I Thought I was the Wrong Kind of Gay

Until I Realized There's No Right Way

I used to think Pride was about being seen.

Now I know it’s about making sure no one else has to go looking for themselves in the dark.

I spent so many years looking. Quietly, shamefully, cautiously. Wondering if there was something wrong with me because I didn’t feel like the gay people I saw on TV. Or the ones at the bar. Or even the ones at Pride. I carried the fear that I didn’t fit, and not just into straight spaces, but sometimes into queer ones too.

I was too quiet. Too nerdy. Too unsure of what kind of gay I was supposed to be.

For a long time, I confused that disconnection with disqualification.

What I’ve worked hard to unearth, year after year is that you don’t have to be a certain kind of queer to belong. You don’t have to perform your identity to prove it.

Being gay has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. It taught me how to listen deeply, feel fully, and break free from paths I was never meant to follow. It gave me permission to live a life unburdened by tradition but steeped in legacy. It taught me how to spot joy in unlikely places and how to build family with people who see me clearly.

But loving myself out loud in a country like this has never just been a personal journey. It’s political, because it has to be.

Every June, like clockwork, we’re reminded that our existence still makes people uncomfortable. That our dignity is debatable. That our rights are not settled law, but temporary allowances.

In 2018, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of a Colorado baker who refused to bake a wedding cake for a same-sex couple. In 2023, they declared that businesses could legally deny services to LGBTQ+ customers if it violated their “free speech.” 

This June? We’re waiting to hear if the Supreme Court will uphold bans on gender-affirming care for trans youth (United States v. Skrmetti), allow parents to opt kids out of LGBTQ+-inclusive books on religious grounds (Mahmoud v. Taylor), and roll back birthright citizenship (Trump v. CASA)—all while anti-LGBTQ legislation moves through dozens of statehouses.

These aren’t footnotes. They’re blueprints for erasure. 

It’s easy to feel helpless. But the antidote to fear isn’t silence, it’s solidarity.

Pride isn’t something we hang in our windows for thirty days and then pack away. It’s not just in the party or the playlist, it’s in how we vote, how we show up at school board meetings, what we challenge at work, and who we’re willing to stand beside when it’s not safe or popular. It’s joining in community to protect and support the most vulnerable among us while adding this generation’s moment to the storied history that has come before us.

Visibility without engagement is performance. And we’ve had enough of that.

So no, I’m not interested in palatable queerness. Or polite visibility. Or waiting until it’s convenient to be seen. I want a world where we show up for one another boldly, fiercely, beautifully—and not just in June.

I want a world where queer joy is protected. Where our anger is justified. Where our rights aren’t debated. Where we don’t have to shrink or shout just to be heard.

Does that world feel far away? Well, that means we’ve got work to do.

While we fight, we also have to live. We cannot only measure resistance in protest signs and policy changes. Sometimes joy is its own form of defiance. Sometimes showing up—soft, proud, ordinary—is enough. Because in a world that still questions our right to exist, joy is proof that we do.

But let’s be honest: if visibility alone were enough, we wouldn’t still be fighting this hard. We are more visible than ever, and still, the threats grow louder. So we find the balance—between joy and outrage, survival and rest, protest and presence. Between demanding change and simply being.

Pride isn’t the reward for surviving. It’s the spark that keeps us going.

Happy Pride. I’ll see you in the streets.