Guest Post: June Garen - Fear, Healing, Hope
I spent decades as a nurse. I chose 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. Therapy, reflection, and learning how to trust my body again. Yet 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.
What scares me most is not just the memory of my assault, but what followed it. The subtle shift of blame. The lack of urgency to protect healthcare workers. The quiet suggestion that harm to healers is an unfortunate but acceptable occupational hazard. That fear returned this week.
Like thousands of others, I watched the video of Alex Pretti, RN, being shot and killed on a street in Minnesota. Alex was a nurse. His last known act was attempting to care for and protect a woman who was being physically injured during an DHS operation. Within hours, the public response followed a grimly familiar script, including speculation about his character and explanations for why he was responsible for his own death. According to those in power, he had to be killed.
As I read and listened, my chest tightened. Breathing became difficult. The narrative was painfully familiar: a healer harmed, and the machinery of authority moving swiftly not to mourn and console, but to justify.
For healthcare workers, this pattern is all too common. Violence against nurses and other medical professionals is rising, yet meaningful protections remain inadequate. When we are attacked—whether in hospital rooms, parking lots, or public spaces—the response is often muted, bureaucratic, or worse, quietly accusatory. We are praised as heroes when it is convenient and left exposed when it is not.
The morning after watching Alex Pretti die, I woke up heavy with grief—the emotional hangover that follows witnessing injustice layered on top of old wounds. Then I read a public statement by Carleigh Beriont, a New Hampshire leader and congressional candidate. It was titled simply: This Is Wrong.
For the first time in a long while, I took a deep breath.
Carleigh spoke plainly about Alex Pretti’s killing. She did not rely on vague condolences or partisan hedging. She rejected the reflexive dehumanization that often accompanies these events and identified the moral failure at their core. Her message was clear: this violence should not be normalized, excused, or buried beneath official talking points.
What struck me most was not only what she said, but that she said it at all—publicly, clearly, and with compassion. In a political climate where silence and ambiguity are often safer, her willingness to speak felt like recognition. Like being heard.
My story, Alex Pretti’s story, and Carleigh Beriont’s statement intersect at one urgent point: the need for leadership that values human life over expediency, and accountability over narrative control. We cannot continue to ask nurses, EMTs, doctors, and all other frontline healthcare workers to absorb violence without protection, advocacy, or meaningful reform.
We cannot keep telling ourselves that these deaths are tragic but inevitable. They are not.
If we want a society that heals, we must protect the healers. That requires more than memorials and carefully worded statements. It requires leaders willing to challenge systems that excuse harm and to insist that compassion is not weakness and violence is not policy.
I still carry fear. I still carry scars. But today, I also cling to a cautious hope because someone spoke clearly and said what so many of us have been holding in our lungs for years.
-June Garen, Gilmanton
