Celebrating Pride: A Personal Perspective

I came out in college—a time when I finally began to embrace the person I was always meant to be. Though a part of me had known I was different throughout adolescence, college gave me the space to truly find myself. I was fortunate to have good friends and a supportive family when I made the decision to come out publicly, and I was warmly embraced by my campus community. In fact, I became the first openly gay student elected student body president—and was honored to be re-elected.

Growing up in Idaho, a state well-known for its anti-LGBT history, made my journey even more complex. Yet, even there, many people showed kindness and support. In the early ’90s, Idaho voters rejected a proposed constitutional amendment that would have narrowly defined marriage as only between a man and a woman. Experiencing both acceptance and rejection in the place I once called home has given me a unique perspective on navigating the world today.

My biggest takeaway? Everyone deserves to live authentically. Coming out is deeply personal—and should be done when the time and way feel right for you—but history shows that hiding who you are often leads to regret. Come out, even if just to yourself or a trusted friend. It feels better! I shared it with my very best friend first, and her reaction gave me the strength to keep going.

When I told my mom, she wasn’t surprised—only happy that I shared it with her. My dad, while not initially expected, did something I truly appreciated: He acknowledged that any hesitancy he felt was rooted in a perception of how hard life can be for LGBT people. My brother, friends, and close family were generally accepting, but I also knew there would always be some who disagreed, and of course some made sure I was aware of it. Waiting for universal popularity rarely results in that outcome.

I could be glib and say myself, because so many LGBT people have had to be their own advocates in countless situations. Navigating complex systems like healthcare and education is hard enough for anyone, but when you add the unique challenges LGBT people face—compounded by the politicization of these very issues—it can quickly become overwhelming. The reality is that right now, LGBT people need as many allies and advocates as possible. We need people willing to use their voices, especially those who aren’t personally affected, to stand up and say loud and clear: Treating LGBT people as less than, rolling back our rights, and politicizing our lives is wrong.

Personally, I was fortunate to have two amazing, big-hearted grandmothers. One, who had many grandchildren, taught me the value of belonging to a large family—that there’s enough love and attention to go around. She was a fierce advocate for “the little guy” and often offered a silver lining: “I guess if they’re picking on me, they’re leaving somebody else alone.” The other, who had only my brother and me as grandchildren, taught us to be proud of who we are and to work hard while playing by the rules. Her lesson boiled down to this: Luck is when preparation meets opportunity. I still try to live by their guidance every day.

I also firmly believe it takes a village to get anything done. It’s all of us, doing what we’re uniquely positioned to do, supporting and protecting one another through community bonds and consensus-driven solutions.

What’s served me best is finding an advocate in any room you’re in—someone who can help put things into context and who believes in your ability to succeed. Maybe that’s a supervisor or colleague at work, or a friend who’ll come with you to a tough appointment. And whether you find that advocate or not, remember: Each of us can be that person for someone else. We all have a voice, and often it’s easier to advocate for others than for ourselves. You’ll often find they return the favor.

If you had to narrow it down to your top three favorite gay icons, who would they be? My list includes:

Marsha P. Johnson, the spark who ignited the flame of the modern fight for LGBT rights. As a Black trans woman and a key figure in the Stonewall uprising, her activism was deeply personal, urgent, and rooted in care for the most vulnerable. Beyond protest, she co-founded an organization dedicated to providing housing and support for homeless LGBT youth, demonstrating that true activism combines resistance with compassion.

In light of the threats facing our hard-won progress, Marsha’s legacy reminds us that standing up in the face of fear and violence requires both collective action and love. Her example urges us not only to protest but to act—offering a blueprint for meaningful change.

Harvey Milk, a military veteran turned activist who became the first openly gay person elected to public office. He showed the world that gay people could not only live authentically but also hold positions of leadership and influence. More than a symbol, Harvey was a tireless advocate who fought to defeat harmful policies targeting LGBT people. His tragic assassination cut short a promising life but cemented his status as a powerful martyr for equality.

My third choice is actually a group of people: the women who stepped up to care for gay men during the height of the HIV/AIDS crisis. Many were lesbian activists, nurses, caregivers, and chosen family. While public figures like Princess Diana gained recognition for breaking stigma by simply touching someone with HIV, countless unnamed women had long been providing essential care and comfort to those abandoned by families, communities, and governments.

These women were far more than caretakers—they were defiant humanists who stood firm amid widespread neglect and hostility. Remembering them as heroes, not just helpers, is crucial. Their work teaches us enduring lessons about solidarity, love, and the gendered politics of care that continue to shape the fight for justice today.

Every day, but especially during Pride, I’m showing up by being visible—and by refusing to be silent. Too many of our identities are being politicized. Rights are being rolled back, violence is rising, and entire communities are being targeted. We can't afford to treat Pride like a party without also recognizing that it must be a protest. Make no mistake: It should be a peaceful protest that is rooted in the tradition informed by our inalienable rights, and a protest that demands redress of grievances.

But visibility isn’t enough. I’ll also honor the people who came before us—the Black and brown trans women who sparked this movement, the lesbians and nurses who cared for dying gay men when no one else would, the older queer people who survived decades of silence, rejection, criminalization, and loss. So many of them fought battles quietly so we could speak more freely. Some are still here, still fighting, still teaching us how to hold on.

They didn’t just show up; they acted.

So I will act too. I’ll support queer youth, defend trans rights, speak out in rooms that feel uncomfortable, and hold institutions accountable. Pride is a celebration—and it’s also a commitment. A commitment to show up, to fight back, and to keep building a future where we all get to live freely, safely, and with dignity.

I heard from so many people that things would get better. And they do—but not in the neat, linear way I thought they would. The truth is, things also get harder. They get messier. More complex. You don’t outgrow the challenges—you grow into the strength to face them.

I’d still tell myself that the best is yet to come, because it would be true. But the best things—real belonging, joy, pride in who you are—don’t come for free. They come with risk. With loss. With heartbreak and exhaustion and those moments when you’ll wonder if it’s all too much. But I’d also tell myself that there will be people who show up for you, who hold you together when you’re falling apart. We all must build chosen family, and each of us can become someone who helps hold others, too.

I’d also say to look to the people who came before you. They weren’t superhuman. They were scared sometimes. They were tired. But they chose to act anyway. That gives each of us strength to go on. Things may be hard, but they aren’t harder than the hard things that folks have done to get us here.

I'd end by saying give yourself grace. You don’t have to be fearless to be brave. You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy. You’re not failing just because it’s hard. Keep going—not because it gets easier, but because you’ll get stronger. And one day, you'll become the person you needed when you were young. And that is worth it, no matter what.

As an aside, I’d also be sure to tell myself to be patient and that I’d find the perfect partner in my husband, Juan!

Then, try to understand. Understand that this isn’t just about policies or headlines—it’s about our lives. Our safety, our dignity, our futures. Understand that many of us carry the weight of history—of being erased, othered, or left behind. And for some of us, that history isn’t history at all—it’s still happening.

And when you’ve listened and worked to understand, speak up. Use your voice to amplify ours. Use your privilege to shift the conversation, challenge ignorance, and stand in the gap when it’s dangerous for us to do so. Silence never helps anyone—especially now.

Supporting LGBT people means showing up—in conversations, at the ballot box, in your workplace, in your family, and especially when it’s uncomfortable. Pride isn’t just a celebration; it’s a call to action. You don’t have to be perfect—just present, informed, and willing to stand with us. And we’ll stand with you!