Every June, as cities around the world are awash in rainbows, we are reminded of the beauty, diversity, and resilience of the LGBTQ+ community. Pride Month is not just a celebration of identities—it is a commemoration of struggle, a call for equality, and a vibrant declaration of love in all its forms. For me, Pride is deeply personal. I am a lifelong supporter of the LGBTQ+ community. My love and loyalty to this community go beyond social awareness or political correctness. It stems from lived experience, friendships that shaped my youth, and a firm belief in justice, authenticity, and human dignity.
I often reflect on how my support for the LGBTQ+ community began—not in a grand or political moment, but in everyday interactions. As a teenager growing up, most of my closest friends were gay. I didn’t understand the depth of their struggles then, but I instinctively knew this: they were some of the most honest, kind, and loyal people I had ever met. Their friendship wasn’t performative. It was real, deep, and dependable. They had my back without hesitation, and I always had theirs.
Back then, I didn’t even know what LGBTQ+ meant. We didn’t have the vocabulary or platforms we have now. But I knew that my friends were “different” in the eyes of others. I witnessed how people whispered, how teachers and adults looked at them with discomfort or disapproval. I saw the silent pain behind their laughter. And yet, they still showed up in life with humour, colour, creativity, and most of all, loyalty. That’s when I decided, even as a child, that I would always stand by them.
As I grew older, that commitment only deepened. I began to understand the weight of what they were carrying—the closet, the bullying, the rejection from family, the fear of being who they were. I couldn’t believe how society could be so cruel. And even today, I still struggle to understand why. What is so threatening about someone loving differently? What is so offensive about someone expressing their gender in a way that feels authentic to them? How does another person’s life—when lived honestly and fully—affect yours?
This is the question I find myself asking over and over again: How is their life affecting yours? The answer, of course, is that it doesn’t. And yet, the resistance remains. LGBTQ+ people are still fighting for basic human rights in many parts of the world. They are still ostracized in homes, schools, churches, and workplaces. Hate crimes still exist. Laws are still being proposed to limit their freedom. It breaks my heart to see that in 2025, we still have to say, “Love is love” like it’s a radical idea.
Supporting the LGBTQ+ community is not about being “woke.” It’s about being human. It’s about recognising that behind every letter in that acronym is a person with hopes, dreams, fears, and a need for love and acceptance. It's about seeing them not as an agenda, but as people who bleed, cry, and celebrate like the rest of us.
One of the most common myths I’ve heard is that being LGBTQ+ is a choice. But I can tell you from knowing my friends all these years—it’s not a choice. What is a choice is how we treat them. Do we choose compassion or condemnation? Do we choose inclusion or isolation? These are choices we are all responsible for.
People sometimes ask me why I care so much. Why do I take it personally? The answer is simple: because it is personal. Because some of the people I love the most in this world are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer, or questioning. I’ve cried with them through heartbreak. I’ve celebrated with them during milestones. I’ve watched them fall in love, get married, adopt children, or sometimes choose to live alone—and every one of their lives has been a testament to resilience and truth.
And yet, so many of them have had to fight for what should be basic: the right to exist freely. To walk down the street without fear. To hold hands in public. To tick a gender box that reflects who they are. These are things straight, cisgender people take for granted every day. Imagine living a life where your truth is debated, legislated, and invalidated. That is the reality for many LGBTQ+ individuals.
What truly amazes me is their strength. The strength to come out in a world that still doesn’t fully accept them. The strength to live authentically, even when it's dangerous. The strength to forgive those who have hurt them. The strength to create art, communities, movements, and joy even when they’ve been told they don’t belong. That kind of courage? It deserves celebration—not just during Pride Month, but every single day.
I stand with the LGBTQ+ community because they have taught me what love looks like in its rawest and most powerful form. They’ve shown me that chosen families can be just as strong, if not stronger, than blood families. They’ve shown me that it’s okay to be different, to break the mold, to step outside the boxes society tries to shove us into. And they’ve taught me the value of being loyal to yourself—because you cannot pour from an empty cup.
Some of my happiest memories are from nights spent laughing with my gay friends over music, food, and deep conversations. Their creativity and wit light up every room. They’re often the first to check in on me when I’m down, and the last to judge me when I mess up. It baffles me that a world so dependent on connection and love would try to dim their light.
What’s more concerning is that the discrimination doesn’t just come from strangers. It often comes from the very people meant to protect and nurture us—parents, siblings, religious institutions, governments. And the pain of being rejected by your own community is like no other. That’s why I believe allies are not just important; they’re essential. It’s not enough to be quietly supportive. We must be loudly loving. We must advocate, defend, and show up, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
I’m also aware that being an ally means constantly learning. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not perfect. But I am always willing to listen, to amplify voices, and to call out injustice when I see it. I believe that privilege should be used to open doors for those who have had them slammed in their faces.
Pride Month is a time to celebrate, yes. But it’s also a time to remember. We remember the Stonewall riots. We remember the activists who paved the way. We remember the friends we lost to AIDS, to suicide, to hate. And we honour them by continuing the fight—not just for tolerance, but for equality, dignity, and full recognition of every beautiful shade of the human spectrum.
To those in the LGBTQ+ community who may be reading this, know this: You are loved. You are needed. You are a masterpiece, not a mistake. Your existence is a gift to this world. And while society may still be catching up, there are many of us who see you, who cherish you, and who will never stop fighting for your right to live freely and fully.
So, this Pride Month, I wear the rainbow not as a trend, but as a promise. A promise to continue advocating, listening, and standing beside you. A promise to raise the next generation to be more accepting and aware. A promise to honour the friendships that shaped me and the courage that continues to inspire me.
Love is love. Humanity is humanity. And pride—true pride—is not just about who you are. It’s about being brave enough to live that truth out loud, even when the world tries to silence you. That kind of pride is contagious. That kind of pride changes hearts. And that is the kind of pride I celebrate, today and always.
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