June 12, 2016. It was Latin Night. People were dancing, laughing, and just being themselves in a space that was supposed to be safe. Then the gunfire started. By the time the sun came up over Orlando, 49 lives had been stolen. We talk about the numbers a lot, but the victims of Pulse nightclub weren't statistics. They were brothers, pharmacy technicians, goofy friends, and parents. Honestly, if you look at the names today, nearly a decade later, the weight of that loss hasn't lightened for the families left behind. It’s heavy. It’s real.
The tragedy was the deadliest mass shooting in modern U.S. history at the time. It happened in a sanctuary for the LGBTQ+ community. Most of the people there were young, many in their 20s, with their whole lives ahead of them. When we talk about the victims of Pulse nightclub, we have to talk about who they were before that night—not just how it ended.
The Human Faces Behind the 49
Take Eddie Sotomayor Jr. He was 34. People called him "Top Hat Eddie" because he always wore one at events. He was a travel coordinator. He spent his life helping people see the world, especially the LGBTQ+ community. He was one of the first names confirmed. It’s those kinds of details—the top hat, the smile—that remind us what was actually lost. It wasn't just "people"; it was personality.
Then there was Christopher Andrew Leinonen, who was 32. He had established a gay-straight alliance at his high school years before. He was there with his boyfriend, Juan Ramon Guerrero. They died together. Their families eventually decided they should be buried side-by-side. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also a testament to a bond that a gunman couldn't break. You see these stories and you realize that every single one of the victims of Pulse nightclub had a network of people who depended on them.
Akyra Murray was the youngest. She was only 18. She had just graduated from high school and was in Orlando to celebrate. She had a full scholarship to play basketball at college. She called her mother from the bathroom during the shooting, terrified. Think about that. 18 years old. That’s a life that hadn't even truly started yet.
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Why the Latinx Connection Matters
It’s often overlooked that the majority of the victims of Pulse nightclub were Latinx. It was "Latin Night," after all. Many were Puerto Rican. This added a layer of complexity to the grieving process. Some families struggled with language barriers while navigating the medical and legal systems in the aftermath. Organizations like Proyecto Somos Orlando had to step in because the existing support systems weren't always equipped to handle a bilingual, bicultural crisis of this scale.
The intersectionality of being queer and person of color meant that these individuals were often navigating multiple worlds. For some, Pulse was the only place they felt they could fully be both. When that space was violated, it wasn't just a physical attack; it was an attack on their identity.
The Survivors and the "Hidden" Victims
When we list the 49, we sometimes forget the 53 others who were physically wounded. And then there are the hundreds of others who were inside and made it out without a bullet wound but carry the psychological scars. These are also victims of Pulse nightclub, in a different sense.
The trauma didn't end when the police breached the wall.
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Survivors like Patience Carter have spoken openly about the survivor's guilt. It’s a gnawing feeling. Why did I live when the person next to me didn't? That’s a question that doesn't have an answer. Medical bills for survivors were astronomical. Some lost their jobs because they couldn't return to work. The "OneBlood" donation centers saw lines around the block the next day, which was a beautiful show of support, but for the people in the hospital beds, the road was just beginning.
The Political and Social Aftermath
The discourse got messy. Fast. Politicians argued about terrorism versus hate crimes. But for the local community in Orlando, it was just grief. The city bought the nightclub property eventually, though the road to a permanent memorial has been bumpy and full of controversy. There have been disagreements between the onePulse Foundation and some of the victims' families regarding how the site should be handled.
Some family members felt the foundation was "monetizing" the tragedy. Others just wanted a quiet place to pray. This is the reality of mass trauma—there is no "perfect" way to heal, and sometimes the efforts to remember the victims of Pulse nightclub actually cause more friction.
Misconceptions About the Night
There are a few things people get wrong about the event.
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- The Target: For a long time, there was a narrative that the shooter specifically chose Pulse because it was a gay club. While the impact was undeniably homophobic, later FBI investigations and court proceedings suggested the shooter may have scouted other locations and chose Pulse because of its lack of visible security, not necessarily because of its clientele. However, for the survivors, the intent matters less than the impact. The impact was the destruction of a queer sanctuary.
- The Response Time: There is still a lot of debate about the three-hour standoff. Some argue that police should have moved in sooner. Others say they followed protocol for a hostage situation. For the victims of Pulse nightclub who were bleeding out inside, those three hours were an eternity.
- The "Pulse Family": People think the community just "bounced back." They didn't. Many of the bars in Orlando saw a massive dip in attendance for months. People were scared. The sense of safety was shattered.
How to Actually Support the Legacy Today
If you want to honor the victims of Pulse nightclub, it’s not just about posting a rainbow flag on June 12th. It’s about the people still living with the consequences.
- Support the Contigo Fund: This emerged after the shooting to support LGBTQ+ Latinx individuals and immigrants in Central Florida. They do the boots-on-the-ground work that actually changes lives.
- Mental Health Advocacy: Many survivors still require therapy. Supporting organizations that provide low-cost mental health services to trauma victims is a direct way to help.
- Blood Donation: It sounds simple, but the Pulse shooting highlighted how critical blood banks are. Donating regularly ensures that when the next tragedy happens—and it will—the hospitals are ready.
- Voter Engagement: Many victims’ families have become activists for gun safety legislation. Whether you agree with their specific policy goals or not, engaging in the civic process is how many find meaning in their loss.
The names of the 49 are etched in stone now, but their stories are still being written by the people who loved them. Every time someone speaks up against hate, or stands up for a marginalized kid, or just dances without fear, they are honoring what those 49 people were doing on their last night.
Honestly, the best way to remember the victims of Pulse nightclub is to recognize their humanity. They weren't martyrs for a cause. They were people who wanted to have a drink and hear some music with their friends. They deserved to grow old. Since they can't, it’s on the rest of us to make sure the world they left behind gets a little bit kinder and a little more secure.
To keep their memory alive, you can visit the interim memorial in Orlando, which remains a place of reflection. You can also read the full biographies of each of the 49 individuals through the Orlando Sentinel’s archives, which did an incredible job of profiling every single life lost, ensuring they are remembered for how they lived, not just how they died.
Next Steps for Action:
- Research local LGBTQ+ centers in your area to see how you can volunteer or contribute to "safe space" initiatives.
- Educate yourself on the history of Latinx LGBTQ+ activism to understand the specific challenges faced by the majority of the Pulse victims.
- If you are ever in Orlando, visit the site with respect, acknowledging that for many, this is still a site of active mourning, not just a tourist landmark.