Inaction

I recently listened to a podcast called Fiasco, a series that revisits events that later proved historically significant and examines how they unfolded. I had just finished a season focused on the beginnings of the AIDS epidemic in the late 1970s.    

I was in my twenties then, and as I listened, I recognized pieces of the history—names, moments, public debates. I remembered the fear, the confusion, and the arguments that flared around the disease. I remembered hearing about scientific breakthroughs and setbacks, and how AIDS became entangled with broader cultural battles over sexuality, morality, and personal responsibility.    

What I hadn’t realized at the time—and what the podcast made painfully clear—was how little I truly understood about those early years, especially about the fear experienced by gay men as the epidemic spread and the body count steadily rose.    

Listening now, decades later, the story felt uncomfortably familiar. Denial, uncertainty, speculation about causes and cures, slow government response, and widespread blame—all of it echoed more recent public health crises. But what struck me most was not the institutional failure or the political debate. It was the human cost: the loneliness, the dread, and the grief.    

That realization hit close to home because my youngest brother, Jim, was diagnosed as HIV-positive in 1990. By then, combination drug therapies were beginning to change the outlook for people with HIV. If there is such a thing as good timing in a tragedy, he benefited from it.    

After Jim and his partner were diagnosed, I traveled to San Francisco to visit them. I went partly to show support and partly at my mother’s urging, to see how Jim was doing. I remember feeling uneasy before the trip. Although it was becoming clear that HIV wasn’t spread through casual contact, uncertainty still lingered. I was embarrassed by my apprehension, but it was real.    

In the end, I was glad I went. We spent time together, talked, and tried—awkwardly at times—to act normal. I think my brother and his partner appreciated the visit, or at least the effort. At the time, I told myself that showing up was enough.    

Listening to Fiasco years later forced me to reconsider that assumption.    

Through interviews with gay men who lived through the height of the crisis in the 1980s, I began to understand what my brother must have experienced long before his own diagnosis. The fear wasn’t abstract. It was constant and intimate—watching friends get sick, attending funerals, wondering who would be next.    

Several of Jim’s childhood friends died in the mid-1980s, including his best friend. I knew that then, of course, but I didn’t fully grasp what it meant. I didn’t ask many questions. I didn’t linger on the subject. I didn’t want to pry, and, if I’m honest, I didn’t want to be uncomfortable.    

The podcast also illuminated something else I hadn’t fully considered at the time: the fear of hostility layered on top of the fear of illness. As AIDS spread, so did anger toward gay men. Public discourse often framed the disease as punishment or moral failure. That atmosphere made an already terrifying situation even more isolating.    

As I listened, I felt a growing sense of regret—not for what I did, but for what I failed to do. I regret not trying harder to understand the disease while it was unfolding. I regret not being more curious, more present, and more willing to talk openly with my brother about what he was living through. I regret not pushing past my own discomfort to offer something more than quiet concern.    

I also regret, more broadly, not engaging as a citizen. I watched the epidemic from a distance, as something tragic but external, rather than as a crisis demanding attention, compassion, and action from everyone.    

Regret is usually framed as guilt over mistakes we’ve made—words spoken, actions taken. What I’ve come to understand is that regret over inaction can be deeper and harder to resolve. It lingers in the unanswered questions, the conversations never had, and the empathy that arrived too late.    

Listening to Fiasco didn’t just teach me history. It reminded me that bearing witness matters—and that sometimes, simply showing up is only the beginning.

~ Len Abbeduto