A personal note from Mike Vacirca, co-owner of Anthem Orlando, written for the 10-year mark of Pulse. Adapted from an interview with Patricia Tolley.
Anthem Orlando opened in October 2025 in the heart of downtown Orlando at 100 North Orange Avenue. But the concept started before we ever opened the doors. Anthem was born from a feeling that Orlando needed another place where LGBTQ+ people could walk in and immediately exhale. A place where you do not have to shrink yourself, explain yourself, scan the room to see if you are safe, or wonder whether you belong. You just walk in, hear the music, see your people, and feel like, “Okay. I’m home.”
That is really what Anthem is about.
Why we opened Anthem
It is a nightclub, yes. There are DJs, drag shows, cocktails, lights, dancing, and all the beautiful chaos that makes nightlife fun. But underneath that, the heart of Anthem is community. It is about creating a space where people can celebrate, grieve, flirt, heal, dance, laugh, meet friends, find chosen family, and feel proud of who they are.
We opened Anthem because we watched too many LGBTQ+ spaces disappear. And when those spaces go away, the loss is not just a business closing. It is a stage that disappears. A dance floor that disappears. A safe first night out that disappears. A place for the next generation to discover themselves disappears.
That matters deeply.
For younger LGBTQ+ people, spaces like Anthem can be the first place they see queer adults living out loud. The first place they realize they are not alone. The first place they feel permission to express themselves, dress how they want, love who they want, dance how they want, and belong without having to earn it.
Harvey Milk said, “Hope will never be silent.” That quote means a lot in this context, because LGBTQ+ nightlife has always been part of how our community keeps hope visible. Sometimes hope looks like protest. Sometimes it looks like policy change. And sometimes it looks like a packed dance floor full of people who made it through another week and still chose joy.
The name “Anthem” means a lot to us. An anthem is bigger than a song. It is something people rally around. It is the sound of a shared identity. It is that moment on a dance floor when everyone is singing the same words, moving together, and for a few minutes the world outside feels a little less heavy.
We opened Anthem because LGBTQ+ spaces still matter, especially in Orlando. This city carries both joy and heartbreak in its queer nightlife history. After Pulse, you cannot open an LGBTQ+ venue here casually. You open it with reverence. You open it knowing that these spaces are sacred to people. They are where people come to feel free, to feel safe, to feel wanted, and to feel alive.
For us, Anthem is about protecting queer joy. It is about making sure downtown Orlando still has a loud, visible, unapologetic LGBTQ+ space where the community can gather. Not hidden. Not pushed to the side. Right in the center of the city. We opened it because people deserve that. They deserve a room where they are celebrated, not tolerated. They deserve a dance floor where their existence feels normal, beautiful, and powerful. And they deserve a place that reminds them that even after everything this community has been through, we are still here, still dancing, still loving, and still turning the music up.
My background — and what we brought to building this
Before running Anthem, our background was not traditional nightlife or hospitality. Manny and I came into this with different life experiences but shared a love for community, music, people, and creating spaces where others feel welcome.
My professional background was in technology, engineering leadership, cloud security, and highly regulated systems. For years, I led teams building infrastructure where trust, safety, reliability, compliance, and operations really mattered. That shaped the way I think about Anthem. A nightclub may look completely different from a cloud platform, but both require strong systems, clear processes, great teams, risk management, and the ability to make good decisions under pressure.
Manny brought his own strengths too: hospitality instincts, creativity, warmth, style, and a deep understanding of how people should feel when they walk into a room.
Together, we brought both structure and heart to Anthem. So while we were not lifelong nightclub operators, we were builders. We knew how to create something from the ground up, lead through complexity, and care deeply about the people depending on us. Anthem became the place where all of that came together: operations, safety, music, performance, community, and queer joy.
Where I was in 2016
I was not working in nightlife or hospitality in Orlando in 2016, but I was very connected to Orlando’s LGBTQ+ community.
At the time, I was working at Lockheed Martin, and I served as the Pride ERG leader for the Orlando East campus. I had also recently stepped away from the board of The LGBT Center, but after Pulse, that changed immediately. Like so many people, I came back in because the community needed all of us.
Pulse was not something you watched from a distance. It pulled you in. It changed the air in the room. It changed how people spoke, how people gathered, how people checked on each other. It was grief, shock, fear, love, anger, and urgency all happening at once.
A lot of the social media and public messaging people saw at the time came from the work we were doing through The Center. We were trying to communicate clearly in a moment when everyone was hurting and searching for information. We were helping families, survivors, friends, and community members understand where to go, what resources were available, what was needed, and how people could help.
That work was deeply human. It was not branding. It was not communications in the normal sense. It was trying to give people direction while holding the weight of their pain. It was listening to families and survivors. It was understanding needs in real time. It was helping amplify the right information so people could find support, donate, volunteer, grieve, or simply know they were not alone.
So while I was not running a nightclub in 2016, I was standing very close to the heart of what LGBTQ+ spaces meant in Orlando. I saw, in one of the most painful ways imaginable, that our bars, clubs, centers, performers, volunteers, and community leaders are part of the same ecosystem. They are not just places or roles. They are lifelines.
That experience stayed with me.
It shaped the way Manny and I think about Anthem today. We do not see it as just a nightclub. We see it as part of a larger community responsibility. A place like Anthem has to be joyful, sexy, loud, fun, and full of life, yes. But it also has to understand the history it is standing in. It has to respect the people who came before us, the people we lost, the survivors who still carry that night, and the next generation who deserves spaces where they can feel safe, free, and loved.
Pulse taught Orlando that LGBTQ+ nightlife is sacred. It is where people go to become themselves. It is where chosen family forms. It is where the community gathers when words are not enough.
So no, I was not in hospitality then. But I was in the community. I was in the work. And that work is part of why Anthem exists now.
How Pulse changed Orlando’s nightlife community
Pulse changed everything. It changed how Orlando understood LGBTQ+ nightlife. Before Pulse, some people saw gay bars and queer clubs as just places to party. After Pulse, there was no denying what our community already knew: these spaces are sanctuaries. They are where people go to feel safe, to be seen, to find family, to celebrate, to grieve, to flirt, to dance, to heal, and to exist without apology.
It brought Orlando’s nightlife community closer together in a way that is hard to describe unless you lived through it. Bar owners, performers, DJs, bartenders, security teams, community leaders, nonprofits, volunteers, and patrons all became part of one larger support system. The walls between “business,” “community,” and “family” got very thin, because suddenly everyone understood that we were all holding each other up.
For me personally, working through The Center during that time made that incredibly clear. The needs were immediate and human. Families needed information. Survivors needed support. People needed a place to gather, cry, organize, donate, volunteer, and simply not be alone. And the nightlife community was part of that response because nightlife had always been the heartbeat of our community.
Pulse also changed how we think about safety. It made safety emotional, not just operational. It is not just about security at the door or emergency plans, although those things matter deeply. It is about whether people can walk into a space and feel protected without feeling afraid. It is about creating an environment where joy can happen because people trust the room they are in.
But the most powerful thing Pulse changed was the sense of responsibility. In Orlando, LGBTQ+ nightlife now carries memory. It carries grief, resilience, and pride. Every drag show, every dance floor, every packed room, every Pride event, every person who walks into a queer space for the first time — all of that means more here. Pulse reminded us that queer joy is not trivial. It is sacred. It is resistance. It is survival. And in Orlando, the nightlife community still carries that truth every time the music comes on.
Why an LGBTQ+ nightclub still matters
It is important because LGBTQ+ people still need places where they are centered, not just accepted. An LGBTQ+ nightclub is more than a place to dance. It is often where someone has their first night out as themselves. It is where they see queer joy in real life, not filtered through a screen. It is where they meet chosen family, see drag for the first time, hold someone’s hand without calculating the risk, or finally feel like their identity is not something to manage, hide, or explain.
In Orlando, that matters even more. This city carries the memory of Pulse. Because of that, LGBTQ+ nightlife here has a deeper meaning. These spaces are not just entertainment venues. They are community infrastructure. They are cultural spaces. They are places of visibility, safety, healing, celebration, and remembrance.
When LGBTQ+ spaces disappear, we lose more than bars. We lose stages for performers. We lose gathering places for community organizations. We lose fundraisers, first dates, friendships, sober check-ins, drag families, dance floors, and the small moments that help people feel less alone.
For the next generation, especially, these spaces are essential. Young queer people deserve to see that there is a future for them that is joyful, loud, creative, loving, and full of possibility. They deserve to walk into a room and see people living openly and think, “That can be me too.”
That is why Anthem matters to Manny and me.
We opened Anthem because Orlando deserves a visible, unapologetic LGBTQ+ space in the heart of downtown. A place where queer joy is protected. A place where music, performance, nightlife, and community come together. A place where people are celebrated, not merely tolerated.
At the end of the day, an LGBTQ+ nightclub is not just about nightlife. It is about belonging. And belonging can change someone’s life.
What people don’t see
What most people would not understand is that running an LGBTQ+ nightclub in Orlando after Pulse means holding joy and responsibility at the exact same time.
People see the lights, the music, the drag shows, the cocktails, the photos, the outfits, and the packed dance floor. And that is real. That joy is real. But behind it, there is a constant awareness that this space means something deeper to people. You are not just opening a bar for the night. You are opening a room where someone may feel safe for the first time all week. Where someone may come out to their friends. Where someone may hold hands in public for the first time. Where someone may remember someone they lost. Where a survivor may walk in carrying a history no one else can see. Where a parent may come in trying to understand their child better. Where a young queer person may look around and realize they have a future.
That is a lot to hold.
After Pulse, safety is not just a checklist. It is emotional. It lives in how the door team greets people, how security watches the room, how staff respond to conflict, how we train, how we plan, how we communicate, and how we make people feel protected without making them feel afraid. People may not understand that you are always thinking about both sides: the magic guests came for and the responsibility required to protect it.
Manny and I want Anthem to feel loud, sexy, joyful, free, and alive. But behind the scenes, we are thinking about exits, crowd flow, staff readiness, de-escalation, guest safety, compliance, emergency response, and whether every person in that room feels seen and cared for.
That is the invisible work. And it is heavy sometimes. But it is also sacred.
Because in Orlando, queer nightlife is not defined by tragedy. It is defined by the fact that we are still here. Still dancing. Still performing. Still loving. Still gathering. Still creating spaces where the next generation can walk in and feel like they belong.
What most people don’t understand is that running Anthem involves more than just throwing parties. It is about protecting the conditions that allow queer joy to exist.
For more on the 10-year remembrance, see Pulse Remembrance 2026 — Honoring 10 Years. For ongoing LGBTQ+ programming in Orlando, see our event guide.
— Mike Vacirca, co-owner, Anthem Orlando