The Trauma We Don’t Count: Building Inclusive Systems of Care
We’ve built systems around deciding who’s “impacted enough” to deserve care.
Were you physically injured? Were you inside? Are you direct family? Was your grief public?
If not, too often, you're invisible.
We don’t always say that out loud, but the system sure does. And the truth is: trauma doesn’t follow our forms and checkboxes. The ripple effects are real. And sometimes, the ones holding everything together are the ones no one thinks to check on.
When You’re Close, But Not “Counted”
In 2016, I lived just blocks from Pulse Nightclub. That night, I wasn’t inside—but I was close in every way that counts.
After a long day managing emergencies across several restaurants, I had just dropped off a friend. I was nearly home when I got a call from the club’s owner—panic in her voice. The managers were hiding. Something was happening.
I assumed it might’ve been a fight—something quick, something containable. But what I arrived to was very different. There were only a few police cars at first. But people were already running. Fear was everywhere—raw, visible, undeniable.
I tried to help. I pulled someone into my car to keep them safe. I stayed on the phone with others, doing my best to keep people calm, though I barely understood what was happening myself.
At first, I wasn’t grouped with anyone. I was just... there, caught between roles; helper, witness, staff, friend, neighbor. Eventually, officers separated those of us who had been nearby. I was placed in one of two groups, including people who had made it out of the club. We were taken to the police station for questioning.
Most of the night was a blur. Adrenaline and grief twisted together in my chest.
But I’ll never forget walking out of the station around sunrise. A crowd had gathered outside. People held photos of their loved ones, pleading, “Have you seen them? Are they okay?”
I had no answers. I just cried.
And still, despite everything, I questioned whether I had the right to be impacted.
I wasn’t inside. I wasn’t injured. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t one of the 49 beautiful souls taken that night. So, who was I to ask for care?
That’s the quiet truth so many people carry. When you’re close to tragedy, but not “counted,” it can feel like your pain doesn’t qualify. Like someone else’s suffering outweighs your own. So we stay quiet. We serve. And we suffer.
The Cost We Don’t Track
We rarely talk about what it costs to be close to a tragedy but not be seen as impacted.
The people who step up—the helpers, the coordinators, the friends, the ones answering calls and solving problems- are often left out of the healing. They’re exhausted, grieving, and carrying the pain of others while never being offered space for their own.
And the systems we’ve built? They reinforce that. We prioritize support for people based on neat definitions: “primary,” “secondary,” and “direct.” And while those definitions matter, they aren’t the whole picture.
This is what gets left behind:
People who think they’re not “allowed” to feel what they’re feeling.
Community members are burning out silently while trying to keep everything going.
Grief that gets buried in task lists, logistics, and “being strong.”
It’s not always visible. But it’s always real.
Secondary traumatic stress and burnout are real, especially for those in helping roles. The National Child Traumatic Stress Network talks about it here.
Survivor Care Isn’t Optional, It’s the Foundation
Through my work with Stars of HOPE and now JG Co-Laboratory, I’ve been in community after community where this same story plays out: people show up to help, and no one thinks to ask how they are doing.
Let me be clear: survivor care and care for everyone impacted are not just compassion. They are essential.
It keeps teams from falling apart.
It helps people keep showing up, without losing themselves in the process.
It’s not an extra. It’s the infrastructure recovery actually depends on.
How We Build Something Better
If you lead in any capacity—HR, nonprofit, philanthropy, community—here’s how we start changing this:
→ Widen the circle of care. Include those who support others, not just those with visible injuries or headlines.
→ Rethink the hierarchy of trauma. Proximity matters, but it’s not the only thing that does.
→ Design care into your systems. Don’t wait for someone to break down. Assume they’re carrying something and build support accordingly.
→ Respect the complexity. Some people call themselves survivors. Others don’t. Some are still figuring it out. All of it is valid.
If You Were There You Deserve Support
Whether you were inside or outside, answering the phone, signing the paperwork, or holding someone while they cried, if it changed you, you deserve care.
That’s it. That’s the formula.
I’m Josh Garcia. Over the past decade, I’ve supported more than 280 communities after tragedy; mass violence, natural disasters, acts of terror. And I can tell you this:
We can’t build healing around just the people who fit the form.
We need to count the trauma we haven’t been counting.
We need systems that say, “You matter. You’re seen. You get to heal too.”
Learn more about my work and the communities I’ve supported and visit The Lab Results.
