Pulse, Pride, and the Fear We Carry Every Day

Nine years ago today, I was just a block away from the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando when the shooting happened. I was asleep at the Ronald McDonald House, my newborn micropreemie in the NICU at Winnie Palmer. She had just turned a month old.

At 2:30 a.m., the sound of helicopters and smoke bombs ripped through the night and shook us out of our sleep. A call from the front desk confirmed what we didn’t yet understand: something horrible had happened. As the news began reporting details and the hospital went into lockdown, my instinct screamed one thing—go to your child. But I couldn’t. For a full day, I wasn’t allowed to see her. To hold her. To know she was okay. The city shut down in fear. And all I could do was sit and wait and ache.

In the days that followed, the park I’d come to love during our NICU stay—quiet, green, and full of small moments of peace—became a place of mourning. Candles, photos, names in chalk. A memorial to 49 souls whose only crime was existing freely. Dancing. Loving. Living their truth out loud during Pride Month.

I knew I was gay then, but I wasn’t out. And if I’m being honest, that night only reinforced my fear. Fear of what could happen if the wrong person found out. If I held the wrong hand. If I loved too visibly. Pulse made the danger undeniable: you can be killed simply for being who you are.

And yet, most of the world kept moving.

That’s the part people don’t understand. Queer people don’t just live with the memory of hate—we live with the possibility of it every single day. It shapes how we walk into rooms. How we dress. Who we kiss in public. Whether we hold hands or shrink back. Whether we come out or stay silent. There is always a calculation happening in the background of our lives: Is it safe to be myself here?

We celebrate Pride because it is an act of resistance to this fear. But celebration doesn’t mean safety. Even today, in 2025, queer people are targeted in legislation, attacked in bathrooms, denied medical care, excluded from schools, churches, and families. We’re shamed, threatened, harassed—and still expected to keep showing up for work, keep smiling in public, keep shrinking ourselves down so that others feel comfortable.

The truth is: being queer is still dangerous.

And still—we live.

We rise.

We love fiercely.

We dance anyway.

We tell our stories. We build chosen families. We fight back. We grieve our dead, like the 49 from Pulse, and so many others who never make the headlines. And still—we dare to dream of a world where we don’t have to weigh safety against authenticity.

Pulse happened during Pride Month. And that matters. Because Pride isn’t just a party for us—it’s a protest. It’s a public declaration that we will not be erased. That we will continue to live, and love, and mourn, and rise.

We remember Pulse not just for what was taken, but for what it revealed: the cost of hate and the power of being visible.

To my fellow queer folks: your existence is sacred. Your fear is valid. And your life is worth protecting and celebrating.

We carry the memory of Pulse in our hearts.

We carry it in our courage.

We carry it every time we dare to be seen.