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***

I was in the room at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner when shots rang out and chaos followed.

I’m not a journalist. I was invited as a guest of The Daily Wire. I accepted immediately — why wouldn’t I? It’s an experience I’d never had. I had no idea how memorable it would be.

I went alone, and as an introvert, the thought of entering a ballroom filled with 2,600 strangers and making small talk filled me with dread. This was small talk on steroids. Still, it felt like a cultural bucket-list moment. I’ve been to the Grammys, several Super Bowls, the MTV Video Music Awards (back when they were a hot ticket), and Coachella many times. These are the kinds of happenings you remember. Why not add this one to the list?

I got dressed up, had my makeup done, and headed to the hotel. My Uber couldn’t get close, so I walked the last six blocks in the rain. By the time I arrived, I looked like a drowned rat. Oh well, I thought, no one will be looking at me. Protesters screamed as I approached.

“F*ck you!”

“Pedophile!”

“If you go in there, you’re complicit!”

“Free Palestine!”

Credit: Clay Travis

It was unsettling, but I’ve faced protesters before. I ran inside, showed my ticket, passed purse check and a metal detector, and went straight to the bar for a glass of wine.

I found my hosts: Brent Scher, editor in chief of The Daily Wire, and his wife, Cassie. The other guest of The Daily Wire that I’d share a table with was Jessica Reed Kraus of House Inhabit. We laughed about our soaked hair, ruined makeup, and now crooked fake lashes, then made our way to our table in the back of the massive room — true nosebleed seats, perfect for people-watching.

Despite my initial anxiety about the event, I was having fun.

“There’s Harris Faulkner.” “There’s that media guy. What’s his name? Brian Stelter!”

Credit: Jennifer Sey

We took photos and settled in as the energy built. We wondered what a mentalist would actually do on stage, and we wished the organizers had risked a comedian instead of avoiding controversy.

Then it happened.

Shouting. “Get down! Get under the table!”

Three loud pops. Gunshots. I didn’t know if they were in our room.

Is this really happening?

I dropped under the table, clutching the hand of a woman I’d met barely an hour earlier. We were teary-eyed but not hysterical. Two waitstaff huddled with us. One woman at our table kept her composure, calmly repeating, “You’re okay, you’re okay. Stay down.” Over and over.

We watched FBI Director Kash Patel rush past while we stayed low.

I never thought I’d experience anything like this. I work in fashion. As the chief marketing officer for Levi’s, I hosted some of the biggest parties at Coachella. Our worst fear was someone taking too many party drugs and getting sick. We never worried about gunfire.

Yet every major cultural or conservative event I attend now — Turning Point USA’s Young Women’s Leadership Summit, a Moms for Liberty event, and now the White House Correspondents’ Dinner — carries the real risk of leftist violence. I knew it the moment I was under that table. Some deranged leftist believed he was a hero, just like the alleged killer Luigi Mangione.

I have a stalker who leaves threatening voicemails. Friends tell me to “be careful,” but what does that mean anymore? If a shooter can get anywhere near the president at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, there’s no safe level of careful. You simply live your life and hope fate is kind.

I wasn’t with my husband or even a close friend. I had no idea how close the gunman was. Would he burst into the ballroom and start spraying bullets? I was in the back — perfect collateral damage for someone who views shooting at this president as a heroic act.

Eventually Jessica and I decided to run. We slipped out a side door and walked as fast as we could in heels. It was cold. My bad ankle screamed with every step, but adrenaline pushed me forward. We sat down somewhere, sirens blaring, still unsure what had actually happened.

We caught an Uber, but police blocked everything. We ended up standing on a corner with other women in evening dresses while National Guard troops pointed guns and shouted. I just wanted out. We eventually slipped around the yellow tape. I left the group and walked alone back to my hotel. Protesters and homeless people yelled at me on the streets, but it barely registered.

I finally reached my room, called my husband, and texted my oldest son.

I wasn’t in real danger; the gunman never reached the ballroom. But in those terrifying minutes, you don’t know that. You hear shots, huddle under a table with strangers, and wonder whether a tablecloth will be the only thing between you and death.

I went to the dinner to celebrate a free press and free speech. Instead, I ended up squeezing the hand of a woman I’d just met, huddled under a table, wrestling with the very real possibility that this might be it for me. I was certain it was a deranged leftist who believes violence is justified when it comes to anything connected to President Donald Trump. And that’s exactly who it appears it was.

I gave up my career when I began advocating for open schools during the pandemic because I believe in free speech. I realized under that table that if I had to, I would risk my life for it.

***

Jennifer Sey is the CEO of XX-XY Athletics. She is an author, filmmaker, and retired national champion gymnast.

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I’m Not A Journalist. I’ll Never Forget What I Saw At The White House Correspondents’ Dinner.