average of at least 110 people shot in our country per day. Nearly five of every 10 gun deaths of women are homicides, and every month, more than 70 women are shot and killed in intimate-partner violence, according to the research team at Everytown for Gun Safety.
But these deaths are impossible to understand just through the numbers. In speaking with women who have lost loved ones to gun violence, we’ve found their tragedies involve domestic violence, mass shootings, and death by suicide, situations that are far too common in the U.S. These women are grieving daughters, parents, and friends, and live with the heartbreaking consequences not only every day, but every minute. Here are their stories.
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un violence, and the threat of it, is impossible to escape when living in the United States of America. Last year, nearly 15,000 people died in firearm related deaths, and even more were shot—about 40,000 people—which amounts to an
Fear started to set in, but I thought she was probably okay. We started checking the local hospital, different places where we’d heard the kids were sent. I asked my friends driving me around to take me back to the school, but they said it wasn’t a good idea. I was upset, got out of the car, took off my sandals, and ran across the highway barefoot. I ran a mile to the school and sat on the curb. Eventually a volunteer firefighter told us there’d be more answers at the Civic Center, so I agreed to go.
My husband and I waited together at the Civic Center. Then, we were asked to go into a private room, and I remember turning to a volunteer and telling her I didn’t want to go. I knew I was going to hear something I wasn’t ready to hear. When we went in, they told us Lexi was one of the victims. I remember hearing the chair next to me hit the wall; my husband was standing up next to me yelling. I was confused. I kept repeating, “I don’t think I understand.” I just could not accept that Lexi was gone. I don’t think I will ever accept it.
I know that it’s easier and it feels better to think that this won’t happen to you, but the reality is that the likelihood is it will. We, as Americans, are not safe. Our kids are not safe in school. We’re not safe at concerts, at churches, at grocery stores, at parades, at movie theaters. We’re not safe, and something has to change. The reason I do this work is to hopefully make a difference and save even one family from this devastation, and also to tie Lexi’s name to change because she deserves to be remembered for who she was, and not just this tragedy.
Everybody got along with Lexi. She had been super sweet but shy as a younger child; that year, she’d really come out of her shell and was really funny with quick comebacks. She was super smart and liked music and math. There’s a scholarship in her honor at the University of San Antonio, and we do a Lexi’s Legacy Run every year around her birthday in October. On her last birthday, when she turned 10, my best friend made her a red velvet cake. So she makes that for us now every year, and we take it out to the cemetery and have cake with her at sunset.
(Tamir Kalifa)
her contractions started, she left home, but chose not to go to Al-Awda Hospital because of the danger. Instead, she went to a tent clinic newly set up in central Gaza by the International Medical Corps. Pain relief was not available for her eight-hour delivery, so she had to work through excruciating contractions. Against all odds, her baby boy was born healthy. She named him Yamen, which meant “generosity and ease,” something she longed for.
Abed stayed at the hospital for just a few hours after the birth and then went home because there wasn’t space to keep women for long. There, she groaned in pain and bled for days. But she was able to breastfeed, and Yamen thrived. Food was scarce but enough. She imagined a better future, of taking him to schools and parks and restaurants. Of having ease again.
At Al-Awda Hospital, Al-Nashef was nearing the end of her six-week medical mission. When a bomb went off, she instinctively knew to jump away from the glass because the IDF usually struck a second time. One of her fellow midwives had nearly lost her arm to shrapnel. She'd spoken to young boys who acted like men, including one who held his brother in pieces. She'd watched as more women gave birth to preterm babies, like Alreqeb’s wife had, likely from the stress of war.
One day in July, Al-Nashef heard a drone outside the hospital that she thought was a “zenana,” which means “buzzing” in Arabic—an IDF drone that is loud on purpose to let people know they’re under surveillance. But it was a quadcopter, a far more terrifying drone with four rotors that can kill people at close range. Al-Nashef was helping a woman push out her baby when the quadcopter started shooting. The woman panicked. “I said, ‘Forget about it, no one is coming close, just have the baby,’” Al-Nashef said. “I’m suturing her and hearing the firing, trying to calm her down, and you just have no idea what’s going on.”
Where before her colleagues were overworked, now “they are holding on by a thread,” she said. “They went to work, helped people have their babies…but they’re so exhausted, they kind of dissociate.” When Al-Nashef finally left Gaza for home, she immediately began thinking about returning later this year. She struggled with guilt at having left her colleagues behind. “Something about Gaza takes a piece of your heart and leaves it there,” she said.
In Cairo, Alreqeb’s daughter, Salma, received a much-needed surgery. Between shifts at the hospital, Alreqeb speaks to his wife and daughters over WhatsApp as often as he can. All he wants, all any ordinary person in Gaza wants—the mothers, the humanitarian agencies, the doctors and midwives—is a ceasefire so the war can end. Some days he sounds deeply sad, other days he speaks with fight in his voice. “Maybe you hear that people of Gaza, they love death, or they know nothing except death,” he said by voice note in June. “But actually,” he told me, “we people of Gaza, we love life.”
Abed had loved her life before the war; being a mom, working with her husband on building their own graphic design company as they saved for a house. Alreqeb loved his life, too: watching romantic movies with Issra at home, taking his daughter to restaurants, bringing life into the world without bombs. His tent clinic, he said, is the seed of a larger idea; he wants to build his own maternity hospital after the war, when all of Gaza is rebuilding—and being reborn.
her contractions started, she left home, but chose not to go to Al-Awda Hospital because of the danger. Instead, she went to a tent clinic newly set up in central Gaza by the International Medical Corps. Pain relief was not available for her eight-hour delivery, so she had to work through excruciating contractions. Against all odds, her baby boy was born healthy. She named him Yamen, which meant “generosity and ease,” something she longed for.
KIMBERLY MATA-RUBIO, 37 LOST HER DAUGHTER IN A SCHOOL SHOOTING
My friend Dominic Blackwell and I were two peas in a pod at Saugus High School in Santa Clarita, California. We did everything together. We were always hanging out. The morning of November 14, 2019, was no different.
I was talking with Dominic about our Spanish test later that day—we would always compete for who would get the better test grade—and who I was going to ask to the Sadie Hawkins dance, when all of a sudden we heard a really loud bang.
I looked around, and the next bang came. I found myself on the ground. I got up and ran across campus, up two flights of stairs to my Spanish teacher’s classroom and sat down in my regular, assigned seat for that class. An older boy who I’d never met before started trying to calm me down, saying he was a trained firefighter in a program my school had. I remember saying, “No, you don’t understand. I’ve been shot,” and that was the first time I actually realized what had happened.
We now know in a matter of eight seconds, the shooter pulled a ghost gun out of his backpack, shot me and four others, killing two of them, before killing himself.
I was eventually taken in an ambulance to a nearby park and then airlifted to Holy Cross Hospital in Mission Hills, California. I underwent multiple different procedures and surgeries, and they were able to remove the .45-caliber ghost gun bullet from my stomach. That night, I found out my best friend, Dominic, who I was talking to when the shooting happened, died next to me.
Six women share what it’s like to have a loved one killed with a firearm.
BY LORENA O’NEIL
What Gun Violence Cost Them
MIA TRETTA, 21 SHOT IN A SCHOOL SHOOTING WHERE HER BEST FRIEND WAS KILLED
“There was a video of my mom’s ex shooting her with an assault rifle. I’ve never watched that video again, although sometimes I see part of it going around on TikTok.”
Dominic was just this really infectious person that everyone loved. He had this very distinct laugh and wore SpongeBob T-shirts 24/7. He would always walk me to all of my classes, even if that meant he was going to be late to his classes. I met him in math on my first day at school. We became instant friends, and by the end of the school year, we were not allowed to sit next to each other anymore in that math class.
I had to heal from multiple things at the same time: losing my best friend, losing my entire sense of safety, and trying to physically heal. That’s been a decade-long process. I’m still dealing with the effects of being shot in the stomach, such an important area of my body. One of the main things that I did to help my healing was advocacy, trying to prevent this from happening to someone else.
I came to Brown University primarily because it felt like such a safe place. But then on December 13, I was in my dorm and started getting hundreds of texts about an active shooter on campus. It ended up with two students dead.
We all live in this naive world where we think gun violence will never happen to us. For me, that got taken away in 2019. But then I had to tell myself it’ll never happen again—and then it did.
People should know that every single act of gun violence in this country is 100 percent preventable. This is happening because of decades of government inaction and lack of policy. And unfortunately, this is happening because some lawmakers care more about the gun lobby than kids’ lives. The fact that we see shootings nearly every day and don’t have the government up in arms trying to fix this, we know there’s a problem with the people that we have elected.
JAYLAN BLOUNT, 23 LOST HER MOTHER TO DOMESTIC ABUSE HOMICIDE
On the morning of June 27, 2022, my twin sister Jania and I saw on social media that there’d been a shooting outside of my mom’s apartment building in New Orleans. Then, our older sister Akila told us our mother had been shot and was in the hospital. We lived in Jackson, Mississippi, so we got in the car to go down and see her. During that time, people kept texting us photos of our mom lying on the sidewalk, which they had seen on social media. By the time we got to the hospital, our mom had died during surgery.
After we went to identify her body, someone who knew our mom came up to us with a phone and told us to look at the video. We didn’t know what we were about to watch, and it was a video of my mom’s ex shooting her with an assault rifle. I’ve never watched that video again. Although, sometimes I see part of it going around on TikTok. We found out from the news that my mom had filed a protection order against her ex. [Cassandra Jones had filed a temporary restraining order against her ex, but it had expired when he didn’t show up for court. TROs have no effect on firearm ownership.] We knew they’d broken up, but we hadn’t known about the abuse; she’d kept that from us.
My mom was a strong woman, she always wanted to see the good in people, and with this relationship, she tried to see the good in him. Sometimes people can’t take being left and think, If I can’t have you, no one will. She tried to get away and do better. Unfortunately he had other plans.
My sisters and I are now moms. My oldest sister’s son was born when she was alive, but she didn’t get to meet my daughter or my twin’s daughter. But from the start, I’ve wanted my daughter to know about her grandmother. My mom never wanted to be called grandma; she wanted to be called Glam-ma. So we talk about Glam-ma or Gigi to her grandchildren, and the three of us all live near each other and get together often, showing pictures of my mom and celebrating her birthday. We miss my mom every day, and I wish the grandchildren could have grown up with her, but we try to keep her with us by sharing stories about her.
I’m getting a degree in counseling for children or young teens who experience trauma. I never thought I’d want to do counseling, but when this happened, everyone recommended we get therapy. I think about how many other people may need it and don’t go. My mom is the reason that I am pursuing this degree. I feel like it’s my calling.
“I had to tell myself it’ll never happen again—and then it did.”
AMY BRUCE, 43 LOST HER FATHER TO DEATH BY SUICIDE
I try to hold on to compassion and empathy for my father, especially now that I’m a parent. When I was 9, my grandmother picked us up from school, and there was a car accident. It killed my grandmother, my little brother, and severely disabled my other little brother. In a heartbeat, my dad lost so much. I try to make sure that people know if a loved one is struggling, there’s help out there to protect them; there’s mental health counseling to make sure that they get the care and compassion that they need. We’re very open about it in my family because when a family member dies by suicide, survivors are more likely to make a decision to do the same.
We also talk about gun violence, as it echoes through every part of our lives. It’s empty plates at the dinner table, it’s missing Christmases, it’s your lost loved ones not being able to meet your children. And this doesn’t just impact people who die by suicide or get killed in shootings—it impacts everyone in this country.
My father’s death could have been even more tragic. We later found out that my dad had crafted a plan to kill his current wife before killing himself. He told people about his plan, and that’s where a real opportunity to save his life and change the shape of our future could have happened. Ultimately, he decided to limit the tragedy just to himself. But I often think about how there are red flag laws that could have been enacted and could have been implemented to prevent this tragedy entirely.
MAYRA ALVEAR, 65 LOST HER DAUGHTER IN A MASS SHOOTING at a night club
This year is the ten-year anniversary of the Pulse shooting, where I lost my daughter Amanda. It’s been a decade, but the truth is I live this loss every day, from when I wake up until when I lie down to go to sleep.
Amanda had such a big heart; she was very loved and always wanted to help people. When I go into the pharmacy where she used to work, I still get people walking up to me telling me how they think of her kindness often. She was super competitive, having had two older brothers, and loved playing board games, so I organize a toy drive in her honor every year around her birthday in December.
My daughter loved going to Pulse with her friends—she often asked me to go with her to dance, and I still regret never having gone with her.
The night of the shooting, one of her friends told me that she’d gotten outside once the shooting started, but went back in when she realized her best friend wasn’t with her. That’s when the gunman killed her, and her best friend, in the bathroom.
“Gun violence affects so much more than the inner circle and immediate family of the victims. It’s a chain reaction that goes on and on.”
My oldest son came over at dawn to wake up my husband and I and to tell us that there’d been a shooting, and Amanda wasn’t answering her phone. We called and called and called her—and nothing. It’s enough to drive you crazy. I had already lost my son to cancer when he was 12, and I couldn’t believe I was losing another child.
After the shooting, I connected with the other survivors who had lost people at Pulse. We try to do everything we can to keep their memory alive, to keep them with us. The trauma is enormous. It affects me, my husband, my mom, all of us emotionally and physically. I had to stop working to get medical operations to deal with the effects of the stress and anxiety. My grandchildren were so scared, especially when they kept seeing school shootings in the news, that they asked to be homeschooled out of fear. Gun violence affects so much more than the inner circle and immediate family of the victims. It’s a chain reaction that goes on and on. I just worry that gun violence will never end in this country. I respect the Second Amendment, but there needs to be regulation. The majority of this country wants change. Let’s ban assault weapons.
Amanda always said she’d take care of me when I got older, so it’s difficult to know she’s not here. But she sends me messages from heaven. She loved hearts and rainbows, and sometimes I look down into my coffee and see a heart and know she’s taking care of us from above.
LISA DESORT, 59 LOST HER DAUGHTER TO DOMESTIC ABUSE HOMICIDE
When my daughter Azsia and her young son were living with me, she met a man through a mutual friend. Right away, I knew something wasn’t right. His anger was out of control. She got pregnant with him, a baby girl, but ended up leaving him because he was so violent.
She moved into a domestic violence shelter in order to try and stay somewhere safe. But she grew up without her dad in the picture, and she didn’t want her daughter not to know her father either, so when Chloe was 3 months old, Azsia agreed to meet her ex in an area that was very populated.
I’m a retired EMS, and I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen in New York. Earlier that week, Azsia had said her ex was being really, really nice to her and she thought she would go meet him in person. I begged her not to go. I told her, when they are hostile and then all of a sudden they’re really nice, that’s especially when you don’t go.
(Jason Rossi)
(Justin Hardiman)
(Neely Ker-Fox)
(J.D. Casto)
(Helena Goñi)
Read more stories from our Women and Gun series.
Two of my five kids went to Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas. On the morning of May 24, 2022, my husband and I attended an awards ceremony for our daughter Lexi, who was in fourth grade. She received the All A Honor Roll and the Good Citizen award. Our last photo with her was at 10:52 a.m. Shortly after, I left campus and went back to the newspaper where I work.
A little after 11:30 a.m. that day, an 18-year-old who had access to an AR-15 walked into Lexi’s classroom and murdered her, along with 18 other students and two teachers.
I heard the police scanner in the office say something about a shooting on Diaz Street, which is near the school. This is the part of the day that is the most blurry for me. Eventually, I must have realized the school was involved, so I went back to Robb Elementary, and it was chaos. There was a large police presence; people were hysterical. My dad, who had been in the area, had already picked up my youngest son. We were told to go to the Civic Center and wait. There were about four buses of fourth-grade students who were the last ones to arrive at the Civic Center, and Lexi wasn’t on any of the buses. I was so worried and anxious I remember when the last one came, I wanted to physically go into the bus and check for myself because I just didn’t believe anybody that told me she wasn’t there.
“I know that it’s easier and it feels better to think that this won’t happen to you, but the reality is that the likelihood is it will. We, as Americans, are not safe.”
Growing up, I was a daddy’s girl. My father was a contractor and used to take me to work with him. There were tight spots when he was doing electrical work, and he’d send my tiny little butt up in the attic and I would fish wires down the walls for him.
Behind the scenes, at home, he was threatening and violent to my mother. She shielded us from that. I didn’t see any of it at all. They divorced when I was 5—we spent every other weekend with him.
When I was 17, I heard the phone ring and then heard my mother scream. It was one of those screams that you know something devastating just happened and that your whole life is going to change. I went to my little brother’s room, and we waited in the room until my mom came in and let us know that my dad was gone. He had shot himself. It really shaped my entire outlook and changed my life.
“[Gun violence is] empty plates at the dinner table, it’s missing Christmases, it’s your lost loved ones not being able to meet your children.”
But on Wednesday night, she told her sister she was going to meet him near a park. Her sister called me, because she knew I’d told Azsia not to meet him. We watched her location on our phones, and my daughter asked why her phone location was at the hospital. I thought maybe she wanted to use the bathroom or change her baby’s diaper or stay somewhere public while she was with him. But then we called her over and over again, and she didn’t answer. We saw her phone location return to the park. An hour later, I heard banging on my door. I opened the door and saw three NYPD detectives. I knew right then, something had happened.
They said, “Is your daughter Azsia Johnson?” and I said, “No, don’t, don’t tell me.” I couldn’t even cry at that moment. The shock is so unbearable that tears don’t come out. My daughter was shot execution-style—while pushing Chloe in the stroller.
She was a smart, beautiful young lady with a loud, funny laugh. An amazing mother. She had her life together, outside of this. We had just finished filing her paperwork for college. She wanted to be a NICU pediatric nurse. She was so determined I knew she would do it. Then, he shot her.
“The shock is so unbearable that tears don’t come out. My daughter was shot execution-style—while pushing [her baby] in the stroller.”
Women are buying guns at record rates. They’re also winning elections, passing state laws, and organizing against gun violence like never before. Where we go next is unclear, but one thing is certain—it will be shaped by women on both sides of the fight.
What Will the Future of Guns Look Like?
BY LAURA BASSETT
“It gets to a point where the question becomes, how can I not care? How can I see this and not care?”
“I know that it’s easier and it feels better to think that this won’t happen to you, but the reality is that the likelihood is it will. We, as Americans, are not safe.”
“I had to tell myself it’ll never happen again—and then it did.”
“There was a video of my mom’s ex shooting her with an assault rifle. I’ve never watched that video again, although sometimes I see part of it going around on TikTok.”
“[Gun violence is] empty plates at the dinner table, it’s missing Christmases, it’s your lost loved ones not being able to meet your children.”
“Gun violence affects so much more than the inner circle and immediate family of the victims. It’s a chain reaction that goes on and on.”
Read more stories from our Women and Gun series.
Content warning: The following story contains references to gun violence.
Content warning: The following story contains references to gun violence.