As the Pride banners come down, I find myself doing what I always seem to do around this time -reflecting. Not just on how far we have come as a community, but also on the work that still lies ahead. Pride has always been about visibility, resistance, and celebration. But this year, what has been sitting heavy on my heart is the quiet presence of something far less festive: the culture of judgement within our own community.
It shows up in subtle ways and loud ones. It is there when someone gets dismissed because they don’t wear the "right" label—or any label at all. It lingers in side-eyes aimed at the guy who doesn’t have the abs, the bank account, the designer threads, or the fancy address. It is there in whispers, exclusions, and unspoken rules that say, “You’re not enough. Not queer enough, not proud enough, not successful enough.”
And it hurts. Deeply.
But I believe that kind of judgement doesn’t come from malice. It comes from old wounds. From growing up on the outside. From being told - sometimes directly, sometimes with a look or a silence -that we are too much, too loud, too soft, too flamboyant, too different, too queer. So we build armour. And sometimes, sadly, we become the very thing we were running from.
The truth is, we often judge because of the harshness we carry in our own minds. The inner critic we have nurtured for years turns outward. The judgement we pass on others is so often a reflection of the judgement we silently aim at ourselves. When we find ourselves slipping into that space of criticism, it is worth pausing and gently asking:
“What part of me still needs healing?”
Because let’s be clear: we do not have the right to judge others. Not for their journey, not for their expression, not for where they are in life. Each one of us is carrying something the world doesn’t see, and often doesn’t understand.
Imagine if we turned that judgement into curiosity. Into compassion. Into connection. What if, instead of scanning someone’s outfit or body or background, we asked, “What story does this person carry?”
And not just asked—but truly listened.
Listened more deeply.
Listened with intent.
Listened with reasoning.
Because when we do, we don’t just hear their story, we begin to understand the why behind it. We gain clarity. We see the humanity.
And even with that information, even when we know the backstory, we must resist the urge to judge.
Instead, be kind. Be soft. Be human.
Our strength lies not in our sameness, but in our spectrum. Our power is in our stories, our softness, our grit, our authenticity. We don’t all have to be cut from the same cloth to be part of this beautiful patchwork.
So as Pride Month is now behind us, I’m holding space for something deeper than celebration. I’m holding space for grace. For growth. For the difficult but necessary work of unlearning. Because healing starts with awareness, and it continues with intentional action.
Let’s stop breaking each other down and start building each other up. Let’s make Pride not just something we feel once a year, but something we live daily—in how we see ourselves and how we treat each other.
Because pride isn’t just about being out.
It’s about showing up—with love, with empathy, and with the courage to do better.
For ourselves.
For each other.
For the future.