Pulse Nightclub Shooting 10 Years Later: Survivors Reflect on Tragedy, Loss and Resilience

Ten years ago, Orlando, Florida, best known for its theme parks, became the site of America's deadliest mass shooting when a gunman opened fire at the Pulse nightclub during Latin Night. Forty-nine people were killed and dozens wounded on June 12, 2016.

The club, on South Orange Avenue, had long been a safe space for the LGBTQ+ community. In the aftermath, Orlando pledged not to let hate win and to never forget.

But remembering remains painful. "For me, these 10 years have not passed," said Carmen Capo, whose son Luis Omar Ocasio Capo, 20, an aspiring dancer, died that night.

"I'm just trying to survive. You have to learn to live like a clown.

Even though your heart is shattered, you have to smile." Not all memories are devastating. "We challenged our community to respond with love and compassion and unity," said Orlando Mayor Buddy Dyer of the emotional outpouring after the massacre.

"And I think we're still that same community." But the community is not the same as it was before Pulse became a worldwide symbol of both intolerance and common cause. Survivors' stories illustrate the enduring impact.

Olga Disla struggles with crippling anxiety each June. Her son Anthony Luis Laureano Disla, 25, died at Pulse.

She recalled getting a call from a friend while studying in Puerto Rico. "When my friend told me the name of the club, my life left me," she said.

She flew to Orlando and learned her son was dead. "Even to this day I think about how I could have prevented this," she said.

Her health has declined, including open heart surgery and vision loss. "The numbers mark time but they don't finalize the pain," she said.

Juan José Cufiño Rodriguez, a former physical education teacher from Colombia, was at Pulse celebrating his last nights in the U.S. He was shot in the spine and spent 100 days hospitalized, the longest of any survivor.

He woke to learn his boyfriend, Jean Carlos Nieves Rodriguez, had died. Now 40 and in a wheelchair, he struggles with chronic pain and medication side effects.

He works as a cashier in Bogotá but cannot afford continuous physical therapy. "Life continues," he said.

"Just because I'm in a wheelchair does not mean that my bills will stop coming." He is glad the city demolished the nightclub but does not plan to visit the memorial. Carmen Capo, whose son Omar died, moved back to Puerto Rico to escape reminders.

She visits his grave in Orlando every three months. "I don't want people to remember him as a victim," she said.

"I want people to remember him as a star, the brightest one in the sky." She and her family will gather for the 10th anniversary. "We have to celebrate life, which he loved to do," she said.

Brandon Wolf, who survived by fleeing through an emergency exit, lost his two best friends, Juan Ramon Guerrero and Christopher Andrew Leinonen. "I think that was the first moment I learned what heartbreak is," he said.

He channeled his grief into advocacy for LGBTQ rights and gun control, working with Equality Florida. The memories of Pulse, a place where he felt safe as a gay man, remain vivid.

"Pulse was probably the first place I ever held hands with someone that I had a crush on without looking over my shoulder," he said.