Over the past six months, America has witnessed dozens of school shootings, the deaths of police officers in the line of duty and natural disasters that have left entire communities reeling. Yet as the headlines accumulate, the public response often feels quieter than before. What once shocked the nation now risks blending into the constant churn of news alerts and social media posts.
This creeping numbness is called desensitization—a gradual dulling of emotional response after repeated exposure to violence, disaster and tragedy. It is one of the most dangerous side effects of living in a world where every event arrives instantly on our phones. The numbers alone are staggering: in the first half of 2025, 42 police officers died in the line of duty, according to Police Magazine, with 22 of those killed by firearms. During the same period, the Fraternal Order of Police reported that 166 officers were shot, 21 fatally. Schools, once symbols of safety, have also been marked by violence.
Everytown for Gun Safety and EducationWeek tracked 91 incidents of gunfire on school grounds this year, though using a stricter definition that counts only shootings during school hours with casualties, Al Jazeera identified eight school shootings in 2025.
These tragedies rarely occur in isolation. Record-breaking wildfires in the West, floods in the Midwest, and tornadoes in the South have displaced thousands. Yet events that might once have dominated front pages for weeks now quickly fade, replaced by the next calamity. What was once extraordinary is increasingly routine.
For teachers and students, this reality manifests in tangible ways. Ian Mulligan, a history and psychology teacher, described how active-shooter drills became part of daily life at his former school in Arizona.
“There were four different doors I had to check,” Mulligan said. “And that all needed to be done in 60 seconds.”
Though the details may sound technical, for teachers, they are the difference between preparedness and chaos. Preparedness, however, does not ease the emotional toll. Mulligan admitted that every new tragedy takes its toll.
“I think it’s frustrating and it’s been frustrating for a really long time,” Mulligan said. “How much is enough? What is truly enough to a point where we can reconcile and actually have a productive discussion? If we are truly pro-life, then why are we not stronger advocates for gun control in this country? Because if life is so sacred, then why do we continue to allow weapons to harm people in such a way as they do?”
Counselor Amanda Johnson offers a longer perspective. She was a middle school student when Columbine shocked the nation in 1999 and remembers the first intruder drills that followed. The years since have been marked by a steady normalization of procedures once unimaginable.
“I didn’t actually have shooting intruder drills until I was in high school,” Johnson said. “A lot of it was just shelter in place under your desk. Columbine was the first big school shooting that I can recall. I didn’t really think much about it—I thought, oh, that’s in Colorado. That wouldn’t happen here.”
Now, as a counselor working in schools, she notes that the fear is harder to shake.
“It just feels like you have to really be on guard all the time, and that’s a really sad thing for us,” Johnson said. “The loss of life is simply tragic and inexcusable, and there’s a lot of deep sadness and anger about all of it.”
For many young people, sadness is joined by fatigue. Senior Maggie Hartman admitted that hearing about yet another school shooting or community tragedy no longer strikes her with the same intensity it once did.
“I don’t think I’m numb to it, but I think the shock has worn off,” Hartman said. “The first time I heard about a school shooting, I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. Now I hear about one and I’m sad, but it’s like my brain says, ‘Here we go again.’ I hate that it feels normal.”
This sense of normalization, Johnson explains, is both understandable and dangerous.
“I think it’s a human condition to try and submerge any emotion that’s uncomfortable,” Johnson said. “Sometimes we try to block it out. We try to move forward. In that sense, it can desensitize us, simply because we’re trying to manage our own challenges. And if it’s not something directly affecting you, it’s easier to push aside.”
Mulligan shares her concern.
“It’s almost as if you expect on the news at some point in the year to hear about it,” he said. “Every teacher, whether they want to admit it or not, it runs through your mind. Hopefully it doesn’t run through your student’s mind, but you project this calm. If you become desensitized to it, then you lose the ability to be objective and to tell people that we have to continue to have these conversations.”
Hartman has noticed the same pattern among her peers.
“When we were freshmen, people would talk about these stories more, post about them on Instagram, share fundraisers,” Hartman said. “Now, it feels quieter. It’s not that people don’t care, it’s almost like they don’t have the energy to respond every time.”
That exhaustion, she added, can make tragedies feel like background noise instead of urgent calls for change.
The impact of repeated tragedies extends to how young people view safety itself. Johnson says she does not know how students could remain unaffected.
“I don’t know how you could hear things or see things, or know things are happening like this, and not feel affected, not have your sense of safety prevented by that,” Johnson said.
Mulligan described it as a constant, low-level awareness, sort of similar to thinking about a plane crash when boarding a flight.
“It definitely changes the perception of how students, parents and teachers interact with violence,” Mulligan said. “It forms this unconscious bias where a person may not feel safe at school or has anxiety about going to school when these events keep happening. It’s there, deep in your mind, even if you try not to think about it.”
The conversation inevitably turns to culture. Both Johnson and Mulligan noted how television, movies and podcasts package violence as entertainment.
“What I notice is it’s not as much fiction I’m reading anymore—it’s more reality,” Johnson said. “And the reality of the violence is a lot more jarring than the fiction I would read.”
Mulligan agreed but focused on accessibility.
“Content has always been violent, but the accessibility has not always been there,” Mulligan said. “Now it’s everywhere on the internet. People are obsessed with true crime, with police dramas, with violence packaged as a story. The problem is that it can make us view crime as an everyday thing, not as something extraordinary.”
If violence begins to feel ordinary, responses to it inevitably weaken. Mulligan worries that Hollywood’s dramatization of trauma can warp public empathy.
“No one’s going to walk away from a movie having PTSD,” he said. “That’s the difference. If we become desensitized, we almost diminish the experience of people who have lived through real violence, because we think we can relate when really, we can’t.”
The danger of numbness, both Johnson and Mulligan agreed, is that it leads to inaction. Johnson encourages students to counter this by staying alert and connected.
“I would just really, really encourage young people to be aware of what’s happening in the world around them,” Johnson said. “Notice what’s happening not only for your own safety, but to be ready to help someone else. If you notice that somebody might be struggling, it never hurts to reach out or talk to an adult. That’s how we resist numbness—by staying connected.”
Mulligan believes the only way forward is through proactive change.
“We can’t continue to be a reactive society,” Mulligan said. “We have to be proactive. These tragedies won’t stop until there’s significant action taken. Until then, we have to keep speaking up.”
And yet, even in the face of so much loss, there are signs of hope. Across the country, Catholic schools have organized nationwide rosary campaigns, bringing students, families, and faculty together in prayer for victims of violence. After the shocking murder of Charlie Kirk, his memorial became not only a moment of grief but also a catalyst for spiritual renewal. Communities gathered to mourn, but they also turned to faith, rekindling traditions that remind people they are not alone. Local parishes have reported fuller pews as people search for meaning, unity, and healing in the midst of heartbreak.
The statistics are heavy, the headlines relentless and the cycle seemingly endless. Yet beneath the fatigue lies a warning: each new shooting, each new disaster, chips away at the nation’s collective shock. If society allows violence to fade into background noise, the urgency to prevent it disappears along with it. For teachers, counselors and students alike, the challenge is clear: to keep caring, to keep speaking and to refuse to let tragedy become routine.
