twirl.

_{Jackie Cazares and her older sister Jazmin, on the day of Jackie's First Communion. Weeks later, Jazmin chose that white dress for Jackie to be buried in. Courtesy Gloria Cazares}

_{Jackie Cazares and her older sister Jazmin, on the day of Jackie's First Communion. Weeks later, Jazmin chose that white dress for Jackie to be buried in. Courtesy Gloria Cazares}

Cazares says she did not make any of her daughter’s funeral decisions – she couldn’t. Instead, Jackie’s 18-year-old sister, Jazmin, picked out her sister’s final outfit. “I didn’t pick out her undergarments. I didn’t get her shoes. I couldn’t do any of that,” Cazares says, crying.

“It feels like it’s been so long, but at the same time it feels like it’s just been yesterday. The pain has not gotten any easier – it’s gotten worse,” she adds. “I’m not even sure if I’ve let it be reality. I can’t.”

Instead, Cazares has thrown herself into advocacy work, speaking out in support of gun laws including raising the minimum age to purchase AR-15 style rifles from 18 to 21 in the state of Texas.

_{Gloria and Javier Cazares, holding a photo of Jackie at the Texas Capitol. Gloria has been fighting for stricter gun laws. "It's just my way of grieving, the advocacy," she says. "When we come home, it's so quiet." Eric Gay / AP}

_{Gloria and Javier Cazares, holding a photo of Jackie at the Texas Capitol. Gloria has been fighting for stricter gun laws. "It's just my way of grieving, the advocacy," she says. "When we come home, it's so quiet." Eric Gay / AP}

Often wearing a T-shirt featuring her daughter’s smiling face and a necklace with Jackie’s fingerprints – a gift from the funeral home – Cazares, her husband Javier, and Jazmin have testified in the Texas state Senate and House, in front of the state Capitol and in Washington, D.C., centering Jackie’s life, death and legacy in every plea for political action.

A year of advocacy has not made Cazares feel closer to Jackie, but it has kept her in constant motion – a way to fight against the weight of her daughter’s loss.

“It helps because it keeps us busy,” she says. “I’m constantly on the move, otherwise I’m just laying in my bed, crying by myself and missing her.”

Jessica’s story: ‘How can I talk to her, knowing that she should still be here?’

Jessica Hernandez remembers when she told her daughter, Alithia Haven Ramirez, that she had a job opportunity in a town about 40 minutes north of Uvalde.

“I told her we had a new place and were going to move,” Hernandez says. “She was excited, saying she was going to ‘paint this’ and ‘decorate that.’”

The next day, Alithia was killed at Robb Elementary alongside 18 classmates and two teachers.

_{Home videos of Alithia Haven Ramirez, provided by her family. Courtesy Jessica Hernandez}

Hernandez decided to move as planned – she says she “thought being away would have helped.”

Three months later she moved back to Uvalde, unable to run from the pain.

“(My employer) didn’t understand about the loss of my daughter,” she says. “They told me to ‘take the time that I need,’ but they were expecting me to work and I was having a really hard time because I was at work the day that everything happened.”

Back in Uvalde, Hernandez hoped returning to the place where her daughter was last alive would help.

“I was wrong,” Hernandez says, adding that her return “brought up so many emotions.”

“I didn’t really have support,” she adds. “I was always by myself at the house. I was always crying. It wasn’t really good at all, coming back.”

A portrait of Jessica Hernandez, Ryan Ramirez and their children Jonah Ramirez and Akeelah Ramirez in front of their new home in Dilley, Texas.

_{Jessica Hernandez, Ryan Ramirez and their surviving children, Jonah Ramirez and Akeelah Ramirez, in front of their new home in Dilley, Texas. Jessica and her family have moved three times since her daughter, Alithia, was shot to death in her Uvalde school. She says she thought moving would help. It didn't. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

Hernandez has now moved for a third time, to her hometown of Dilly, Texas. She still can’t go through her daughter’s belongings.

“I just start crying, because all her stuff is there – her bed frame; her art desk that we got her for Christmas; all the memories we had together,” Hernandez says. “Eventually we’re going to get everything out.”

Hernandez still cannot say the word “shooting” out loud. She cannot go near a school or see a school bus. As a result of the botched police response to the school shooting – hundreds of officers waited to confront the shooter for over an hour, documents show – it hurts for her to see law enforcement officers.

_{Jessica Hernandez sits in a room of her new home that is filled with photos, drawings and tributes to her daughter, Alithia Haven Ramirez, a victim of the Uvalde school shooting last year. Jessica still can't say the word "shooting" out loud. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

_{Jessica Hernandez sits in a room of her new home that is filled with photos, drawings and tributes to her daughter, Alithia Haven Ramirez, a victim of the Uvalde school shooting last year. Jessica still can't say the word "shooting" out loud. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

She can’t speak to her daughter when visiting her grave.

“I know some families talk to their loved ones – I can’t do that,” she says. “I start crying. I do go and decorate and I do say ‘I love you’ but I can’t talk to her like I used to.

“How can I do that, just knowing what happened to her?” Hernandez adds, sobbing. “How can I talk to her, knowing that she should still be here?”

Jessica Hernandez wears a necklace with a photo of her and her daughter, Alithia Haven Ramierz, around her neck.

_{Jessica Hernandez wears a necklace with a photo of her and her daughter, Alithia Haven Ramirez. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

Together, but still alone: ‘They should all still be here.’

The past year has looked different for the two moms, who have both been forced to find their own ways of dealing with the trauma of losing a child to gun violence.

Cazares re-creates moments with Jackie as if she was still alive. Before the shooting, Cazares would lay in bed with Jackie every night before she went to sleep. The pair would talk about the day, especially if something noteworthy had occurred or Jackie was excited about something.

Now, Cazares visits Jackie’s untouched room and speaks to her daughter as if she was back in her arms, laying with her in bed.

“She loved her room and it’s a special place for me,” Cazares says, “because it was a special place for her.”

Hernandez has remained uprooted – each move more painful than the last – as she attempts to find a new “normal” after burying her own child.

With no consecrated bedroom to visit and no reprieve to be found at her daughter’s grave, Hernandez says she feels Alithia through her surviving siblings, 4-year-old Jonah and 6-year-old Akeelah Ramirez.

Ryan Ramirez with his children Akeelah Ramirez and Jonah Ramirez watch television in their new home in Dilley, Texas. A drawing of his daughter Alithia Haven Ramirez, with flowers and other items she loved, is behind them.

_{"I feel like she's with us." Ryan Ramirez, with his children Akeelah and Jonah, watch television in their new home. A drawing of his daughter, Alithia Haven Ramirez, with flowers and other items she loved, is behind them. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

“Akeelah talks like Alithia,” Hernandez says. “She’s starting to draw like her sister. When I’m sad they don’t say anything, they just come to me and give me a hug and a kiss. And the thing is, when Alithia would see me sad she would always just be there to hug me and tell me: ‘Mommy, I want to make you happy. I’ll tell Daddy to get you flowers.’

“The little things they do, I feel like she’s with us,” Hernandez adds. “I really do.”

Neither approach keeps the grief away for long.

_{Alithia dreamed of becoming an artist. Jessica Hernandez shows a drawing her daughter made of her family. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

_{Alithia dreamed of becoming an artist. Jessica Hernandez shows a drawing her daughter made of her family. Liz Moskowitz for TODAY}

Jackie’s clothes, while never once moved, no longer smell like her – her fading scent a reminder of how much time has passed with her no longer in the world.

“It breaks your heart all over again,” Cazares says. “It has already been so long since I can feel her or hear her – one of the last things was her scent. I just feel like I’m losing her all over again.”

And Hernandez cannot outrun her grief – it permeates every part of her being and is heightened after every interaction she has with someone who doesn’t know what to say or offers empty platitudes that don’t dull the pain.

“It gets me really mad when people tell me that she’s ‘in a better place,’” Hernandez says. “They shouldn’t say anything to me to make me feel better because there’s nothing anyone can say – everyone knows that. This shouldn’t have happened at all. They should all still be here.”

_{Photos of 19 children and 2 teachers who died in the mass shooting are displayed at a makeshift memorial in Uvalde, Texas. (Top L-R) Eva Mireles, 44; Tess Mata, 10; Rojelio Torres, 10; Jose Flores Jr, 10; Maite Yuleana Rodriguez, 10; Jackie Cazares, 9; Maranda Mathis, 11. (Middle L-R) Xavier Lopez, 10; Alexandria "Lexi" Rubio, 10; Eliahna Cruz Torres, 10; Alithia Haven Ramirez, 10; Jailah Nicole Silguero, 10; Uziyah Garcia, 10; Nevaeh Bravo, 10. (Bottom L-R) Makenna Lee Elrod, 10; Annabell Rodriguez, 10; Amerie Jo Garza, 10; Jayce Carmelo Luevanos, 10; Layla Salazar, 11; Eliahna Garcia, 9; and Irma Garcia, 48. Chandan Khanna / AFP via Getty Images}

Every day, more and more parents join them

Both Hernandez and Cazares speak of their daughters with a charming fondness, an edge of desperation in their voices as they try to make their daughters come alive for strangers who will never get to meet them.

There’s Jackie, who wanted to visit Paris, France, after she graduated high school. Jackie, who cried when she realized she was going to be an aunt for the very first time. Jackie, who gave the best hugs, holding onto her loved one longer than most and giving them a tight squeeze.

“She just loved hard,” Cazares says.

Then there’s Alithia, who also wanted to go to Paris, to become a professional artist. Alithia, who would roll her eyes at her mom every time she joked that they were sisters, not mother and daughter. Alithia, who made terrible “dad jokes” and who loved to play soccer.

“She was just so talented,” Hernandez says. “She was so kind.”

Hernandez and Cazares wish you could meet their daughters, wish you could see for yourself how lovable and sweet and good they were. They have lived without them and with a sickening feeling – their stomachs lurching, their chests on fire – every single day since May 24, 2022. They also live with the knowledge that every day, more and more parents are joining them.

There have been more mass shootings in 2023 than there have been days, each one transporting the mothers back to the moment they were told their daughters had not made it out of their school alive.

“You know exactly how that family is feeling, and then I feel like I have failed them. Like I didn't push enough,” Cazares says. “My whole goal is to prevent another parent from being in my shoes.”

“Every time I see it or hear it, it brings me back to May 24,” Hernandez adds. “We can’t move forward when it keeps happening.”