Pulse: The Night That Changed Us airs Friday at 7 p.m.
On a warm summer night in June 2016, Pulse nightclub was exactly what it had always been for so many in Central Florida: a place of joy.
The music was loud. Friends packed the dance floor. Laughter echoed through the building. It was Latin Night, one of the club's most popular events, and nearly 300 people had gathered to dance, celebrate and spend time with the people they loved.
"It was the best time ever," survivor Patience Murray said. "People were smiling. It was really infectious positive energy."
Then, just after 2 a.m., everything changed.
A decade later, the Pulse nightclub shooting remains one of the deadliest mass shootings in American history. 49 people were killed. 53 others were injured. Families were shattered. Survivors were left with physical and emotional scars. First responders faced unimaginable scenes. An entire community was forced to reckon with grief, trauma and resilience.
Today, as Orlando approached the 10th anniversary of the attack, the nightclub itself is gone. Demolition crews began tearing down the Pulse building in March, clearing the site for a permanent memorial expected to open by the end of 2027.
But for those whose lives were forever altered by June 12, 2016, the memories remain impossible to erase.
A place that felt like home
Long before it became synonymous with tragedy, Pulse was known as a sanctuary. For many members of Orlando's LGBTQ+ community, it was more than a nightclub. It was a place where people could be themselves.
"Pulse was more than just a club," said Rio Escoto. "We had a sense of family."
"It was an experience that I had never felt before," Escoto said. "Everyone was welcome."
Kassandra Santiago remembers the energy.
"The vibe was beautiful," she said. "It was a beautiful community."
For many LGBTQ+ people, Pulse offered something that could be difficult to find elsewhere: acceptance. It was a place where friendships were formed, relationships blossomed and people found belonging.
Then, in a matter of moments, that safe space became the scene of unimaginable horror.
The attack
At 2:09 a.m. on June 12, 2016, Pulse posted a message on Facebook urging patrons to evacuate. Inside the nightclub, Omar Mateen had entered armed with an AR-15-style rifle and a handgun and opened fire on the crowd.
At first, some patrons thought the sounds were part of the music. Then people began falling. Others ran. Many hid. Some called loved ones to say goodbye.
Mateen, of Port St. Lucie, later pledged allegiance to ISIS during a 911 call as law enforcement officers raced to the scene. The attack continued for hours. At about 5 a.m., police used explosives to create a hole through the wall into the bathroom, then shot and killed Mateen.
By the time the attack ended, 49 people were dead. It was the deadliest mass shooting in the U.S. until one year later, when 58 people were murdered at a Las Vegas country music concert.
The victims came from different backgrounds and communities, but many shared one thing in common: they had come to Pulse looking for joy. 23 of those killed were Puerto Rican.
The attack devastated not only Orlando, but communities across Florida, Puerto Rico and the nation.
Three hours of terror
Patience Murray was 20 years old when she attended Pulse nightclub while on vacation with her best friend, Tiara Parker. The two were visiting Parker's family and went to the nightclub with Parker's 18-year-old cousin, Akyra Murray.
"The night at Pulse nightclub was the best night ever," Patience said.
"Everything was amazing. Everything was wonderful. In a matter of a few seconds, minutes, everything was changed and we're looking at people bleeding on the floor," Patience said.
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Patience and Akira made it outside, but went back in for Tiara.
"Akira and I went back into the club, because Tiara was still inside," Patience said.
"We kind of got wrapped up in what everyone else was doing because we felt just like this rush of the crowd going into the bathroom," Patience said.
The gunman followed.
Patience Murray remembers every second of what followed. "Every single second was terrifying," she said.
Dozens were held hostage for 3 hours before a SWAT team moved in. For Patience, every minute was uncertain.
"Just being in those moments and not knowing if you're gonna be saved. It really is scary," Patience said.
Murray says that at one point, the gunman came into the stall they were hiding in.
"He was literally hovering over us going to one person and shot them, went to another person and shot them, and then at the final shot before it went off, the person that was literally lying next to me got closer, and I felt their warmth on my body. I felt their breath in my ear. And then the gunman shot again, and then that person right next to me screamed. And that's when the wall came crashing down," Patience said.
Patience survived after she was shot in both of her legs. Akyra Murray was one of the 49 victims who did not make it out alive.
Like many survivors, Patience Murray's recovery extended far beyond physical wounds. The trauma followed her home: the sounds, the fear, the uncertainty.
"The fear just really stays with you," she said. Yet she refuses to let the shooting define her life.
"I choose to be a champion of the situation and not a victim forever," Murray said.
While Patience was recovering in the hospital, Akyra's brother Alex came to visit. The two are now married.
In the years since, Murray has channeled her survival into a life of purpose and creativity. She has published 2 books: Survive Then Live and Have Patience: It's Already Done. She has built a career as a singer-songwriter and creative producer whose music spans R&B, soul, pop, inspiration, spoken word and raw storytelling. Her music is available on all streaming platforms.
"I don't just write songs — I write chapters. Every track is a page in a larger story," Murray said.
3 of her songs have been submitted for Grammy consideration. She is also the subject of Surviving Patience, an Emmy-nominated documentary series. She is a mother and a writer.
That mindset has become a common thread among many survivors who continue to navigate life after Pulse. Some have become advocates. Others have focused on healing privately. Many continue to wrestle with grief and survivor's guilt. But all carry pieces of that night with them.
Witnessing devastation
Ron Hopper, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the FBI in Orlando, was among the law enforcement officials who responded in those early morning hours.
"I got a text message around 2 o'clock in the morning. It was kind of a cryptic text message. It said, hey, boss, don't know if this is legit, but I'm hearing there's a hostage situation in Orlando and the guy is claiming to be ISIS," Hopper said.
When Hopper arrived, the scene was still active. The shooter had been pushed back into the women's restroom. Investigators later determined the gunman likely chose Pulse because of where he found parking.
"There was a ton of misinformation," Hopper said.
The standoff ended when a SWAT team moved in. The gunman fired 194 rounds in 3 minutes before he was killed.
"There's not one word that I could describe it with accurately," Hopper said.
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He remembers anxiety, fear, anger and what he called "mass carnage and devastation." Yet he also remembers something else: the way Orlando responded.
"The whole community grieves when something like this happens," Hopper said. "This community came together."
In the days following the attack, thousands gathered for vigils. Businesses displayed rainbow flags. Memorials appeared across the city. People lined up to donate blood. Neighbors supported neighbors. For a brief moment, Orlando's grief became collective.
The hospital
Orlando Regional Medical Center (ORMC) sits 2,100 feet from Pulse.
Dr. Michael Cheatham, one of the trauma and burn surgeons on duty that night, said the hospital received a patient every minute in the first half hour.
"This was obviously on a scale that we've not seen before," Cheatham said.
The hospital's trauma bay had 6 beds. At the height of the crisis, 10 to 12 patients filled the space at once. More than 400 team members who were not on duty came in that morning to help.
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"It was definitely all hands on deck," Cheatham said.
A total of 53 people were injured. All patients who arrived at ORMC alive survived. Cheatham credited a large-scale mock disaster drill the hospital had conducted three months before the shooting, which simulated an active shooter on a local college campus.
"We realized that all of the planning that we had put into place paid off," Cheatham said.
The last victims arrived by approximately 5:30 a.m.
"They have injuries that will affect them the rest of their life, both physically and mentally," Cheatham said.
"It was a devastating night for many families. We saw that in their faces, and we learned a great deal that night about how to not only take care of victims and their families, but also how to take care of our own team, because it did have an impact on many people," Cheatham said.
Cheatham said he relied on his faith to cope.
"My wife drove and brought me dinner that night, and we just sat in the car and talked about all that we had seen and done at the hospital that day. So everyone, everyone copes with an event like this in their own way," Cheatham said.
A mother's search
For Christine Leinonen, June 12 did not begin with tragedy. It began with an ordinary conversation with her son.
Christopher Andrew Leinonen had spent the day at SeaWorld with his boyfriend, Juan Guerrero. They talked about running, roller coasters and her upcoming surgery. Then they hung up.
Hours later, Christine woke up and checked Facebook. A post from Christopher's friend Brandon Wolf caught her attention: "There has been a shooting at the club. I hope my friends are OK."
Christine immediately called him. Her son had been there.
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She got in her car and drove toward Orlando. For the next 33 hours, she searched desperately for answers. She visited hospitals, spoke with survivors and showed photographs of Christopher to law enforcement officers. She appeared on television asking if anyone had seen him.
"He was my whole life," she said.
A gifted mental health counselor, Christopher was known for his compassion, intelligence and ability to connect with people. He had founded his high school's first Gay-Straight Alliance and later earned the Anne Frank Humanitarian Award. His friends often sought him out for advice. His mother remembers him as someone who made everyone feel seen.
Christopher Andrew Leinonen was 32 years old when he was shot 9 times and killed at Pulse on June 12, 2016. His boyfriend, Juan, 22, was also shot multiple times and killed.
Christine describes her son as someone who drew people to him naturally. "He was sweet, kind, loving," Christine said.
He had just recently told his mom about Juan, "Mom, I think I met the man that I'm going to marry."
Today, nearly a decade later, Christine continues to advocate for accountability and transparency surrounding the tragedy and its aftermath.
The long road to healing
Healing after Pulse has never been simple. For some, the grief remains overwhelming.
Yolie Cintron lost nine friends in the shooting.
"That was a nightmare," she said.
She still works to support survivors and victims' families. Others continue to struggle with physical injuries, medical bills and emotional trauma.
"The memorial is not the biggest priority," Santiago said. "There are victims who still need help."
Those realities have fueled ongoing debates about how best to honor the victims and support those left behind. The discussions have sometimes been painful, but they also reflect the deep love people continue to have for those who were lost.
A new chapter
In March, demolition crews began dismantling the Pulse building. As machinery tore through the structure, visitors gathered outside. Flowers lined the fence. Photographs were displayed. Puerto Rican flags waved in the breeze. Many stood quietly. Others cried. Some simply watched.
The building was disappearing, but the memories remained.
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The City of Orlando plans to build a permanent memorial on the site, designed with input from survivors, victims' families and community members. The memorial will include spaces for reflection, education and remembrance. Its goal is not only to honor the victims but also to ensure future generations understand what happened there.
For many, the demolition marked both an ending and a beginning — a painful chapter closing, a new chapter taking shape.
Never forgotten
Ten years later, Pulse remains far more than a crime scene. It remains a symbol of love, loss, resilience and community.
For survivors, it is a reminder of what they endured. For families, it is a reminder of who they lost. For first responders and medical professionals, it is a reminder of lives they fought to save. And for Orlando, it remains a reminder of a city forever changed.
And as another anniversary approaches, those who lived through that night continue to share those stories — not because they want to relive the pain, but because they refuse to let the lives lost at Pulse be forgotten.
Pulse: The Night That Changed Us, airs Friday at 7 p.m.
