Echoes Down The Corridor

As a crowd of 60 anti-vaxxers squeezed into the upstairs dining area of Jonathan’s Grille in Nashville on a recent Monday night, a moment of pride washed over Scott Armstrong.

Years ago, he had been let go from his job as a drug and alcohol counselor for refusing to get vaccinated. Now, unvaccinated people from all over the country were piling into the sports bar to meet others like them. There was a woman who flew in from New Jersey and another from Philadelphia. One group drove up from Florida.

They were there to attend a mixer hosted by Unjected, an anti-vaccination dating app that, according to its website, is “built on creating health-conscious relationships.” It was the second stop on Unjected’s four-city “Summer of Love” tour meant for singles who oppose the Covid-19 vaccine.

“We’re still some of the most persecuted people in society right now,” Armstrong, who now owns a video production company and helped organize the event, tells WIRED. “People still express this absolute hatred for us and for our beliefs in natural health. It just continues to encourage us to host these meetups.”

The reorientation around in-person events to cure app fatigue is a major trend among dating apps struggling for signs of new life. According to ticketing platform Eventbrite, IRL dating events have been on the rise since 2025. Tinder, as part of its rebrand this year, announced it was investing in member meet-ups. But singles in the anti-vax community say for them the events are about connecting with people—potentially future partners—who, above all, believe in bodily autonomy.

Other platforms include the app Unjabbed, NoVax.Singles, Unjuiced.Date, and the Reddit-style dating and community site also named Unjabbed.net, whose members are spread across the US and Europe. PureBlood.Dating, which operates like a social club, launched earlier this year with a street marketing campaign, posting flyers around San Francisco to attract members that urged people to sign up for notifications on its website if they wanted to join a “community for unvaccinated singles to connect at real, in-person events.”

“This is really a pro-freedom movement. It’s not just an anti-vaccination movement,” says Shelby Hosana, the 32-year-old founder of Unjected. “Whatever goes in your body and whatever you do with your body is 100 percent your choice.”

I noticed something during last year’s Pride that I could not stop thinking about afterward: silence.

Not total silence. Pride events still filled city streets in San Francisco, where I live. Rainbow flags still hung from windows. But many queer Jews I knew had become quieter in subtle, almost imperceptible ways. Some had stopped posting online. Some had withdrawn from political conversations altogether. Others no longer mentioned being Jewish in spaces where that identity had once felt unremarkable.

A few quietly disappeared from communities they had helped build. Invitations were declined. Group chats went unanswered. One friend told me they hesitated before wearing a Star of David necklace to Pride for the first time in years.

At first, I told myself I was imagining it. Then I began hearing the same thing in private conversations: people calculating whether it was safe to say certain things out loud. Wondering whether expressing ongoing grief over the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023 would cost them friendships, belonging or community. Deciding it was easier to remain silent than risk becoming a problem to manage.

I recognized that instinct, because I felt it too.

As a psychologist and psychoanalyst practicing in San Francisco who has facilitated support groups for queer Jews since Oct. 7, I’ve perceived a clear phenomenon: While for years, many queer Jews experienced queer spaces as a refuge, after Oct. 7, that sense of refuge became less certain.

The spaces where we built chosen family, recovered from shame, fell in love, and constructed identities used to be shaped by the belief that vulnerability should not have to be hidden in order to belong.

Now, in some of those spaces, it feels like certain forms of Jewish grief have become socially suspect.

In some spaces, expressing horror at the massacre of Israeli civilians has felt permissible only when immediately qualified or contextualized.

In conversations over the past year, I have repeatedly encountered the same pattern: queer Jews becoming more cautious and less certain about what they could safely say in response to pressure to express grief only in publicly acceptable ways.

Silence can be a form of self-protection. People grow quiet when they sense that emotional honesty may carry steep social costs inside communities they still want to belong to.

Some queer Jews no longer attend events they once loved. Others still attend, but carefully. They edit themselves in real time, measuring how much grief they can express before it becomes unintelligible to others.

None of this is unilaterally true about queer communities, which are not monoliths. And many LGBTQ people feel profound anguish over Palestinian suffering, as do many Jews.

But queer Jews are exhausted. The strain of constant self-translation; the effort of proving that mourning one people does not entail hatred of another; and the vigilance required to navigate belonging that feels increasingly conditional have taken their toll.

The loss of a place where you were supposed to exist without negotiation feels existential. And as each Pride passes, certain griefs intensify as they remain unspoken.

This Pride, I’m thinking less about who will show up than about who will remain quiet once they arrive.

A crackship isn't just any ship that makes you go, "Eh, I don't see it." A crackship is absolutely WILD in concept. A crackship is the one that makes your friends look at you with the beginnings of existential horror. It's the one where they wave a circle round you thrice and close their eyes in holy dread, for you on honeydew hath fed and drunk the milk of paradise.

but it's an entirely new level of tragic when somebody you've actually spoken to gets turned into a bot account. it's like peeking at a zombie apocalypse through the window and realizing one of the shambling corpses was your friend.

and then the zombie catches sight of you, lurches up to your window, and shouts through the glass that they accidentally reported your account to tumblr and you'll be deactivated unless you click this link.

if you get something like this ↑ they're gonna follow up by instructing you to contact tumblr support on discord and give you contact info; or they're gonna link a website that looks sort of like tumblr support and say you have to email them; or any variety of "you must now contact tumblr, here is how you contact tumblr."

whatever they send you, it Does Not lead to tumblr. it leads to the master zombie that bit them and inducted them into the ranks of the undead, and will bite you the second they have your email and password. i might be confusing zombies and vampires. anyway,

it's easier to fall for these messages because the blog doesn't LOOK like a bot blog, because it ISN'T a bot blog. it's a normal person's blog that got accessed by a bot, meaning the blog's content CLEARLY looks like a real active user when you click on it. and yes—it might even be a blog you already know. sometimes bots like this go down a blog's DMs or reblogs and message people they've previously interacted with.

“shrugs off scandals” is a curious way to frame an abusive antisemitic misogynist with a Nazi tattoo, but sure.