Content warning: This story contains descriptions of domestic violence that may be upsetting to some readers.
Marcya Hill-Brown thought she’d found her “Prince Charming.”
When they first crossed paths in 2017, he had a great relationship with her daughter, she said. Hill-Brown wanted a big family; it seemed like he could give that to her. Things went well for a while.
But slowly, cracks began to show.
“Before it ever got physical, it was mental,” she said. “He literally would make me think I was crazy.” Gaslighting led to fights. And then, one day, he punched her. Strangled her, hit her with his gun, and threatened to kill her. They split up. Got back together.
Analyses of national and local data show that, in Indianapolis and across the country, gun violence is on the decline in all but one realm: domestic violence.
Since the COVID-19 pandemic, gun violence in domestic violence situations has increased at an alarming rate. During the shut downs, many victims were cut off from their traditional avenues of help and isolated with their abusers. And as the country returned to normal, help did not come.
Many victims of domestic violence were left out by the post-pandemic economy and found greater difficulty finding services due to federal and state funding cuts. At the same time, weakened gun laws, including so-called Constitutional Carry in Indiana, provided some of their abusers easier access to deadly weapons.
Danyette Smith, associate vice president at the Indy Public Safety Foundation and a domestic violence survivor herself, said the cycle Hill-Brown faced is common. Some return for love; others,out of fear. Hope or a so-called honeymoon period can bring them back. And many victims fear they face a stigma if they admit to being abused.
Hill-Brown knew much of this — she worked at Coburn Place, a domestic violence support home. And yet, even with her direct knowledge of abuse, she fell into the same cycle.
From a family of volatile relationships, “I was taught a lot, but I was not taught to put myself first,” she said. “To make sure that my cup is filled before I start giving out to everybody else. I was taught to handle it, get it done.”
She wanted to believe stability with him was possible. And when she became pregnant with his son, she said, the physical violence stopped. But psychological abuse took its stead. It took a caring professor in a class she was taking at then-IUPUI to refer her to a counselor, who eventually helped her file a protective order.
But the violence didn’t stop. He’d violate the protective order; she’d call the police. Nothing substantive, she said, would change.
And being Black in Indianapolis, she has a “complicated relationship” with the police — “nine times out of 10, you’re gonna leave worse than when they came,” she said. And as the abuse remained verbal, she lacked the paper trail for a court to stop him more permanently or confiscate his firearms.
Then COVID-19 hit. She lost her job. He lost his housing, though remained employed as an essential worker. He moved in with her, and the abuse deepened.
Isolated and ignored
Between 2014 and 2019, Indianapolis averaged 8.5 deaths and 10.7 injuries from domestic gun violence per year.
Between 2020 and 2025, that average jumped to 21.5 deaths and 15 injuries per year.
Meanwhile, in Indianapolis and nationwide, every other form of gun violence is on the decline.
After a peak in the years following the COVID-19 pandemic, national data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and local data from the Gun Violence Archive have shown similar results: Both gun injuries and deaths have returned to pre-COVID-19 levels. In fact, this most recent winter was the least fatal quarter in Indianapolis since the winter of 2017.
Caryn Burton, homicide reduction strategies coordinator for the Indiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence, said the initial spike in domestic violence cases during the pandemic can be explained by a few key converging factors.
For one, the victims were isolated.
“They were trapped in a way that survivors haven't been in really a generation,” she said.
While many programs were still available, she said survivors often either felt they couldn’t access them due to the stay-at-home orders or feared reaching out because their perpetrators were with them nearly constantly.
Hill-Brown experienced that firsthand.
“Even though he got to leave the house every day, I only got to leave the house to go grocery shopping,” she said.
On top of that, she had a newborn and a preteen to care for, and was experiencing postpartum depression.
Being financially interdependent during an economic recession only made things harder. Amanda Willis, a survivor of pre-COVID-19 domestic violence, attested to that fact.
“I allowed myself to be codependent on someone because they were able to assist in a financial way, and that alone almost took my life and the life of my child,” she said. Poverty and economic uncertainty, she said, “puts you in a state of survival mode.”
In turn, Burton said, perpetrators increased their “coercive control.” Hill-Brown noticed that, too. Even as she began to realize the extent of the abuse she was undergoing, she said, he would threaten her or shame her for abandoning him. He knew that her kids liked him, and that she wanted them to have a relationship with their father, so he’d use that as ammunition, too, she said.
It took a group of her friends organizing a “vision board” night with wine, music, food and magazines to get her to realize the hopelessness of her situation. Looking at her vision board, it was stark; there on the page were the “desires of my heart,” she said — so distant from the life she was living.
In 2022, when COVID-19 had calmed, she moved in with her mom.
But even now, years after the height of the pandemic, the violence continues.
Money, minds, laws
Expert opinion is that this sustained rise in domestic gun violence can be tied to three things: the economy, funding cuts and lax gun laws.
In the years following the pandemic, cost of living has continued to rise across Indianapolis and Indiana. Funding for childcare in the state has decreased as Medicaid and the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program have gotten more restrictive.
That leaves many survivors with a difficult decision: stay with their abusive partner, or leave and lose financial support that may be keeping them from homelessness. Even if they do leave, without legal support, there’s no guarantee the abusers won’t continue to chase after and hurt them.
Historically, there’s been another option — getting support from local domestic violence organizations. They could provide a safe place to stay or legal counsel to help victims leave safely. But with recent federal funding cuts, that’s changed. They’re losing staff, losing legal counsel, and dropping services.
“So many of our programs are struggling,” Burton said. “We have some programs that are closing doors. All of that is creating … a level of confusion, a level of fear, a level of anxiety that is also increasing then for survivors, not knowing who they can call, not knowing what their options are.”
Nearly 70% of domestic violence survivors were denied services in 2025, according to data from the Indiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence. It’s likely to get worse.
Historically, a major funding stream for services in Indiana has been money from the Victims of Crime Act. It’s not an appropriation; instead, it takes money won from prosecutions of white collar crimes and reallocates it to victims services. Because white collar crime prosecutions are down, so is funding.
Domestic violence services in Indiana saw half of their Victims of Crime Act funds cut over two years — a total of $6 million. Three programs have already shut their doors; the Indiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence estimates that might result in up to seven more programs closing, 100 support positions being lost, and 45,000 survivors losing access to services.
Constricting budgets tighter, multiple grants appropriated to domestic violence services have yet to be given, months after their deadlines have come and gone. The Family Violence Prevention and Services Act grant released some of its funding four months late, while its grants for training and technical assistance still have yet to be released nearly a year after their initial deadline of Oct. 1, 2025.
“Funding delays are effectively funding cuts,” Jessica Marcum-Jacobs, the Indiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence associate director, said in an email. That causes programs to collapse, and creates chaos and fear in an already high-stress, low-resource field.
“I can't say to a survivor who calls me, ‘Call this program. They will be able to help you.’ Because they might not be able to,” Burton said. “That is terrifying, to see this escalation in violence at the same time where we have reached a breaking point with our service provision.”
Burton also emphasized that firearm purchases “exploded” during COVID-19 and, following the passage of constitutional carry in Indiana in 2022, permits are no longer required for gun ownership; nearly anyone 18 and older can buy and carry. And without a permitting system or forced relinquishment, those who legally can’t have firearms have easier access anyway.
“We have plenty of examples where… a homicide happened by firearm, and that person should not have had access to a firearm,” Burton said.
What the government and you can do
A recent lethality report from the Indiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence found that forensic nursing programs are critical to curbing and preventing domestic violence. They catch and document signs of abuse that non-specialists miss, like subtle strangulation marks. Victims with those signs are 750% more likely to be killed.
But Indiana just lost half of their forensic nursing programs, Burton said, due to the Victims of Crime Act fund cuts.
Broader economic forces need to be accounted for too, Danyette Smith said; victims are often afraid to see their abusers locked up if they’re dependent on them for financial support. Domestic violence shelters have historically helped out with services like housing, childcare, and nutrition to prevent that problem, but those programs are eroding.
But even if their abuser is punished, Burton points out there are gun law loopholes that she thinks need to be closed. Domestic abusers under restraining orders may still be permitted to carry firearms, for one, as long as they haven’t been convicted and aren’t married to the victim — a legal issue known as the “boyfriend loophole.” Without legally-mandated gun relinquishment or prohibition, the decision falls in the judge's lap. Smith said she’s repeatedly witnessed judges fail to deliver adequately protective sentences.
“The system itself is not built to help survivors,” she said.
The Violence Against Women Act is also up for reauthorization by Congress in 2027. Originally enacted in 1994, the act funds billions of dollars in grants for victim services, sexual assault forensic examiners, and police training in gender-based violence. It’s also been used to protect victims from cybercrime and eviction, and could be used to fully close the boyfriend loophole.
The Department of Justice has been looking to fold the Office on Violence Against Women into a larger grant bureau, which Scott lambasted as “a guarantee of deemphasis and deprioritization.” It would also likely be illegal under current statutes — but that could change in its reauthorization.
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