Trigger Warning: gun violence, death
For me, community has been the most powerful antidote to hate. I have found healing and purpose by joining Queer communities, such as the health equity community advisory council through ChangeLine (formerly Community Health Partnerships). Together, we’ve been working on a grassroots initiative to launch a health database designed by and for Queer people. The goal is simple but revolutionary: to take action by helping folks find safe, gender-affirming, and queer-informed providers so they can access the care they need without fear.
Community is one of many ways we take care of one another, even when systems fall short.
Identity is more than who we are. It’s also what we live with. In 2021, I moved from Washington, DC to Colorado Springs, Colorado, a historically ultra-conservative city, home to Focus on the Family and hub of 1990s ‘Hate State’ culture (see endnote for context). In DC, where LGBTQ+ communities make up over 14% of the city’s population (nearly triple the national average), being Queer was simply a part of my identity. However, in Colorado Springs instead of pride flags on every storefront and gay couples holding hands (as it was in DC), I saw a very clear lack thereof in Colorado. It was uncomfortable and deafening, but survivable—thrivable, even.
Things changed on November 20, 2022. I woke up mid-day that Sunday with dozens of missed calls, texts from loved ones, and a pit in my stomach (more on that in a moment). Among notifications and panic, I googled our city and found the source. The night before, a shooter had opened fire on the only Queer dance club in Colorado Springs: Club Q, a safe haven for many of my friends and community.
It’s normal to have our guard up after trauma—it also impacts our mental health.
At first, I stopped talking about my Queerness altogether, especially in person. I became hyperaware of the boutiques that put up pride flags, despite their demonstrated apathy for the Queer community before the shooting. I was also aware of the places in town that had always been – and continued to be – safest and proud. I had meals with people who had previously, like me, never seen their Queerness as something to address publicly. We agreed that, yes, this was traumatic, but being proud and authentic in our Queerness was the only way to move forward. Taking action for our individual mental health was rooted in affirming our experiences and seeking comfort in our support systems.
There is still work to be done, but in the midst of tragedy, grief, loss, trauma, fear, and anger, there is pride.
Resources and information on mental health and community trauma:
- Stress & Trauma Toolkit for Treating LGBTQ in a Changing Political and Social Environment -American Psychiatric Association
- Identity Based Crises Resource Hub -Mental Health America
- How Communities Can Begin to Heal After a Mass Shooting -Sandy Hook Promise
Endnote: Colorado was labeled the “Hate State” in response to the popularity of Amendment 2, which sought to prevent laws protecting individuals from discrimination based on sexual orientation (the U.S. Supreme Court later struck it down in 1996 as unconstitutional).
Serena Nangia (she/her) is a long-time advocate for equitable healthcare, eating disorder support, and weight-inclusive systems. As a former employee of Project HEAL and the CEO of The Body Activists, Serena works to challenge weight stigma in professional and personal settings, using her lived experience, storytelling, and research to advocate for systemic change. As a member of the Colorado Alliance for Size Equity (CASE), Serena engages with her local community to forward legislation and equip people in larger bodies with the tools to legally protect themselves. In addition, she co-leads an eating disorders support group for People in Larger Bodies at the eating disorder nonprofit ANAD.
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