Why we still need Pride
Pride is a promise. We must keep it.
Every June, the rainbow flags come out. Shop windows fill with rainbow displays, and social media becomes a flood of hashtags and corporate logos temporarily dipped in technicolour. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the world had arrived at a place of perfect inclusivity, where everyone, regardless of how they love or who they are, is safe, respected, and equal.
And every June, I hear it again: Do we really still need Pride Month? Isn’t it a bit… much? Why do we need a month for gay people? What about straight people? Can’t they have a month too?
And every June, I feel the same tightening in my chest. Because the question, though often asked with genuine curiosity, always reveals a certain privilege. It reveals a distance from what it really means to live as an LGBTQ+ person in a world that still doesn’t fully accept us.
Yes. We still need Pride. I still need Pride.
Let me tell you why.
Pride began in protest and protest is still needed
Pride wasn’t always a celebration. It didn’t start with glitter and parades. It began with resistance: bricks thrown, voices raised, bodies refusing to be broken. The Stonewall Uprising in 1969 was led by queer and trans people, especially Black and brown trans women, who had spent their lives being harassed, arrested, and erased. Funnily enough, they weren’t asking for rainbow capitalism of companies changing their logos. They were demanding to exist: freely, fully, and without fear.
That spirit of protest still matters. Because while we’ve made progress, the truth is: it’s not enough. Not yet.
I work with schools across the country and beyond. I see the gaps in safety and understanding every day. I’ve taught students too afraid to come out to their parents. I’ve watched pupils face slurs in corridors or hide their identities behind silence. I’ve seen them resigned to hearing ‘gay’ as an insult. I’ve seen what happens when teachers themselves whisper about being LGBTQ+, worried it might cost them credibility, connection - or even their job.
When I walk into a school assembly and talk openly about being gay, about identity, about love and rights and resilience, I’m not trying to push an “agenda.” I’m trying to model what it looks like to exist with pride in a world that still tells you to shrink. And the complaints still come in.
Pride reminds us that visibility is survival
I didn’t grow up seeing people like me in books, on TV, or at school. My understanding of queerness was shaped by silence, or even in ridicule. Queer was comedy, it was camp and nothing else. Being different meant being invisible, or worse - being a punchline. Even now, visibility can feel like a risk. But I know this: seeing someone who shares your identity, who is thriving, unapologetic, and unashamed, can be the difference between despair and hope.
Representation is more than vanity. It’s validation. It tells you that your story belongs. That you are not an exception, not an anomaly, and certainly not alone.
Every year during Pride, I see some students stand a little taller. I see teachers wear rainbow lanyards with purpose. I see community. And I see the power of saying, “You are not just accepted, you are celebrated.”
Pride is not just for the LGBTQ+ community, it’s for everyone
There’s a misconception that Pride is a party exclusively for queer people. But in truth, Pride is an invitation. It’s a call to action for allies, families, colleagues, schools, and leaders. It asks: will you stand with us - not just when it’s convenient or colourful, but when it’s hard? When it’s unpopular? When it costs something?
Because allyship isn’t passive. It’s not just liking a post or wearing a badge. It’s calling out a joke that isn’t funny. It’s making space in the curriculum, in policies, in leadership. It means refusing to let silence become complicity.
Pride gives us all a moment to reflect. What kind of world are we building? Who gets to feel safe in it? Who gets to thrive?
The backlash is real - and growing
We can’t talk about Pride without acknowledging the backlash. In the UK, hate crimes against LGBTQ+ people have risen. Trans people are under constant attack—from the media, from politicians, from policies designed to erase their rights under the guise of “debate.” Books with LGBTQ+ characters are being banned in other parts of the world. Some teachers are being told not to mention queer identities at all.
And let’s be clear: when someone’s right to exist is up for “debate,” we are not living in an equal society.
This year, we’ve seen a quiet withdrawal of support from Pride. Companies have chosen to stand at the sidelines, they’ve gone back to greyscale, shuttered themselves from the open celebration they engaged with previously. We know why that is: we see you.
The progress we’ve made is not permanent. It is fragile, and it is being chipped away in real time. Pride Month isn’t a victory lap. It’s a reminder that the work continues.
Pride is intersectional—or it should be
One of the most powerful things about Pride, when done right, is that it recognises intersectionality. Queerness doesn’t exist in isolation from race, religion, disability, class, or culture. That a white gay man’s experience is not the same as a Black lesbian’s or a disabled trans person’s. That liberation for some is not liberation for all.
When I speak to students who are queer and neurodiverse, or queer and Muslim, or queer and a migrant, I am reminded that Pride must be expansive. It must make room for complexity. It must listen, not just speak.
I often emphasise in my work on identity and curriculum that we need to hold space for all identities, all voices. This is the path to transformation.
I still need Pride because joy is resistance
Joy is a radical act. We choose to celebrate when the world tells us to be ashamed. Pride is not just about fighting oppression, it’s about building joy in spite of it, dancing in the streets with your chosen family, and laughing loudly, loving boldly, living authentically.
For me, Pride is a reminder of how far I’ve come from being a young woman afraid to admit her identity to being a woman who knows who she is and loves her whole self (most days).
And every year, during Pride, I get to witness others stepping into that same freedom.
We still need Pride. I still need Pride.
Until no child is bullied for being gay, we need Pride. Until no trans person is denied healthcare, housing, or dignity, we need Pride. Until all our stories are part of the curriculum, not just tolerated but honoured, we need Pride. Until love is never met with fear, and difference is never a reason for hate, we need Pride.
And when that day comes - when we’ve built a world that truly affirms every identity - then maybe, just maybe, we won’t need a month. We’ll just live in Pride.
But until then, keep marching, keep teaching, keep celebrating
.