I’m a therapist. My job, amongst other things, is to hold space for others. To offer a safe, nonjudgemental place for clients to cry, grieve, and process. I sit as empathic as possible, being reflective and supportive, without judgement.

But today was different.

Today, I threw out everything I’ve learned in grad school. We are taught not to disclose personal information; not to ask questions unless they specifically further the direction the client wants to go, rather than to help us get answers to questions we want to know the answers to. And normally I’m pretty decent at following this equation.

But today was different.

I knew before I got to the office today that I wouldn’t be able to sit across from my clients in the same way. At least not for today, maybe not for tomorrow either. Even if I had attempted (I didn’t) to stick to the books, the choice wasn’t mine to make. My heart was too heavy and my eyes too swollen and my pain and anger too translucent.

I’ve sat across from clients during all parts of my life; near break-ups, the birth of my first born child, fights with family, the list could go on. And none of my clients knew anything was up. They come in expecting to see the same person with the same expression, and the consistency gives them comfort.

But today I showed up differently.

My exterior more run-down, my mood more somber.

As far as I know, the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando did not impact me directly. I say “as far as I know” because truly, the LGBTQ community is an extremely tight-knit one. I have queer friends all over this country, and there is never more than one or two—at most—degrees of separation between myself and another member of the community. And we, as a nation, are still waiting for half of the names of the murdered to be released.

LGBTQ folks often travel across the country—especially during Pride month—to celebrate in “safe spaces” where we are embraced (there is a difference between being tolerated and being embraced). Queers have been known to hit up several pride parades a year, going from city to city, spreading love, tolerance, and acceptance.

Every single one of my clients mentioned the shooting. Every single one of them cried at least once in the 50 minutes I had with them. And I cried with them. I literally could not control the tears. I’ve been crying on and off for 24 hours, and I don’t even know exactly what for anymore. I know I’m crying for the lives lost and forever changed, the victims and their families and friends. I know I’m crying for the bigotry that exists all over this world, the hatred that stems from ignorance and religion, and out of fear for myself and those I hold dearest to my heart. I know I’m crying over asinine gun-control policies and a country who thinks violence is an acceptable answer to anything. This list is hardly complete, and several items too long as it is.

I’ve been called a “dyke” on several occasions. I’ve been verbally threatened by people who saw me only in passing. I committed legally to my partner before the country granted us permission to marry. And I pretend to ignore the micro-aggressions, to act as though they do not impact me. I turn away from the notion that generational trauma against my people could possibly impact me directly. And I consider myself so. very. lucky. And that disgusts me.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store as scheduled. I went on a bike ride to run a few errands and went about my Sunday like any other Sunday. And at the same time, everything was different. My eyes were glued to the news before I left for the store, until I literally felt like I could not take any more. I was being inundated with familiar images of sirens and witness accounts and despite the obvious sadness in many of the reporters’ eyes, it was so very blasé in so many ways. I felt guilty for going to the store, for going on with life as scheduled. And yet what am I supposed to do? I can’t not eat or feed my child.

And then I realized we all will go on with life as scheduled. And that seems to be both part of the solution and part of the problem. Those of us who are gifted another day cannot simply stop living. Even the surviving victims have to continue living. Fighting for their lives, grieving their loved ones. And the days will pass. Eventually time will dull the pain, and it will turn into a nagging ache in their hearts that they become accustomed to living with because that is their only option. But as a society we’ve become so desensitized to these types of tragedies that it takes only a few days for the stories which once inundated every news channel to slowly turn back to politics, local crimes, the weather.

And that’s when we wait. We live our lives and inside our minds we wait. We anticipate another tragedy. We quietly start to feel that sense of wonder, “when is it going to happen again?”. Just the other day it occurred to me that it’d been awhile since the last mass-shooting, and I knew intuitively there had to be one coming. There’s always one coming, it seems. And it makes me fearful to be alive. It breaks my heart and makes me feel so insanely helpless.

Yesterday I cried. And I went to the grocery store. Today I showed up to work. But something was different. Today was different.

I can only hope that for all of us, tomorrow will be, too.