“I Will Carry It With Me Forever”: Survivors of the Pulse Shooting Reflect on Its Legacy

In the immediate aftermath of the Pulse shooting, there was only pain.

On June 12, 2016, an armed gunman entered the Orlando LGBTQ+ nightclub and killed 49 people, wounding 53 others. Overnight, loved ones were lost, families shattered, and romances ended in their heady prime. An outpouring of grief followed at vigils around the country. Then came the all-too-familiar calls to pass legislation that could help stem the tide of gun violence — but of course, after Pulse came Las Vegas, then Parkland, then El Paso, and many more, all of them apparently not enough to lead to meaningful federal action.

In America, we may be collectively numbed to this violence, but for those who were there at Pulse that night — or who loved someone who was lost — the horror lingers. They will always remember and memorialize the events of June 12.

But as time passes — as we start to think about that shooting not just as a single awful night, but as an event with an impact that continues to accrue meaning over time — survivors have started to reflect on Pulse’s legacy. For them, there will always be pain, but that doesn’t mean there can be no meaning.

Below, survivors share their memories and reflections of the Pulse tragedy, as told to Them editors Nico Lang and Samantha Allen.

Orlando Torres (He/him)

Pulse, to me, is about family because it was my family. What makes Orlando different from New York and Chicago is that its LGBTQ+ community is small, and there are only a handful of bars and club nights to go to. When you went out, you knew everyone already. On June 12, 2016, the crowd was full of familiar faces like every night, including Anthony, a boy from Puerto Rico that I had a crush on. I kissed him hello, but I never got to kiss him goodbye.

When a shooter opened fire in the club, I was in the bathroom stall. A friend told me that the gunfire ringing out on the dance floor was just sound effects from the DJ booth, but I knew in my gut something was wrong. I hid in the stall so the gunman wouldn’t be able to see my feet and urged everyone to remain as quiet as possible. Since that night, I have struggled through PTSD, haunted by the sounds I heard, but I count myself one of the lucky ones. I lost friends, but unlike others, I don’t have a visual of the violence that claimed their lives. When he came into the bathroom an hour and a half later, firing at us, I was knocked off the stall. I played dead until a police officer rammed through the wall of the building with his car, pulling me and others out.

Over the years, I have honored my fallen family members the only way I know how: by dancing. I often say If you don’t dance, don’t they win. As a club promoter, I helped to organize Pulse’s Latin Night because I wanted somewhere that felt safe, where we could be at home, and I know I feel my safest when I am out with my community. My number wasn’t up that night, and only God knows when that date will be. Until then, I will be among my people in Orlando, making the most of the time I have left.

Ricardo Negron-Almodovar (He/Him)

After Pulse, my whole life changed. Gun violence had impacted me directly. I could no longer cheer on social progress from the sidelines; I had to get involved myself. I began dedicating my time to LGBTQ+ and Latinx rights, common-sense gun regulations, and voter accessibility. Since then, I’ve been working toward a future when mass shootings will be a thing of the past, collaborating with an array of national and local organizations toward that goal. I also co-founded Del Ambiente, a grassroots initiative to support the Puerto Rican LGBTQ+ community in Florida and help them thrive. Yet there is still so much work left to do, particularly here in Florida, where the state government is horrifically homophobic and transphobic.

Pulse will always be a reminder of the great pain and devastation some people cause because of their hatred and intolerance. But it is also a testament to the strength of a community that, when put through unimaginable pain, has fought harder than ever before. Whether it’s through organizing and being vocal, creating spaces where diversity is celebrated, or daring to live our true identities, we in the LGBTQ+ community are creating a society in which we can all thrive.

One day, I hope to live in a world without fear, a place where we no longer have to look over our shoulders to make sure we won’t be attacked for who we are.

India Godman (She/hers)

Many of the survivors of Pulse are still living with PTSD. During the shooting, I was there with my son, who is also gay. For us, the club was a place where you could be yourself, and you could feel that energy from the moment you paid your $5 ticket to get in. You were welcomed, you were loved. But now, whenever I see the blueberry lights of a police siren, it takes me back to that night. When my son and I go out together, the first thing I do is I look at people’s body language. I look at their pockets, I look at the exits, and I’m always on high alert. We do not leave each other’s sight.

But our community has come a long way since. When I think about what Pulse means to me and to all of us who survived it, it’s about moving forward. Back in New York, I was a social worker, and I applied everything that I would tell my clients to myself. When the Parkland shooting happened, survivors went out there to show support and to make sure they were able to get the resources they needed. We wanted to tell them, “Unfortunately, this is going to be your new norm, but you’re not alone.”

When we remember Pulse in another 5, 10, or even 20 years, I hope that we will have kept inching toward progress, that we finally live in a world without hate. In the aftermath of the shooting, a father of one of the victims refused to claim his body, and there are other survivors that to this day are not accepted by their families. But I know change is coming. We have a chat room for survivors, and a friend there has struggled with his relationship with his own father. In the years since, he’s never told his son, “I’m sorry for what you went through.” Leading up to the anniversary, though, he sent his son a rainbow cake.

It’s unfortunate that 49 innocent lives had to be taken for a lot of people to accept us and realize that we’re human, just like everyone else. But when I asked my friend how it felt to have his father reach out after all this time, he said, “It’s one step forward. We can do it, step by step.”

Patience Murray (She/her)

The word “legacy” can also mean “gift,” or something handed down to us from the past. As counterintuitive as it might be to think of an event so tragic as a gift, I hope that the legacy of the Pulse nightclub shooting can be about love.

I was at Pulse that night with two friends to celebrate the first night out on our vacation from Philadelphia. At first, after that horrific experience, I struggled with survivor’s guilt, fearing that I would never be worthy of receiving love or giving it. But as time went on, my trauma became an awareness that I needed to love harder than I ever had before. It made me realize that we need to make the world a better place — which might sound cliché, but I mean it, on a deep level. When we don’t love each other or ourselves, terrible things happen. Without love, a gunman can enter a club and kill 49 people. Without love, a mass shooting survivor like me can consider taking their own life due to the crushing guilt that comes afterward.

If Pulse taught me anything, it’s that none of us can exist without love. The legacy that night has left, the gift it gave me, is to see that love is the axis on which the world spins.

Jeff Xcentric (He/him)

Pulse has taught me about resilience and strength. I was shot several times that night, and I had 12 surgeries in the five years following. I was unconscious for the first few days after it happened, so I didn’t even get to see any of the candlelight vigils that everyone else saw until weeks later. As a person who likes to be active, it was very trying for me to be bound to a bed for half a year and then have to learn how to walk again, twice. Being in a wheelchair and physical therapy and walking with a cane — all of these things tried my patience and my endurance.

There were times when I wanted to give up, but I didn’t. There were times I kicked everybody out of my room, even the nurses, when I needed a day or two to just be left alone. There were times when I did give up; I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. My bad leg was my right leg; on my left leg, I only got shot in the foot. They were originally going to amputate my right leg from the knee down, but they were able to save it, thankfully. Aside from the fact that I enjoyed dancing, I also enjoy walking.

The first time I stood up, I was in my hospital room. I broke down crying. My doctor was there, my therapist was there, and I had a couple of family and friends visiting. My parents were in the room. I broke down crying — everyone else did, too — and I hugged my dad and my mom.

I was able to do that because of the strength my family gave me, and because of the support I and other survivors received from around the world. I think often of my friends who are no longer here because of what happened at Pulse. I’ve also had several other losses over the years, family and friends gone too soon. A lot of the time, as I push ahead in life, I think of someone I’ve lost along the way and tell them, “This is for you, because I know you can't be here.” Because I survived Pulse, I have to keep going for those who didn’t.

Like Stonewall, that night is part of our history. It’s part of American history. It’s part of LGBTQ+ history. I don't want any future generations to ever forget what happened there. As horrible as it is, it shouldn’t be forgotten. I will carry it with me forever.

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