On a chilly Saturday afternoon in December 2025, as students at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, huddled over final exams and review sessions, gunfire erupted in the Barus and Holley engineering and physics building. The chaos left two students dead and nine others injured, turning the prestigious Ivy League campus into the latest scene of America’s unrelenting gun violence crisis. Amid the terror, at least two students experienced a haunting déjà vu: they had survived mass shootings before. For one of them, the events were “terrible and horrific, but not surprising”—a stark indictment of a nation where school shootings have become a grim rite of passage for an entire generation.

Mia Tretta, a 21-year-old junior at Brown, was in her dorm room with friends when the university’s emergency alert blared: active shooter on campus. At first, she dismissed it as a possible mistake. But as texts flooded in confirming the nightmare, memories of November 14, 2019, came rushing back. Then a 15-year-old freshman at Saugus High School in Santa Clarita, California, Mia was shot in the abdomen during a rampage that lasted just 16 seconds. A classmate armed with a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol killed two students and wounded three others, including Mia, before turning the gun on himself. She spent weeks recovering from life-threatening injuries, emerging as a vocal advocate for gun reform, even speaking at the White House alongside other survivors.

Six years later, at what was supposed to be her safe haven—an elite university known for its progressive ethos and open curriculum—Mia found herself reliving the trauma. She had planned to study in the very building where the shooting occurred but changed her plans because she felt tired that day—a decision that likely saved her life. In interviews following the attack, Mia described a whirlwind of emotions: fear, confusion, and overwhelming anger. “It’s terrible and horrific,” she said, “but not surprising.” Her words encapsulate the numb resignation felt by many young Americans who have grown up practicing active shooter drills, scanning rooms for exits, and wondering if today will be the day.

Mia is not alone in this tragic club. Another Brown student, 20-year-old sophomore Zoe Weissman, also endured a second brush with school gunfire. As a middle schooler at Westglades in Parkland, Florida, Zoe was on campus adjacent to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School on February 14, 2018, when a former student unleashed an AR-15-style rifle, killing 17 people—mostly teenagers—and injuring 17 more in one of the deadliest school shootings in U.S. history. Though not in the high school building, Zoe witnessed the lockdown chaos, heard the sirens, and felt the ripple of terror that scarred an entire community. The experience propelled her into activism with March for Our Lives, the youth-led movement co-founded by Parkland survivors.

On the day of the Brown shooting, Zoe was in her dorm preparing to study when a friend called with the warning. Panic gave way to fury. “It’s infuriating,” she told reporters, blaming lawmakers for failing to enact meaningful gun control in the years since Parkland. In a poignant social media post, she wrote: “When I was 11, I told myself I’d never go through a school shooting. When I was 12, I told myself it would never happen again. Now I’m freshly 20, and I’ve once more been proven wrong. First Parkland, now Brown University. My safe haven away from my trauma.”

The Brown attack unfolded around 4 p.m. on December 13, during a review session for a Principles of Economics class. A gunman entered the lecture hall armed with a rifle and opened fire indiscriminately. Students barricaded doors, hid under desks, and tended to the wounded as best they could. First-year student Spencer Yang, shot in the leg, described handing water to a fellow victim while they sheltered in place. The two fatalities were identified as Ella Cook, a 19-year-old sophomore and vice president of the Brown College Republicans, remembered as an accomplished pianist and bright light from Birmingham, Alabama; and Mukhammad Aziz Umurzokov, an 18-year-old freshman from Uzbekistan, hailed as a gifted scholar with interests in medicine, law, and humanities.

Nine others were wounded, with injuries ranging from stable to critical. Providence Mayor Brett Smiley visited survivors in the hospital, praising their resilience—one even crediting high school active shooter drills for helping in the moment. The university swiftly canceled remaining classes and finals, delayed early decision admissions notifications, and mobilized mental health resources, food deliveries, and counseling. Vigils drew hundreds: a menorah lighting on the first night of Hanukkah, candlelight gatherings where students wrapped in blankets mourned under the winter sky.

As of December 15, the manhunt continued. Authorities initially detained a person of interest but released him, intensifying the search with released surveillance images and videos of a suspect seen near campus. The FBI joined local police, urging tips as the community grappled with fear and uncertainty.

This incident marks yet another grim milestone in America’s gun violence epidemic. According to tracking organizations, 2025 has already seen hundreds of mass shootings—defined as incidents where four or more people are shot. Rhode Island, with relatively strict gun laws compared to many states, had largely been spared such campus horrors. Brown’s shooting shattered that illusion, reigniting national debates over access to firearms, mental health support, and school safety measures.

For survivors like Mia and Zoe, the personal toll is profound. Mia, who once stood in the White House Rose Garden advocating for change, now questions how to heal a second time. The physical scars from Saugus have long faded, but the psychological ones—hypervigilance to loud noises, constant exit-mapping—persist. Zoe, drawn to Brown for its kind community and academic freedom, aspired to become a doctor helping others. Now, both young women embody a generation robbed of innocence: drilled from elementary school to “run, hide, fight,” yet repeatedly failed by adults in power.

Their stories highlight a cruel irony. Active shooter training, once rare, is now routine in American schools. Yet, as Mia pointed out, drills don’t prevent shootings—they just prepare kids to survive them. Zoe echoed this, calling for policy changes: universal background checks, red flag laws, bans on assault weapons. Seven years after Parkland’s promises of “never again,” and six after Saugus, the cycle continues.

The Brown community, known for intellectual rigor and social justice activism, responded with solidarity. Students organized support networks, professors offered flexibility, and alumni poured in messages of condolence. Rabbi Sarah Mack, at a vigil, spoke of shattered safety but committed community. In a small state like Rhode Island, where everyone is “two degrees of separation,” the pain felt deeply personal.

Nationally, the shooting drew condolences from leaders and renewed calls for action. It underscored how no place—rural high schools, urban middle schools, or elite universities—is immune. For Mia Tretta, the words “terrible and horrific, but not surprising” are not defeatist but a call to arms. She refuses to accept mass shootings as inevitable. Like countless survivors before her, she channels trauma into advocacy, demanding a future where no student fears studying in a lecture hall.

As Providence’s historic streets, lined with holiday decorations, hosted somber gatherings, the broader lesson lingered: America’s youth are resilient, but they shouldn’t have to be. Mia and Zoe’s second survivals are not badges of honor but indictments of inaction. In their voices resonates a plea: make this the last time a student says it’s “not surprising.”

The investigation presses on, justice for the victims sought. But for survivors twice marked by gunfire, healing begins amid anger—and an unyielding hope for change.