I woke up when my phone blinked with a message. “BREAKING: At least 50 people dead in Orlando mass shooting”

I sat up in my bed, and sent up a prayer for the families affected. I sent up another for the police and emergency personnel at the scene.

I sent up one more, hoping that the shooter wasn't Muslim.

Whenever anyone mentions Orlando, I immediately think of home. I was raised there for most of my life. I remember the years of feeding ducks in my backyard, and birthday parties with my favorite ice cream cake. It was there that I learned how to swim, and to ride a bike. It was where I made my best friends, and began to grow into the person I am today.

After the news about Omar Mateen slaughtering fifty people at Pulse, a gay nightclub President Obama described in his statement as: “a place of solidarity and empowerment where people have come together to raise awareness,” I could barely breathe. This man, who murdered 50 human beings out of blind hatred, was going to be the face of my religion for the foreseeable future. This man who at 2 a.m., when most Muslims on the East Coast were preparing suhoor (the pre-dawn meal before a day of fasting), stopped the hearts of 50 men and women, just like you and me, with an assault rifle.

I could only burst into tears.

I cried for those who lost their lives, and for their families. I cried for the LGBTQ community, and all the people I know who would be affected by such a massacre in their community. I cried for Orlando, and for the fear that one man forcefully injected into my friends and neighbors back home. I cried for the younger version of myself, who loved her home and would never have to know the face of the man who defiles my memories of my favorite place in the entire world. And lastly, I sobbed for the lesser and unspoken victims of this massacre, who by name alone, will continue to be discriminated against, and continue to be the center of hatred and bigotry; my Muslim community.

The flow and ebb of intolerance towards Muslims has been an inescapable part of my life. Only a few days ago, people all across America (and the world) came together to remember and celebrate the life of a wonderful Muslim, Muhammad Ali. Today, that feeling of unity seems to have been washed away. While I, a Muslim, can hardly contain my grief for the Pulse victims, Trump sits in his tower and appreciates congratulations on his foresight, demanding “toughness” and “vigilance.”

This intolerance has led to several family meetings dedicated to a discussion about staying indoors for the next few weeks, because we might be targeted by others as an act of retribution for something we did not do. Once you have had one of those discussions, it is hard to spend the rest of the day thinking about anything other than the onslaught of hateful comments and criticism probably being posted somewhere. You fall into a haze of dark thoughts, questioning your role in the place you have called home your entire life.

This is in no way meant to take attention away from the fact that the LGBTQ community was so clearly targeted. No one should be the victim of such an atrocity, regardless of race, religion, sexual preference or orientation. However, I hope that we are careful not to let this direct act of hatred lead to more hate. Even as it seems the world is rampant with violence and intolerance, we must continue to work towards a future without hatred or prejudice. This may be a lot to ask during a time of mourning, but I hope the message isn't forgotten. What is certain is that neither group will stand for this senseless violence. We may even find support in each other as we stand against prejudice and violence directed towards our communities. Let us stand united to give the victims all the support we can give, and to not let terror divide and turn us against each other.

I have too many words to try and explain something very simple. I sympathize, and I wish this had never happened. I completely and wholeheartedly condemn any act of hatred or terrorism, yet I wish I wasn't expected to say so. As my mom embraced me after listening to the news, she told me [Muslims] have no reason to be sorry. We are in no way related to this man, or what he did. In our condemnation, we can no more control the acts of radical so-called “Muslims” as anyone can. I can feel all the grief in the world, but this man does not define us. Muslims will stand in solidarity with Pulse, and pray for Orlando, but we cannot apologize, because doing so means we take responsibility for his actions. Saying sorry means we accept this man into our community, that he represents our faith, and that our beliefs are in some way responsible for these deaths. We are not responsible. Islam is not responsible. He is. Hatred is.

Despite my mom’s words, I still have to respond. I respond with love and support. I hope that the victims and their families find strength and support within their communities, and know that they are in everyone’s thoughts. I hope that the LGBTQ community remains unintimidated, and receives all the help and support they need to stand strong against this horrifying act of violence. I hope all of us Americans can stand together, and show that our love for our country and each other will overpower any act of intimidation. I hope my Muslim brothers and sisters stay safe, and continue to be resilient, because we must. We all must.

I have no idea if I will publish this, because I’m a little terrified of what will be said. But this is a perspective I need to talk about, and a response I feel obligated to give. Maybe, in some small way, it will help.