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Every June, I am inevitably asked a version of this question, by someone who is not L, G, B, T, Q, or +:
“Do you really need to celebrate Pride?”
I’ve learned to not answer right away. Instead, I pause, and then ask them in return:
“Do you need to celebrate Pride?”
By turning the question onto them, I don’t mean to imply that the querier is queer (necessarily), only that they are human.
Unlike the queer people I know who celebrate Pride, many of the heteronormative people I know are deeply ambivalent about taking up space authentically in their own lives.
They struggle to voice their genuine thoughts, feelings, and desires directly, if those expressions conflict with normative expectations. They hide vulnerabilities that could challenge the dominant groups around them, and mask opinions that might rock the boat. They worry that by embodying their true selves—fully and freely—they could hurt other people, and/or face rejection.
This is because most of us—regardless of our sexual or gender orientations—have been taught early on that we must fit in at all costs, or else…
And because our fear of not fitting in is so great, conformity is often rewarded. There are reliable scripts, passed down from generation to generation, on how to date, to marry, to parent, to work, and to celebrate, in order to avoid the shame of being cast out. Sleepwalking down these traditional runways can feel safe, stabilizing, and perhaps even—on occasion—deeply chosen.
Sometimes we choose to follow traditional guideposts for personal and meaningful reasons. But many other times we simply do it out of fear: the fear of deviating from societal expectations.
And those who can conform to the norm easily—as many cis straight people (at least appear to) do on the surface—are at a disadvantage, because their fear of being disruptive (by taking up space authentically) can go undetected.
For instance: Though they occupy space publicly in certain expected ways (e.g., proms, weddings, and other heteronormative public rituals), more than a few of the conventional straight people I know hesitate to embody and express the parts of themselves that could challenge the status quo—fearing exile, rejection, ridicule, or being targeted as a scapegoat. (With the exception of the occasional straight folks who choose unconventional celebrations such as Star Wars or Alien vs. Predator themed weddings).
Queer people, like me, also share a lot of those fears.
But at the same time, we discovered early on that we had no choice but to take up space, and to show up in the world authentically—if we wanted to have full and free lives.
And the risks we faced were, and still are, very real.
Too many LGBTQ+ have and continue to endure various forms of rejection, violence, discrimination, and devastating relational loss. Some of us have been denied our basic rights. Others have lost family and community, simply for being ourselves. Pride month and its history is inextricable from those losses.
But Pride is equally inseparable from the joy and freedom of being entirely ourselves.
To celebrate Pride is not to simply avoid or hide from shame. It’s the intentional practice of refusing to be led by fear, and to choose a life of love, recognition, and creative possibility instead.
Research increasingly shows that one’s capacity to be authentic in interpersonal relationships is correlated with positive mental health outcomes (Roberts, et. al., 2025). This is particularly true for sexual and gender minorities who struggle with the stress of being marginalized.
Similarly, a sense of belonging and being part of a community—without having to contort oneself to fit in—is among the strongest predictors of psychological resiliency, no matter who we’re talking about (Sedikides, 2024).
Pride celebrations do both at the same time: They affirm one’s identity and sense of belonging, regardless of their individual differences and variations from the group majority.
So, in that sense, Pride is not only a symbolic, political event for queer people. It’s a psychological intervention for all people.
Pride month invites each of us to consider the possibilities that:
- I am not the enemy for being me.
- There is nothing wrong with me for wanting connection.
- I do not have to keep my feelings and perspectives to myself, even if they shake-up the status quo.
The LGBTQ+ people who came before us understood these truths. They put their attachments to family, careers, reputations, not to mention their very lives on the line. And they did this so that we all could breathe more deeply, and walk down the street more openly than they had been allowed.
So, yes, I need to celebrate Pride.
I celebrate Pride for all the queer people who came before me and risked it all to fight for our rights.
I celebrate for LGBT+ people around the globe who continue to face violence and injustice.
I celebrate for trans people in our own country who are being targeted, hatefully and increasingly, every day, by our own government.
I celebrate because rights remain fragile and visibility and representation always matters.
But lately I’ve been thinking that Pride also offers something significant to all the straight people out there as well.
It invites us all to examine what I call, our spotlight ambivalence: our inner conflict about taking up space when our presence challenges the norm (O’Connell, 2014;2017).
While we often tell one another, and our children, to “just be yourself!,” at the same time too many of us spend energy on hiding who we are to fit in.
Reflect on this for a moment: What feelings, opinions, desires, identities, observations, and reflections do you keep closeted for other people’s comfort?
What would happen if you shared those parts of yourself—openly, honestly, and with the genuine intention to connect with your scene partners in life?
No doubt, Pride belongs to queer communities. It was born from our specific histories, struggles, and our collective will to exist and to thrive in the face of great adversity.
But, as the great playwright, Lorraine Hansberry said so marvelously, we find the universal in the specific. And perhaps this is true for Pride.
Pride invites every person, regardless of identity or orientation, to practice something vulnerable, perhaps terrifying, but utterly human: to risk being fully known in the presence of other people, to truly see and be seen, and to hear and be heard.
So this year, I extend a question to everyone, including all of the straight people out there:
Ask not only what Pride can do for me, and people like me. But instead, ask what celebrating Pride might do for you.
Mark O’Connell, LCSW-R
