by Brooke Lindley
I’m from a smaller city in Michigan, and this year I attended two Prides in Michigan.
There is a particular kind of loneliness that can exist even in a crowd full of rainbows.
It is the feeling of standing at a Pride festival surrounded by music, laughter, glitter, flags, vendors, chosen family, and celebration, while quietly scanning the crowd for someone who looks like you.
Someone whose skin carries a story similar to yours.
Someone whose presence reminds you that you are not the only one holding multiple truths in your body.
Someone who understands that Pride does not always feel the same for everyone.
As a person of color, there have been many times at Pride when I have looked around and realized there were not many people who looked like me. In a space created for liberation, joy, and authenticity, that absence can feel heavy. It does not erase the beauty of Pride, but it complicates it. It reminds me that even within LGBTQ+ spaces, belonging is not always evenly distributed. Some of us are still searching for ourselves in the room.
And then, suddenly, you see them.
Another BIPOC person in the crowd.
Maybe they are walking with friends. Maybe they are laughing at a booth. Maybe they are wearing a flag, a pin, a shirt, or simply standing in their own fullness. But something happens in that moment. Your body notices before your mind can explain it.
There is a warmth.
A recognition.
A quiet exhale.
It is the feeling of, “There you are.”
And somewhere underneath that, “Here I am, too.”
That feeling matters.
Representation is not just a buzzword. It is not just about visibility for visibility’s sake. It is about survival. It is about belonging. It is about the deep human need to know that our identities do not have to be separated in order to be accepted.
I have been out for 23 years, and even after all this time, I still feel affirmed when I see a bisexual or pansexual flag at Pride. I still feel something soften in me when I see bisexual colors on a shirt, a bracelet, a sticker, or a piece of merch at an LGBTQ+ vendor booth. I still feel warmth when I open a book or watch a movie and see bisexual representation treated with care, complexity, and dignity.
Because for many of us, bisexuality has often been misunderstood, erased, questioned, or reduced to a phase, a stereotype, or a footnote. So when I see those colors, pink, purple, and blue, I feel reminded that my identity is real. That my story counts. That bisexual people belong at Pride, in queer history, in community, in love stories, in leadership, and in every space where LGBTQ+ people gather to celebrate who we are.
But there is another kind of affirmation that reaches even deeper.
It is the feeling of seeing someone who looks like you in a space where you are allowed to be your whole self.
Not just queer.
Not just BIPOC.
Not just one part of you is made acceptable for the comfort of others.
All of you.
That is the best feeling in the world.
Because when you are both BIPOC and LGBTQ+, you often learn how to move through spaces carefully. You learn which parts of yourself to lead with. You learn when to explain, when to shrink, when to code-switch, when to stay quiet, and when to brace yourself for being misunderstood. You learn that some spaces may welcome your queerness but not fully understand your race. Other spaces may understand your race but not fully affirm your queerness.
So when you find a space, or even just a person.
It is not small.
It is not symbolic.
It is powerful.
Seeing another BIPOC person at Pride can feel like being reminded that we have always been here. Despite erasure. Despite exclusion. Despite racism inside queer spaces and homophobia inside communities of color. Despite the systems that tried to make us choose between our identities. We have always existed at the intersections. We have always created language, culture, resistance, art, family, and joy.
We are not new to Pride.
We are part of its foundation.
We are part of its future.
And still, we deserve more than simply being present. We deserve to be centered. We deserve to be protected. We deserve to be celebrated without being tokenized. We deserve Pride spaces where BIPOC LGBTQ+ people are not an afterthought, not a diversity photo, not a special panel once a year, but part of the heartbeat of the community.
Because being seen is not just about being noticed.
Being seen means being valued.
Being heard means being believed.
Being included means being considered before the room is built, not after.
Pride should be a place where every part of us can breathe. A place where our joy does not have to be translated. A place where our flags, our skin, our histories, our grief, our laughter, our love, and our resistance can all exist together.
For me, Pride is still beautiful. It is still affirming. It is still emotional. After 23 years of being out, I still feel moved by the colors, the people, the stories, and the reminders that we are not alone.
But the moments that stay with me most are not always the loudest ones.
Sometimes it is the quiet nod from another person of color.
Sometimes it is seeing bisexual colors on a vendor table.
Sometimes it is watching someone exist freely in a body and identity that the world has tried to make complicated.
Sometimes it is realizing that the person you were searching for in the crowd was also searching for you.
That is community.
That is affirmation.
That is Pride.
And that is the kind of belonging we all deserve.