Bridging Perspectives on Firearm Safety Through Communication: A Personal and Public Health Reflection

Growing up as the firstborn grandson in a family of seven daughters, my grandfather, George Shaw—whom we all called Pa—gifted me a shotgun at birth. It wasn’t a big ceremony or anything, just something he did. In rural Oklahoma, that kind of thing wasn’t unusual. Guns were around, the same way trucks, barns, and barbed wire fences were. Nobody thought too hard about it—they were just part of life.?

Recently, I went back home to be with my family during Pa’s final days. As we caught up, we went through the usual small talk—"Hey, how’ve you been?" "Where are you living now?" "What do you do for work?" But no matter where the conversation started, it always seemed to circle back to guns and hunting.

It made me think about how different my world is now from the one I grew up in. As a public health professional, I have spent a lot of time advocating for firearm safety, and I’ve realized how much of that conversation depends on where you come from.?

In rural Oklahoma, people don’t second-guess the presence of guns any more than they question owning a truck. They’re tools, passed down like pocketknives or old family recipes. But in public health, firearms are viewed almost entirely through the lens of injury and death statistics. And the numbers are serious—for the third straight year, firearms killed more children and teens (ages 1 to 17) than any other cause, including car crashes and cancer. In 2022, 48,204 people died from gunshots in the U.S.—the second-highest number on record—including 27,032 suicides, an all-time high.

Public health professionals and rural gun owners are often speaking different languages. One sees a public safety crisis, the other sees an everyday reality. But these perspectives don’t have to be in conflict. Simple, practical measures—like secure storage, suicide prevention programs, and community-driven safety initiatives—can save lives without disrupting traditions or creating more division.

Groups like the American Foundation for Firearm Injury Reduction in Medicine (AFFIRM) are working to prevent firearm-related deaths the same way public health has tackled car crashes and smoking—not by banning anything, but by focusing on harm reduction strategies that work. Just like seatbelts didn’t take away cars, responsible firearm practices don’t take away anyone’s rights—they just save lives.

At the heart of this challenge is health communication—not just what we say about firearm safety, but how we say it. If the message doesn’t connect with the people it’s meant for, it won’t lead to change. Too often, discussions around guns are framed in ways that feel detached from the realities of rural life, relying on statistics and policy arguments that don’t reflect how people actually experience firearm ownership. Instead, we need messaging that starts with shared values—protecting children, preventing tragedy, and promoting responsibility. Research shows that community-led approaches—where trusted messengers lead the conversation—are far more effective than top-down mandates. If public health professionals want to engage rural communities on firearm safety, they have to start by listening first.

Pa’s passing has made me reflect on the world I grew up in and the work I do now. If we want to make progress on firearm safety, we need fewer debates and more real conversations. That means moving past political talking points and focusing on what actually works. Because at the end of the day, keeping people safe isn’t about taking something away—it’s about making sure what’s already there is used responsibly.