Will We Make it Home?

There is a fear that has begun to settle into the edges of queer life again, one that many of us hoped belonged firmly to history. It hums beneath moments that should feel joyful, celebratory and free. It sits in the background of Pride events, in the decision to hold a partner’s hand in public, in the calculation of how safe a space might really be. Increasingly, it is showing up in a new and deeply unsettling question: will I make it home safely from this?

The recent attack at Berlin Pride have landed heavily for many of us, because of the violence and what it represents.

Berlin has long been held as a symbol of queer liberation, a city where expression, identity and community have been able to flourish. To see that space disrupted by harm cuts deeply, because it challenges a collective sense of refuge. When even the places we associate with safety and celebration feel uncertain, it becomes harder to trust that anywhere is truly secure.

This is not happening in isolation. Across the UK and beyond, there has been a steady and increasingly visible escalation in hostility towards the queer community, and in particular towards trans people. Media narratives have become more sensationalised, more polarised, and often more explicitly harmful. Trans lives are debated as though they are abstract concepts rather than human experiences, and coverage frequently leans towards fear, distortion and moral panic rather than nuance or care.

The result is a shift in public conversation, and a tangible impact on how safe people feel moving through the world.

The role of institutions matters here as well. Decisions and guidance from bodies such as the Equality and Human Rights Commission carry weight, and when those decisions are perceived as limiting rights or protections, they ripple outward into everyday life. They shape how organisations respond, how services are delivered, and how individuals interpret what is or is not acceptable. For countless queer people, and especially for trans individuals, this contributes to a sense that the ground is shifting beneath their feet, that rights which once felt more stable are now conditional and contested.

It would be easy, in the face of all of this, to allow fear to take up all the space. To focus solely on the violence, the hostility and the uncertainty. However, something else has been happening alongside this. In the days following the events in Berlin, videos have circulated showing the joy that existed at Pride before the tragedy unfolded. People dancing, laughing, holding one another, moving through the streets with a sense of belonging and celebration that is difficult to fully capture in words. These moments matter, as they are not secondary to the story, they are, in many ways, the heart of it.

There is a risk, particularly in times of crisis, that history becomes flattened into narratives of harm alone. That the richness of queer life, the creativity, the connection, the defiance and the love, is overshadowed by the violence that interrupts it. But to allow that would be to lose something vital. Pride has always been both a protest and a celebration. It exists because of struggle, but it is sustained by joy. The images of people dancing in Berlin are a reminder of what is being protected, what is worth continuing to show up for, even when it feels harder.

It is also important to hold onto the reality that, despite the noise and the hostility, the majority of people are not aligned with hate.

Berlin remains a city that is deeply shaped by inclusivity, by diversity and by a long history of queer culture. The same is true in many places across the UK. Communities continue to organise, to support one another, to create spaces where people can exist more freely. Allies continue to stand alongside queer people, often without recognition, but consistently.

Acknowledging this does not mean minimising the fear, both can be true at once. The world can feel more dangerous, and there can still be pockets of safety, care and connection. The rise in hostile rhetoric can be real, and there can still be overwhelming numbers of people who reject it. Holding both of these truths is not always easy, but it is necessary if we are to avoid becoming consumed by despair.

For the queer community, the question now is how to continue showing up in a world that feels less certain? There is no simple answer to that. It may mean stepping back, choosing smaller or more contained spaces where safety feels more manageable. It may mean continuing to attend Pride, to take up space, to be visible in ways that feel meaningful and empowering. Both responses are valid and are ways of navigating a landscape that has shifted.

What feels important is that we do not lose sight of the core of what Pride represents, resistance, but also celebration and the right to joy. The right to gather, to love openly, to feel a sense of belonging in the world. The images from Berlin remind us that even in the face of violence, those moments of connection still exist. They are not erased by what happened, and they should not be allowed to be.

Perhaps this is where we land, for now, in the tension between fear and joy.

The recognition that things feel more precarious, and the commitment to not let that precariousness define the entirety of queer life. In continuing to hold onto the belief that our communities are resilient, vibrant, creative and deeply connected.