In the evening of Jan. 4, 2025, as I sat in my backyard for dinner with my family, a round of explosions went off into the air. Mid-bite, we all froze and exchanged wide-eyed glances. My father broke the tension with a nervous laugh, and the rest of us followed with uneasy chuckles as we realized the explosions were only fireworks from our neighbor’s yard—a belated New Year’s celebration. But while my family’s laughter eased the moment, I sat in silence, consumed by frustration. Fireworks, something that once filled me with excitement and joy as a child, now felt jarring and wrong. My first thought was, “It’s inconsiderate to be popping fireworks after what just happened on Bourbon Street.” But as I sat there, trying to process my discomfort, I realized my frustration wasn’t with my neighbors. Instead, it was the realization that my family and I had just uncovered yet another symptom of our collective post-traumatic stress disorder.
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On the first day of the year here in New Orleans, the usual “Happy New Year” texts were replaced with frantic messages from family and friends reading, “You safe?” Confused and startled by the sudden concern, I broke my New Year’s resolution to avoid social media. I opened X, and there it was—a terrorist attack in my own city, in my home. I rushed to the living room where I met my parents locked in on the television as the news reported the horrific story.
Like many other New Orleans natives, we sat all day glued to our television, switching between channels as the news rolled in—each update revealing another name, another life lost. With every announcement, we braced ourselves, dreading the possibility of a call from the hospital or coroner asking us to identify a loved one taken by this senseless act of violence. We attempted to process what was happening and what this meant for our beloved city. But like so many times before, the process of grieving and healing was pushed aside, overtaken by the rush to reopen the city for business. This time, it was for the Sugar Bowl. While victims’ bodies still lay cold on the streets and bomb squads worked to locate explosives, the story shifted. It was no longer just about the lives lost or the terror we’d endured not even 24 hours ago but about how quickly Bourbon Street could reopen. Headlines framed it as a triumph, drawing on cultural phrases like “Won’t bow down!” and insisting that our ability to push forward with business was the ultimate example of our so-called resilience.
New Orleans has endured more than its share of blows. From constant environmental injustices to deep social disparities, it feels like we just can’t catch a break. But in New Orleans, we process tragedy and grief differently than the rest of the world. In 2005, after Hurricane Katrina devastated our home, the world praised us for how quickly we “bounced back.” National news outlets celebrated with headlines declaring the city “Open for Business.” But I remember it differently.
I was 13-years-old when I returned home to a neighborhood still without electricity or even a functioning grocery store, after being displaced by the storm for nearly a year. That first night back, my friends and I wandered through our neighborhood to see the damage Katrina had left behind and which of our neighbors had returned. Our exploration was interrupted by the sound of music and laughter, accompanied by the nostalgic aroma of comfort food floating through the air. Following it, we stumbled upon a block party where neighbors had gathered to celebrate being home and surviving the storm.
A pot of red beans and rice sat on a miniature electric burner set up beside a DJ blasting bounce music that echoed for blocks. In the center of it all, children and adults danced together in a circle, their movements free and joyful. My friends and I joined in, letting the rhythm and laughter wash away months of pain and the lingering uncertainty about New Orleans’ future. In that moment, I discovered a superpower we all shared: resilience. It was in our spirit, in our joy, in the way we rebuilt ourselves, even when the world forgot about us.
As natives, we carried that resilience with us through the long road to recovery—a road we paved ourselves, knowing early on that no one was coming to save us. Every August, as the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina approached, I’d see local and national coverage praising our strength, highlighting how fast we “bounced back.” They’d show clips of the bustling French Quarter, Second Lines, and Mardi Gras as proof of our recovery. But what they didn’t show—or care to—was the unfolding trauma Katrina left behind.
They didn’t show the children suffering in silence, the blighted homes that still stood as painful reminders, or the families who couldn’t afford to return or rebuild. Those stories didn’t fit the narrative of resilience they wanted to sell. And because they didn’t prioritize those issues, much of it was suppressed, and many of us never truly healed.
It was then that I began to see resilience as a double-edged sword—something powerful but dangerous when in the wrong hands.
On the morning of Jan. 3, 2025—just two days after Shamsud-Din Jabbar drove his truck at high speed into a crowd of revelers on Bourbon Street, killing 14 innocent people and injuring many more—the street reopened for business. City officials, police officers, and pastors gathered for a prayer service on the very ground where the attack had taken place. They remembered the victims, and then, as if on cue, the sound of cowbells signaled the start of a brass band parade down Bourbon Street to declare it “safe” once again. That afternoon, the rescheduled Sugar Bowl kicked off. Just like that, the message from leaders was clear: not even terrorism could “stop us.”
I must have heard city officials and reporters use the word “resilience” a thousand times that day. And yet, it all felt painfully familiar.
I understand that tourism is vital to New Orleans’ economy, but when do we—the people, the victims—get to be part of the recovery process? When do we get to grieve? When do we get to heal before we’re forced to move on? This rush to be resilient and “get back to business” doesn’t bring closure; it only deepens the trauma.
Resilience is, without question, something to celebrate. It has been the saving grace in so many moments when we could have been defeated. Whether it was Hurricane Katrina or COVID-19, we’ve always met tragedy with strength and resistance. And we will—and should—do the same with this horrific Jan. 1 attack. But at what cost?
At what point do we stop and allow ourselves the space and time to process? To heal? In my HBO documentary Katrina Babies, I said, “It’s for me to say when I’m resilient. It’s not for you.” Resilience should be a choice, not something forced upon us. Yet here in New Orleans, it’s continually imposed—not for the well-being of its people, but for the sake of business.
It’s frustrating and disheartening to see politicians and business leaders impose resilience on us for their bottom lines, all while overlooking the real needs of the people. They parade it like a badge of honor, all while ignoring the deeper wounds that keep us in a constant state of painful survival. This approach only drives us further from the accountability and action necessary to confront the root causes of our hardships.
We are tired of the endless expectation to be resilient whenever tragedy strikes. What we need now is the space to heal, the chance to rest, and the dignity of being truly considered.
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