Pride Month

I attended my first Pride twenty-one years ago, when I was eighteen and still trying to find language for myself, let alone a sense of belonging. I remember arriving with a mix of nerves and anticipation, unsure of what I would find and even less sure of how I might fit into it all. What met me instead was a warmth that felt almost disorienting in its kindness, a sense of collective joy that hummed through the streets, carried on laughter, music, and the soft, steady reassurance that I was not alone.

There was colour everywhere, in the flags and glitter and carefully painted faces, in the way people moved, the way they spoke, the way they took up space without apology.

I remember thinking how extraordinary it was that something so simple as existing could feel so liberating when shared. Strangers smiled at one another as though we had always known each other, and in a way, perhaps we had, connected by something deeper than familiarity. That first Pride gave me a glimpse of possibility, a sense that life could be lived more openly, more honestly, and with a kind of softness I had not yet allowed myself.

In the years that followed, it often felt as though that possibility was expanding. There were tangible changes, legal shifts, broader conversations, and an increasing visibility that suggested, at least on the surface, that things were moving in the right direction. Pride itself grew, becoming more accessible, more widely celebrated, and for many, more mainstream. There was a sense of momentum, of doors opening that had long been closed, and while there were always complexities and tensions beneath the surface, it was possible to believe that progress, though uneven, was real.

And yet, more recently, something has shifted.

The current political climate carries a different tone, one that feels heavier, more divided, and more openly hostile. The language used in public discourse has sharpened, and the rights that once seemed to be stabilising have begun to feel precarious again. Folks within the LGBTQ+ community, and particularly for trans and gender non-conforming people, there is an increasing sense of being scrutinised, debated, and reduced to something abstract rather than recognised as fully human.

The actions and positions taken by the Equality and Human Rights Commission have been particularly disturbing, especially in relation to the erosion of protections for trans people. What is often less acknowledged, but equally significant, is how these shifts impact anyone who does not conform to narrow and conventional ideas of femininity or gender expression. The boundaries of acceptability begin to tighten, and the consequences ripple outward, affecting those at the centre of the debate, and all who exist outside prescribed norms.

As a therapist, I see the emotional and psychological impact of this climate in very real terms.

There is an increase in anxiety, in hypervigilance, in the exhaustion that comes from feeling as though one’s existence is continually up for discussion. There is grief too, for a sense of safety that once felt within reach, and anger, often deeply buried, at the injustice of having to fight, again and again, for something as fundamental as the right to be.

Cultural narratives play their part in shaping this landscape. The new series Tiptoe offers a stark portrayal of how everyday prejudice can escalate, how seemingly small acts of aggression and bigotry can accumulate and, under the right conditions, turn deadly. It reflects a reality that many in our community recognise, that when societal messaging frames LGBTQ+ people as inherently problematic, immoral, or dangerous, it creates an environment in which harm becomes not only possible, but in some cases, justified in the eyes of those who have absorbed those messages.

And yet, despite all of this, Pride endures.

Pride exists because of resistance, because of the countless individuals who have refused to disappear, who have insisted on living their lives with authenticity even when it has come at great personal cost. The history of Pride is not a story of linear progress, it’s of struggle, resilience, and community. It is a reminder that the rights we have were never simply given, and that they require ongoing care, attention, and defence.

When I think back to that eighteen-year-old version of myself, standing on the edge of something unknown yet hopeful, I feel a deep sense of connection across time. The world has changed in many ways, some of them profoundly positive, others deeply troubling, but that core experience of finding one another, of building spaces where we can exist more freely, remains.

There is still joy here, connection, and the radical act of showing up as ourselves. There is still the possibility of change, even in the face of resistance, and there is still a community that continues to hold one another through uncertainty and fear.

So this Pride, I find myself holding both grief and hope, anger, realism and belief. I hold the knowledge of how far we have come alongside the awareness of how fragile that progress can be, and I hold a deep trust in the resilience of our community.

To those who are reading this, wherever you find yourself, I want to say this clearly and without hesitation: I am so glad that you exist. Your presence matters more than you may ever fully realise, and the ways in which you move through the world, however quietly or boldly, are part of something remarkable. This community, in all its complexity and diversity, is extraordinary, and it continues to be shaped by each and every one of us.