I spent decades as a nurse, choosing a profession grounded in care, patience, science, and the belief that showing up for others matters, even on the hardest days.

In 2017, that belief was shattered when I was physically assaulted at work. I survived, but I carry the scars of that day, both visible and unseen.

I have worked hard to heal through therapy, reflection, and learning how to trust my body again. Even after the challenging road to recovery, what frightens me most is the aftermath for myself and the countless others: the subtle shift of blame, the lack of urgency to protect health care workers, the quiet suggestion that harm to a healer is simply an occupational hazard.

Many days, I still struggle to take a full breath, not because of what happened then, but because of the world we live in now. A world that feels increasingly hostile, dismissive of suffering, and frighteningly comfortable with violence. Especially when that violence is directed at those who try to help.

That fear surged again with the execution of Alex Pretti, RN.

Like thousands of others, I watched the video of Alex Pretti being shot and killed on a street in Minnesota. Alex was a nurse. His final known act was attempting to care for and protect a woman who was being physically injured during an assault by ICE agents. Within hours, that old familiar narrative took hold: speculation about his character, justifications for the violence, assertions that his death was necessary. The machinery of authority moved quickly, not to mourn, but to explain.

Something ancient woke in me that day. This retired dragon, tempered by years at the bedside and old trauma, rose again. My chest tightened. Breathing became difficult. The message was unmistakable: Even outside hospital walls, even when acting in pure alignment with who we are as nurses, we are still not safe.

Violence against health care workers is rising. We are assaulted in patient rooms, hallways, parking lots, and now public streets. We are praised as heroes when it is convenient and left exposed when it is not. We are expected to absorb risk, pain, and trauma quietly, professionally, and without protest.

The morning after Alex Pretti was killed, I woke heavy with grief, the emotional hangover that follows witnessing injustice layered on top of old wounds. Then I read Carleigh Beriont’s public statement titled simply, “This Is Wrong.”

For the first time in a long while, I felt air in my lungs.

Beriont spoke plainly. She refused euphemism. She rejected the reflexive dehumanization that so often follows state violence. In a political climate where silence is safer than clarity, her words felt like recognition, like someone finally naming the truth health care workers have been carrying for years. I reached out to Carleigh to have a heart-to-heart discussion about the impact of Alex’s murder on the psyches of health care workers. Leaders, after all, need to listen to lead.

I still carry fear. I still carry scars. But I also carry resolve. Dragons, after all, are not only creatures of fire, they are guardians. And we are done being silent.

Carleigh Beriont: a call for action

My sister works in health care, and I have friends who are nurses, doctors, and hospice chaplains. Beyond my own lived experiences, their stories and experiences shape how I think about our health care system. June’s story shapes how I think about the health care system.

When assaults like the one June experienced are dismissed as part of the job, it comes at the expense of caretakers and patients. Violence against health care workers is NOT and cannot be acceptable. Not only do we need to support health care workers so they can be physically, emotionally, and mentally healthy, but we must also hold institutions that do not support their workers accountable. I can only imagine how many stories never get told.

We agree we have to do a better job caring for people in this country, which starts with taking better care of the health care workers who shoulder the high, and too often hidden, costs.

Clearly, caretakers need to play a greater role in discussions about health care reform so policies reflect their needs. This includes staffing and workload policies, as well as policies related to PPE and protocols to protect health care workers from family and patient violence and harassment. The well-being of caretakers, and by extension of the people they serve, depends on our willingness to act.

We must find a way to replace silence and silencing with transparency, publishing assault statistics and protecting whistleblowers, as well as ensuring accountability at every level. It should be the responsibility of policymakers to ensure health care workers (nurses, EMTs, PAs, doctors) are not suffering in silence or told their experiences are simply part of the job.

If Alex Pretti’s death also brought you to a dark place, you are not alone. I am a historian and an educator. This background allows me the privilege and grace to view the horror of what happened to Alex Pretti in not only a compassionate way but also to understand the more global impact of the event. His murder hits on many levels. It is both harrowing and horrifying.

These thoughts and experiences converge at a single, urgent point: If we want a society that heals, we must protect the healers. It must be structural, enforceable, and led by people willing to say that violence is not policy and compassion is not weakness.

Carleigh Beriont is a local government official. June Garen is a retired nurse and author.