Last years’ pride month was marked by the historic Supreme Court ruling in favor of marriage equality. This year, pride celebrations are tinged with grief as we mourn the loss of nearly 50 members of the LGBTQIA+ community and the injury of 53 others.

Most members of the LGBTQIA+ community, myself included, will tell you that last years SCOTUS ruling in favor of marriage equality is not the end all be all of legislative and social progress for our rights. We still have a long way to go before our fight is over. Despite continued activism and dialogue, its easy to be lulled into a false-sense of security by the progressive (or at least, seemingly harmless) communities we live in.

As of now, I split my time between Hollins University, an overwhelmingly liberal (albeit southern) women’s college in Virginia, and my hometown, Norfolk, also in Virginia. Despite our official classification as a Southern State and proximity to the Mason Dixon, I’ve always felt pretty comfortable as queer woman in the places that I live. At school, members of the LGBTQIA+ community seem to outnumber the straight students by a large margin and queerness is not only accepted, but celebrated. At home, I have the luxury of the availability of a sizable Pride celebration and can generally feel comfortable openly embracing my queerness in the presence of friends, family, coworkers, and strangers. While I may sometimes be met with discomfort and lack of understanding, I can count on being at least unbothered.

I’ve always been aware that the comfort I’ve grown accustomed to isn’t guaranteed to my siblings living in more rural areas, at religious schools, or with intolerant families. Although I’ve been aware of this privilege, the reality of overwhelming homophobia in the United States is not something thats on the forefront of my mind in my day to day life.

It is this illusion of progress and normalcy that has made the Orlando shooting so jarring for me, and other members of the community lucky enough to live in relatively safe spaces. The events in Orlando serves as a bitter reminder of what has not been forgotten by the community in less accepting spaces and thats been lurking in the back of the entire communities consciousness for a long time: our country, and most of our world is not safe for people like us.

The timing of the tragedy in Orlando seems all to timely. Just about a year after we’ve achieved legislative marriage equality, queer people in intolerant communities are even more on edge and the veil is lifted on more progressive communities such as Orlando as we realize the small steps that have been made are not nearly enough.

Just a few days ago, I visited the historic Stonewall Inn during a trip to New York. I remember talking to a friend about how happy we are to be gay and apart of the community that we are. I felt happy, proud, and mostly, I felt safe. Since the Pulse shooting, those secure feelings have been ripped away from us. While the Orlando tragedy will no doubt make me second guess my security every time I reach to publicly hold the hand of a same-sex partner, update my relationship status on Facebook, or casually mention my queerness to a new acquaintance, I can only hope that our country can wake up and realize legislation is not enough to guarantee that love wins.

Aside from the privilege of safety that my hyper-liberal school affords me, I’m also lucky to have witnesses the close-knit nature of the LGBTQIA+ community. It is a community often plagued by internal fracturing and discrimination, but it is a strong and supportive one nonetheless. I am so sad, but perhaps even more angry. And it is the collective sadness and anger of one of the most tight-knit communities I know that will fuel the maintained battle for our right to safely occupy the space we deserve.