For us: déjà vu.
Déjà vu is defined as something “oddly or uncomfortably familiar”. It’s the funny sensation that you’ve been down a street before or heard a tune in the past. Déjà vu can be comical — an insistence that you’ve met the man in line for coffee despite knowing there’s no way you could have. Other times, it’s frightening. The COVID-19 crisis didn’t immediately strike me as déjà vu. Instead, its haunting familiarity crept up on me: an instinctive flinch when someone coughed, a nervous glance at passersby, burying myself in productivity to muffle my thoughts, the low hum of anxiety like an ominous soundtrack beneath it all. Independently, I wrote them off as flare ups of my own hyper-vigilance. But before I knew it, I was immersed in the warning signs of trauma — signs I’d lived before.
I became acquainted with trauma in the early hours of June 12, 2016 at Orlando’s Pulse Nightclub. In truth, many memories from that morning are trapped behind a hazy emotional barricade. But some are crystal clear. I remember scenes from “before”: thumping latin music, a crowded dance floor, my best friends Drew and Juan rocking blissfully to the syncopated beats. There was something so liberating about my two left feet dancing the Bachata without turning a single head. I remember the tinge of jealousy I felt watching happy couples twirl under the disco ball. I remember stepping into the bathroom around 2am, the cold water from the bathroom sink. I remember gunshots — endless gunshots. A panicked sprint. An incoherent phone call to my father. I remember dialing Drew’s number countless times, each ring another assurance he would never pick up. By sunrise, 49 people, including Drew and Juan, had been killed in what was the deadliest mass shooting in US history at the time. A world that had felt normal just hours before was suddenly tossed upside down, leaving me fighting desperately not to fall off.
That’s what feels so unpleasantly familiar about the crisis we’re facing today. For many, a world that just weeks ago was daring us to hope again has suddenly been thrown like a rag doll while we claw for a shred of normalcy. I‘ve often described it like a tempest descending from above. In a moment like this, where chaos reigns, it’s as if we are paralyzed while everything whirls around us. There is no routine, no sense of time. Getting dressed feels like winning an Academy Award. We avoid eye contact in public but feel guilty for our heightened skepticism. And that low hum of anxiety whispers in our ears that normalcy might never return.
But just as the shooting at Pulse etched those tell-tale signs of trauma into my mind, it also taught me valuable lessons in how to move forward. First, learn to forgive yourself. Forgive yourself for feeling overwhelmed by this crisis when others might have it worse. Forgive yourself for needing help — for feeling squeezed by the chaos around you when you know that others are suffocating. Forgive yourself for waking up each day when you know that some never will. Learning to forgive yourself isn’t easy or passive; it takes commitment. And even then, it’s a work in progress. But so long as you are held hostage by the fear that your pain is unearned or selfish, you cede bits of your power to comfort and care for others.
“Learning to forgive yourself isn’t easy or passive.”
That forgiveness is also not penance. You don’t have to save the world to earn your place in it. There is something profoundly healing about finding purpose through tragedy. For many in my community, that meant volunteering time at the local LGBTQ Center. For others, it was launching new philanthropic endeavors to give marginalized voices a say in the recovery efforts. I dove headfirst into advocacy — baring the gruesome details of my story over and over again in an attempt to shift policy nationwide. I gave up weekends, rejected sleep, and poured myself into my newfound work. And there was power in that. When I was firing on all cylinders, I felt alive. Not just alive, but like I deserved to be alive. I felt as though I was earning the days I had been given since Pulse, one opinion editorial at a time.
But that sensation was a temporary high, a bandaid on a wound that needed stitches. As I poured myself deeper into my work and took on more projects, I was left with a growing sense of inadequacy. Sleep felt indulgent. Laughter, a crime. Every Facebook and Instagram post pushed me to do more. Don’t forget to plan that rally. Remember to write another piece. You didn’t participate in that fundraiser. With so many hurting, why are you resting? In my desperate attempt to earn another day on Earth, I stumbled into the trap of feeling like I had to save the world on my own.
I see others doing that now. The fiercest activists I know have flown into action. There is seemingly endless digital content. Late night tweet storms. Innovative fundraisers. The myriad things happening are important. But I also hear whispers of exhaustion and fatigue, signs of an unsustainable struggle to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. The truth is, the most important lesson I learned after Pulse also seems to be the most timely: we can only get through this together.
Less than two days after the shooting, the city held a vigil. Up to that point, I had been reluctant to go outside, let alone into a sea of mourners. But as the event drew closer, I felt a pull to attend. I wanted to honor my best friends and be surrounded by love. I wanted my community to see me choosing strength, not fear. The evening flew by like a blur. There were songs and candles, hugs and tears. But through it all, I managed to stay strong — for them. As our group moved toward the exit, I stumbled onto a makeshift memorial in the grass. There, looking up at me with familiar smiles, were Drew and Juan. I collapsed to the grass in tears. Until then, I had been shrouded in shock — unable to accept that they were truly gone. But there, in that moment, it was real.
Without warning, a pair of arms enveloped me and squeezed me tight while I sobbed uncontrollably. I knelt there for what felt like hours and those comforting arms didn’t budge. When my tears subsided and I worked up the courage to lift my head, I was surprised to see a stranger — a woman I had never seen before— smiling back. “We’re here for you,” she said. That is what Orlando became in the aftermath of Pulse: we. It wasn’t a passive “we” or an obligatory “we”, it was an emphatic and unapologetic WE. Our community understood that unless we locked arms and embraced each other unashamedly, we risked allowing tragedy to fracture us. That is what America will need as we push toward recovery from this crisis. The country doesn’t need a hodgepodge of overworked superheroes or burnt out champions. We need a community made up of millions of people willing to wrap their (socially distant and completely metaphorical) arms around each other to lift us all to safety. If we are going to heal, it isn’t going to be through Herculean efforts on the backs of a few altruistic souls. It will be block by block, neighborhood by neighborhood — a movement that longs to take care of one another and knows when to ask for help.
Déjà vu. An instinctive flinch when someone coughs. A nervous glance at passersby. The low hum of anxiety like an ominous soundtrack beneath it all. We are a country caught in the throes of crisis, stranded in the eye of a tempest. But if this traumatic déjà vu has taught me anything, it’s that if we can forgive ourselves for hurting and refuse to go it alone, we have what it takes to pull through — together.
