Pride Month Reflections

Why June? Pride Month takes place in June to honour the Stonewall Riots — a pivotal moment in LGBTQ+ history. The first Pride march followed a year later. What began as a protest has since evolved into a celebration of queer culture and rights.

The riots began in 1969 at the Stonewall Inn in New York, following yet another police raid. People were arrested and forced into waiting vans, but the crowd resisted. A riot broke out, and the unrest continued for several nights. It wasn’t the first act of LGBTQ+ resistance, but it became a defining one. Pride was chosen as a direct rejection of the shame many were made to carry.

Not all Pride events take place in June — some cities and towns hold theirs at different times due to weather or scheduling. With limited weekends, organisers often try to avoid clashes. While Pride began as a political protest, it can sometimes feel more like a party — a reflection of the progress we’ve made. For some, that shift is concerning, but it’s also the trade-off for greater visibility and louder voices. Greater acceptance means Pride doesn’t always need to be a protest — but we should never forget its roots. You never know when that spirit will be needed again.

My first Pride felt joyful — but something unsettled me. I felt like I was still hiding. Shame washed over me, and I questioned whether I should even be there. Yet when I saw rainbow flags, countless trans flags, and people simply enjoying themselves, it clicked. For a long time, I had avoided queer culture. I’m more reserved than many of the bright, expressive figures I saw. But something shifted that day. I understood why Pride had to exist — and why this version of it still matters. I’m closer now to wearing a Pride flag or expressing that part of me outwardly, but I also know I don’t want it to define all of who I am.

Some corporate sponsors don’t genuinely support our community; they use Pride to sanitise their image. That deserves criticism. That said, many local businesses where I live seem to be genuine allies, and that gives me some hope.

So why write this now? Because I’ve accepted my queerness more fully. Pride has helped me feel more comfortable talking about it. It’s only one part of me — not the whole — but it matters. I’ve faced bi-erasure and biphobia, and while I still struggle with it, I’ve become better at managing the shame that often lingers. Part of that shame may come from elsewhere — how I live, how disconnected I sometimes feel. Something is missing, and I need to find it. Pride has helped me see that I want to grow. With my trans siblings under attack, I also see how fragile rights can be. Once they come for one of us, they can come for all of us. It’s time to ditch doubt and help out. I don’t know where to begin, but Pride feels like a lighthouse — offering people like me a place to start.

Pride has helped me realise I’m not alone. Even with depression and anxiety hanging over me, it has reminded me that change is possible. My loneliness doesn’t have to define me, just as my sexuality doesn’t. I’m tempted to take the first steps towards something new — but I need a push. No judgement, just encouragement and the freedom to do it in my own way. I admit I’m scared. I’ve been living in a shell for too long, peeling it away one layer at a time. I suppose that’s my conclusion here: that my loneliness is something I need to face, not ignore.

It’s easy to forget how far we’ve come — and even easier to let progress slip away.

Pride began as a protest — against the treatment of LGBTQ+ people. That remains its heart. Black trans women, butch lesbians, gay men, and many others kept the spirit alive through decades of activism. Their work brought real change. In some places, Pride feels like a celebration, and we should be proud of that. But the fight isn’t over.

In many Western democracies, gay rights now enjoy broader public support — hard-won, like civil rights. But trans rights are now the battleground. Our trans siblings need solidarity. Pride began as a protest. It became proud. But it must always remain ready to be a protest again, if required.

This might feel more personal than usual for a blog focused on politics and economics — but Pride is political. It broke the cycle of shame once imposed on LGBTQ+ lives. We must not let ourselves return to that shame, nor forget the history behind our rights.

Too much of that history is erased or overlooked. We forget the figures who fought — or never learn about them at all. We rarely acknowledge how cultures across Africa, Asia, and elsewhere understood gender and sexuality before colonisation. That’s been on my mind a lot, especially given how Western media and values now dominate globally. Trans and non-binary people have always existed. The idea that gender and sexuality must be rigid or narrowly defined is modern — and false. Life is messier, and far queerer. Even in the animal kingdom, we find diversity that defies binary categorisation. That has to mean something.

Labels try to impose order on chaos. But it’s like gardening: you can plan something perfect, but nature always finds its own way. Better to work with it than against it.

We also need to have a grown-up, often uncomfortable conversation about sex. That includes comprehensive sex education — not just for children, but for adults too. It’s difficult to reach adults in that area, but it’s essential. We need to move past unrealistic portrayals of sex and bodies, and embrace something more grounded, inclusive, and human. Unrealistic body standards shouldn’t be the norm.

It saddens me to see how many people feel pressured to alter their appearance just to meet impossible ideals pushed by media and advertising. That’s not the same as gender-affirming care. For many trans people, surgery is a vital part of managing gender dysphoria — something I can’t fully understand, and wouldn’t presume to judge. I do understand body dysphoria more broadly — it affects people of all genders, including myself. Trans healthcare should be accessible and respected. Medical professionals should guide care, and social transition should be supported. Self-ID should be standard, and people’s pronouns respected. I use a shortened version of my name; it’s not so different.

We need a culture where people feel at home in their bodies — whether that means embracing them as they are or accessing care to feel whole. That starts with more honesty about sex, bodies, and the toxic ideas we’ve inherited.

Toxic attitudes about masculinity and femininity need to be dismantled. Extremes shouldn’t be seen as normal. Masculinity isn’t inherently strong, and femininity isn’t inherently weak. It takes time to unlearn these ideas. Personally, I see them as a balance — forces that work together. If you asked me what it means to be a man or a woman, I’d struggle to answer without relying on outdated tropes.

As gender roles change, it can be difficult to understand your place. But I see that not as a crisis, but as an opportunity — part of a wider shift happening globally. Many men still carry shame around same-sex attraction or bisexuality. Biphobia remains a barrier, leading to confusion, risk-taking, and silence.

Statistically, men engage in more risky behaviour than women. That contributes to the spread of STIs among gay and bisexual men — a legacy shaped by both stigma and silence. Huge progress has been made in reducing risk, but the stigma lingers. And straight men, too, often take risks due to shame and a lack of emotional tools.

Yes, women experience these things too — but when it comes to men, the data is clear: higher rates of suicide, violence, and addiction. Influenced in part by biology and social norms, men often take more risks, repress emotion, and yet still crave intimacy. They are also, overwhelmingly, the main perpetrators of violence against women — another outcome of toxic conditioning.

That needs to be addressed. We must call out harmful behaviour and teach other men that it’s not acceptable. Misogyny is not okay. Hearing stories from women who feel unsafe around men is heartbreaking — and it tells us something is deeply wrong. But we also need to support men when they open up. Listening matters. Without that, the cycle continues.

Violence and abuse aren’t one-way. Women can also harm men. Acknowledging that doesn’t diminish women’s experiences — it gives a fuller picture. No one should feel unsafe.

There’s also something deeper happening. In many places, community life has eroded. We’ve become isolated — working, commuting, going home — with little meaningful connection. That loss of community has consequences.

Online dating is now the primary way people meet. It offers convenience, but also reflects our disconnection. We judge each other by photos. We filter out people for the wrong reasons. And we stay lonely as a result. The social impact of apps on intimacy, companionship, and validation is massive — and we’re only just beginning to understand it.

Meanwhile, porn and adult content often present only a narrow, sanitised, and extreme version of human sexuality — far removed from real connection, vulnerability, and joy.

We need a more ethical, realistic approach to porn. The UK’s age verification proposals are flawed — they risk pushing users underground and compromising privacy. A better path would be making porn more ethical and informative, reducing stigma, and regulating it in a way that protects performers and viewers alike.

Treating porn as fantasy, not reality, is key. Reducing stigma around sex work, improving industry standards, and reforming banking systems that marginalise workers could make the industry safer. Get it right, and we can track down fraud, protect people, and build something better. Get it wrong, and we risk paving the way for broader repression — especially of LGBTQ+ people and women. That’s a fear I can’t ignore.

I’ve been on quite a journey — and in many ways, I’m still at the beginning. The shame still creeps in sometimes. Writing this post is a reminder to myself: of how far I’ve come, of how I’ve grown to understand myself and the world. And that it’s okay to pause, to breathe, and to approach it all with more compassion — for others, and for myself.