That sentence alone feels like a quiet revolution. Not because I plan to dance on a float or drape myself in rainbow flags, but because for the first time in my life, I am not hiding.
I am not pretending.
I am not compartmentalising.
I am not apologising.
I am simply... me.
And that is Pride.
When I was younger, I used to think Pride was all about parades and glitter and parties. I saw the images on TV: crowds cheering, flags waving, music pounding through the streets. And while that is a beautiful expression of queer joy, it felt like a world I did not belong in. I did not feel bold or loud or colourful. I felt scared. Alone. Torn between identities.
For many of us, especially those who came out later in life or grew up in faith communities that shamed our existence, Pride is not always about spectacle. It is about survival. It is about whispering the truth to ourselves before we can ever shout it to the world.
This year, I will likely not attend a parade. There will be no big rainbow moment on my calendar. My Pride will likely unfold quietly in my own thoughts – walking in nature, writing these words, maybe even lighting a candle just to say, “I am here. And I am proud.”
That counts too.
No one tells you how much you mourn when you finally come out.
Yes, there is relief. There is freedom. But there is also a deep ache for the years you lost, the truths you swallowed, the versions of yourself that you buried just to survive.
I came out as an adult. After a marriage. After children. After years of ministry. My life was built on a version of me that was not fully real, even though I was doing my best at the time. Coming out did not just change my present – it forced me to re-see my past.
And that is the strange thing about Pride: it holds both grief and celebration in the same breath.
It says, “I mourn the time I lost,” and also, “I am glad I made it here.”
If you are feeling both – the joy of becoming and the sorrow of what was – you are not doing it wrong.
You are just being human.
You do not have to wear glitter.
You do not have to kiss someone in the street.
You do not have to post a selfie with #LoveIsLove to be valid.
Pride is not performance.
It is presence.
It is looking in the mirror and not flinching.
It is telling the truth, even when it shakes your voice.
It is letting yourself love, fully, freely, without needing permission.
This year, my Pride is knowing that my partner sees all of me and stays.
That my children know the truth and still hug me goodnight.
That I am building something – Bravely Me – to help others do the same.
That is not quiet. That is revolutionary.
It is easy to scroll through Pride content and feel late to the party, especially if you are only just figuring out your identity or still afraid to say it out loud.
But here is the truth I wish someone had told me:
There is no timeline for becoming yourself.
You did not miss your chance.
You did not mess it up.
You are not too old, too awkward, too late, too anything.
You are exactly where you need to be, and Pride meets you there.
So whether you are out and loud, or quiet and questioning, or just dipping your toes into your truth…
You belong here.
For me, Pride is not just political. It is sacred.
It is reclaiming my right to exist.
To love.
To be whole.
To be held by God without shame.
To belong to myself, without needing to shrink.
I used to pray for God to take this part of me away. Now I pray in thanks that it never left.
If any of this feels familiar – if you are finding your way through questions of identity, faith, grief, or simply becoming yourself – I have put together something gentle that might offer some comfort:
The Bravery Guide – My free grounding tool for navigating change with care.
You can get your copy here:
www.sendfox.com/bravelyme
No spam. No noise. Just real support for when you are becoming more of yourself.
