WHY MORE GUNS DON’T MAKE US SAFER: A PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL REFLECTION

On November 10, 1975, I walked into Blonders Paint Store in Bedford Heights, Ohio, simply to browse wallpaper samples. It was one of those radiant autumn days when the trees seemed to glow—leaves painted in brilliant shades of orange, red, and gold. I had asked my sister-in-law to watch my four-year-old daughter because I expected to be gone only a few minutes.

Instead, that ordinary errand became a moment that would shape my understanding of courage, survival, and responsibility for the rest of my life.

As I flipped through wallpaper books near a large front window, I suddenly looked up to see a man pointing a handgun directly at me. What I felt in that instant was not terror, but shock. At 28 years old, I still carried a sense of invincibility that youth sometimes brings. Looking back now, I understand far more clearly just how dangerous that moment truly was.

Just four months earlier, while working as a bank teller, I had experienced another violent robbery. A man disguised as a construction worker assaulted a fellow teller while demanding money. I remember freezing and then dropping to the floor, trying to become small and invisible. The robber escaped the bank, but strong winds scattered the stolen cash in the parking lot, helping the police track him down.

Those two experiences taught me something important: in moments of trauma, human reactions are unpredictable. I had always imagined I would be observant and composed under pressure. Instead, I struggled even to describe the assailant afterward.

Back in the paint store, the armed man ordered everyone to “get in the back.” For a brief second, I thought about turning to look more closely at his face so I might identify him later. But another instinct spoke louder: survive. Stay calm. Follow directions.

Robbers forced us into a small 10-by-10 bathroom where several other people were already being held. I quietly moved into a corner and stayed still. One robber demanded our wallets, watches, and jewelry. Then we heard a gunshot from somewhere in the store. Moments later the man guarding us ran out, slamming the door behind him.

When we cautiously stepped out, we saw a terrible sight: a man in a navy blazer lying face down on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head. I knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. It was faint.

We later learned he was Police Detective Sgt. William Prochazka. He had come into the store on an unrelated matter, carrying photographs for the manager. The robbers discovered his holstered gun, disarmed him, and executed him with a shot to the head.

His weapon—intended to protect him—became the very reason he was targeted.

Authorities eventually captured all four suspects and sentenced them to death. Later, Ohio commuted their sentences to life in prison after declaring the death penalty unconstitutional in 1978.

For many years, I carried those memories quietly. Then decades later, they resurfaced when I attended a presentation by the Polk County Sheriff’s Office in Winter Haven, Florida, about “Active Shooter Response.” The deputy speaking urged parents to carry concealed firearms, framing it as a responsibility.

“How can you protect your children without a gun?” he asked.

Sitting there, I knew I could not stay silent.

As a nurse, an educator, and someone who survived two violent crimes, I know that a firearm would not have protected me—or anyone else—in those moments. In fact, the evidence tells us the opposite.

The American Academy of Pediatrics states plainly: the safest home for a child is one without guns. Access to firearms significantly increases the risk of accidental injury, suicide, and homicide among children and adolescents.

Research has also demonstrated that every time someone uses a gun in the home for self-defense, far more tragic outcomes occur: accidental shootings, assaults, and suicides.

The death of Sgt. Prochazka stands as a heart-breaking reminder. Even with training and experience, his weapon placed him directly in danger.

After the presentation, I left in protest. Later I wrote to Sheriff Grady Judd, sharing research and public health data that challenge the idea that more guns make families safer. I never received a reply.

But silence cannot be the end of the conversation.

What saved lives in that paint store in 1975 was not firepower. It was restraint. It was cooperation. Trained responders eventually brought the perpetrators to justice.

From that day forward, I understood something profound: courage does not live in weapons. Courage resides in wisdom, compassion, and the willingness to advocate for safer communities.

If we truly want to protect our children and our neighbors, we should move beyond fear-based solutions. We must focus on prevention, education, and de-escalation. We need to listen to survivors and trust the evidence.

And most importantly, we understand that stronger, more caring communities build real safety, not more weapons.


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Bio coming soon!