My First Pride Parade

(and the Moment I Stopped Waiting to Be Sure — or Healed Enough to Let Go)

I came out as a lesbian at 28 — not with a bang, but with a slow, stuttering whisper delivered through clenched teeth, a locked jaw, and a nervous system so fried it could’ve powered downtown St. Pete.

Back then, I didn’t have the vocabulary for trauma survival. I just knew I was on edge most of the time, cried most days in my shower, and shape-shifted so often I forgot who I actually was on the inside. I called it “being adaptable.” A therapist later called it a nervous system collapse. Tomato, tomahto.

Who knew being true to your inner self could be so cathartic?

Discovering my sexuality wasn’t part of my five-year plan — because that plan involved marriage to a man, several children, control over my narrative, and exactly zero time for processing childhood attachment issues. Hindsight is a very queer 20/20.

Let’s Take a Step Back to the Rebound Disguised as a Relationship

After my first major heartbreak, I fell into a rebound that lasted four years. With a man my father’s age. He was charming, fun, and emotionally safe in the way a cast iron pan is — solid, seasoned, but not exactly warm.

He wasn’t abusive. He was just… wrong. But I held on like my loyalty was being graded. I was determined to be the Cool Girl™ who could love through misalignment, emotional boredom, and internal screaming.

When it ended, I didn’t mourn. I didn’t journal. I didn’t even process.

I made a profile on eHarmony — which, in 2004, doubled as Tinder if you squinted through the cross-stitched Bible verses and ignored the part where you had to list your favorite Proverbs.

The Craving I Couldn’t Unsee

I matched with a few men. One of them stuck — briefly. He was fine. Bland. The relationship equivalent of room-temperature oatmeal. And still, I tried because that’s what I did. I tried too hard at things I didn’t want, thinking maybe this is

But then I caught myself… lingering.

Not on him.

On her.

The girl visiting my neighbor. The woman ahead of me at Starbucks. The barista with the undercut and the crooked smile. These weren’t “friendly thoughts.” I wasn’t admiring outfits — I was mentally composing love letters.

And for the first time, I didn’t shove it down.

Enter: Lesbian Yoda

I called a friend. A decades-out, rainbow-wearing lesbian who doesn’t blink when baby gays spiral.

She didn’t gasp. She didn’t say “welcome to the club.” She just asked thoughtful questions, recommended painfully validating books, and reminded me:

This is not a thesis defense.

You don’t need to submit your queerness in AP format to exist.

At the time, that felt radical. (Still kinda does.)

Showing Up Awkward (and Deeply Unsure)

I started going to gay and lesbian events. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like a baby deer in a room full of fire dancers.

I had loved a girl in middle school. We spooned in bed and I was always the big spoon. We never labeled it. I called it friendship and held my breath hoping she didn’t notice me smelling her hair.

Now, in adulthood, attraction felt both thrilling and terrifying. Like trying to flirt while your inner child screams, “Is this safe?!” on loop.

Then Came Pride

My friend called with the ultimatum:

“You must go to Pride. Non-negotiable. It’s lesbian law.”

I declined three times. Errands. TiVo. Dusting. And that pesky belief that the Queer Police would demand proof of membership at the gate.

But eventually — I cracked.

No makeup. No plan. Just me: raw, undercooked, and on the brink of something big.

When Joy Felt Like a Foreign Language

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw.

Leather harnesses. Rainbow wings. Sensible sandals. Glitter that should’ve come with a warning label. It was messy, holy, and electric.

And then… Dykes on Bikes.

I nearly fainted. Yes, it was hot — but also… the muscles. The rumble. The woman in a white tee on a red bike? I’d seen her before. I knew she was one who could prove the lesbian theory one way or another. Also: definitely hotter than I could handle.

I prayed she was into me…at least a little.

Pride Broke Me (Open)

That day was bead necklaces, rainbow flags, real laughter, and — for the first time — a smile that wasn’t hiding anything.

My friend and I danced. We waved the rainbow parachute like giddy kids.

Later, I ran into her again.

She said:

“You should come by my house tonight. A few of us are playing cards.”

And I did. For her involvement in my life, I will always be grateful.

Flirting Is Still Hard — But Now I Know Who to Flirt With

Let’s not romanticize this into a Netflix montage. I didn’t emerge a flirtatious icon.

Flirting is still awkward. I ask about tote bags too enthusiastically. I overshare. Sometimes I apologize while complimenting someone.

But now I know who I’m flirting with.

No more guessing if I’m projecting. No more confusion about the sunrise-level awe I feel staring at a woman’s collarbone. The noise is gone. The clarity? Liberating.

The Moment I Stopped Waiting to Be Sure

That day didn’t hand me a label. It didn’t resolve my trauma.

But it gave me something else:

• I didn’t need to be healed to be happy.
• I didn’t need to be certain to show up.
• I didn’t need a perfect queer resume to join the party.

I wasn’t “maybe.”

I wasn’t “testing the waters.”

I was home.

And for that — sweaty, overwhelmed, rainbow-drenched me — I will always be grateful.

Today’s Pride in 2025: Still Marching, Still Fighting

It’s been over 20 years since my first Pride. And still — rights are debated. Lives are politicized. The backlash is real.

• DEI programs are being dismantled across schools and workplaces.
• Anti-trans laws are skyrocketing.
• People are literally being legislated out of existence.

Pride is still protest.

It’s a joyful act of resistance.

So let’s show up — messy, questioning, whole. Let’s fight back with glitter, policy, and unwavering truth.

A Brief History of Pride (And Why We Still March)

Pride began in 1969 at the Stonewall Uprising — when trans women of color, drag queens, and queer youth resisted a police raid.

The first Pride was a march, not a party.

A declaration: We exist. We are not ashamed. We will not be silent.

That fire burns on.

Before You Pack Your Snacks for This Parade

So, here in the bright, blazing beginning of Pride Month 2025, I want you to remember:

• You don’t have to be confident to be ready.
• You don’t have to flirt like a pro to be seen.
• You don’t have to perform queerness like it’s a Broadway audition to belong.

You just have to want to know more about yourself than you did yesterday.

🏳️‍🌈 Come to Pride.

🏳️‍🌈 Wear whatever makes your insides match your outside.

🏳️‍🌈 Let your inner 14-year-old queer kid take up space. Loudly.

You’re doing better than you think you are.

And for the love of all things holy — hydrate before the Dykes on Bikes come through.

You’ll thank me later.