Layla’s Last Race: A Little Girl Who Ran Toward the Light
Layla Salazar was born to run.
She ran through life with the wild, unstoppable joy that only children truly understand — her hair flying, her laughter echoing through the fields, her feet barely touching the ground.
At eleven, she was a whirlwind of energy, kindness, and courage — a little girl who never walked when she could run, and who believed every sunrise was a new adventure.
Her family called her their sunshine.
She was a tomboy — always climbing trees, swimming in the river, and racing anyone who dared to challenge her.
When she wasn’t outdoors, she was dancing to TikTok videos, her moves playful and full of life.
On Mother’s Day, she even recorded a TikTok message wishing all moms a happy day — her bright smile lighting up the screen.
Layla loved the world, and the world seemed to love her back.
At Robb Elementary, she was a natural athlete.
During the school’s recent field day, she won first place in every race.
She couldn’t stop smiling as she held up her ribbons, her cheeks flushed with pride.
She talked nonstop about junior high — how she would join the track team, get her own locker, and decorate it with stickers and photos of her friends.
For Layla, life was a series of races she was always ready to run — toward dreams, toward laughter, toward everything that made her heart full.
Her grandparents adored her.
She often helped them around the house, patient and gentle, the kind of granddaughter who never forgot to say “I love you” before leaving.
To her parents, she was both joy and purpose — a bright spark that filled every corner of their lives.
Every plan, every tomorrow, somehow had Layla in it.
But then came May 24th, 2022.
The morning was bright and warm — the kind of day meant for laughter, for summer plans, for children running home with stories to tell.
Instead, it became a day that would break hearts around the world.
At 11:30 a.m., an 18-year-old gunman stormed into Robb Elementary.
He had already shot his grandmother before stealing her truck and driving to the school.
He crashed into a ditch, entered through a side door, and made his way into two adjoining classrooms filled with children and their teachers.
Then, he opened fire.
Inside those rooms, time stopped.
The laughter that had filled the hallways only moments before was replaced by chaos, fear, and heartbreak.
For over an hour, the world outside waited — parents screaming, praying, begging for news.
And when the silence finally came, nineteen children and two teachers were gone.
Layla was one of them.
The news shattered her family.
Her father, Vincent, still remembers every detail of that morning — her smile, her backpack swinging as she walked to school, her promise to race him again after dinner.
He would never get that chance.
He later shared that he still hears her voice sometimes — calling, laughing, living — as if her spirit refuses to be quiet.
Layla’s medals still hang by her window.
Her sneakers, worn and muddy from all those races, sit untouched near the door.
And her family keeps the ribbons she won — symbols of a girl who always ran ahead, always gave her all.
“She loved to run,” her father said softly. “She ran everywhere. I guess now she’s running in heaven.”
In the weeks that followed, the town of Uvalde was draped in grief.
The streets were lined with crosses, flowers, and photos of children who should have had a lifetime ahead of them.
Layla’s cross stood among them, decorated with her favorite colors — pink and turquoise — and a small drawing of a pair of running shoes with angel wings.
Her classmates remember her laughter.
Her teachers remember her determination — the way she’d grin before every race and say, “I’m going to win this one too.”
Her grandparents remember the way she hugged them tight.
And her parents remember everything — because forgetting is impossible.
She should have been getting ready for junior high, picking out her first locker decorations, running her next race.
Instead, her name joined nineteen others — children who were loved beyond measure, now forever young.
But Layla’s story isn’t only about tragedy.
It’s about motion, spirit, and the kind of light that even darkness cannot extinguish.
Every time her father hears laughter at the park, or sees kids racing each other, he smiles through tears — because somewhere, he knows Layla is still running.
Running without fear, without pain, toward the endless horizon.
And maybe that’s how we should remember her — not as a victim, but as a runner.
A girl who always moved forward, who filled the world with motion and joy.
A child who raced through life with everything she had — and when her race ended here, she simply kept going somewhere higher.
Rest in peace, Layla.
May the skies be your track, and may the angels cheer you on.