30/06/2025
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ | ๐๐๐๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐๐ข๐ง๐๐จ๐ฐ ๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ญ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฌ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ
by Anonymous
Pride isnโt always loud and proudโat least not for people like me, who are forced to hide behind a dull form, a stark contrast to the rainbows meant to warm, to liberate, to save.
June has reached its end, the curtains are about to close, yet I cannot remember what part I even played on this monthโs stage. Did I contribute at all? Or did I spend all my time hidden behind the curtain, watching others bask in the spotlight?
Perhaps I was the tree in the background. Maybe the rock. Or some silent figure that moved only when told. Never one of the bold, colorful characters who embraced their lines with pride. Not even the ones who cosplayed queerness for "fun," pretending for the thrill of it.
For some, June is a month of celebration and visibility. But for others, it is a quiet reminder of the many masks weโve learned to wear and the weight of keeping them on when the month ends and the world goes back to expecting us to perform.
Iโve always known how to perform. I am an actor, after all. Iโve stood on stages, learned lines, changed costumes, shifted into every version of myself that the script or the moment demanded. But outside of the theater, the performance never really stops.
Iโve played the diligent student, the respectable older role model to the younger, the devout believer who goes to church every Sunday, the friend of the same gender that you don't have to worry about disgustingly falling in love with you, the version of myself that puts people at ease. Iโve worn each role convincingly, so convincingly, that sometimes I wonder if I've lost myself between all these characters and the person I truly am before I realized the still existing cruelty of this world to the likes of me.
Itโs easy to talk about authenticity when youโve never had to earn safety by hiding. Itโs easy to celebrate โprideโ when your environment wonโt turn against you for showing it. But for people who still live in spaces where love has to be whispered, where identity must be kept vague, where coming out could mean losing everything, pride isnโt a costume we get to wear freely. Itโs a flicker of selfhood we try to protect from being extinguished.
And so, I stay backstage.
Iโve become so accustomed to acting, to slipping into roles for different audiences, that the real meโthe one who doesnโt have to filter their voice or change their posture or edit their storiesโfeels like a shadow lost in the wings. Sometimes, I can't help but worry that Iโve probably forgotten what the original version of me sounded like before the performance began.
Behind all the loud protests of the brave in hopes to be heard, lie silent words of the hopeless that can only be sent behind screens. With every courageous public declaration of love, are people who still have to hide among the shadows just to meet. And among discussions of lovers and intimacy, is a silent person who wishes the spotlight wouldn't be turned to them to be asked the same question every year, "when will it be your turn?"
Thereโs a line from a show that's stuck with me:
โWhat makes us all afraid of two men or two women being together? All the things we could fear (and hate) in this world.. and we pick love.โ
That love, something so gentle yet brave, becomes the thing people shame and silence. That it becomes easier to accept the destiny of nations at war with each other, than the existence of the same genders in love.
There is something about Juneโhow, for a few weeks, I get to witness what it could be like, what it already is for others, this bright, unapologetic expression of self. I see people walking hand-in-hand under the sun, waving flags, celebrating loudly, publicly, without looking over their shoulders. And while I do cheer for them, I can only do so quietly from behind a screen, where there is safety in anonymity, from the comfort of knowing no one will connect the words I write with the face I wear in public.
And when the month ends and the rainbows are packed away, when the social media banners change, and when the parades have come and gone, people like me return to our dressing rooms. We rehearse our lines. We touch up the masksโsome get to keep their color, while there are others who don't. And then, we blend back in.
But before the curtain falls completely, this is what I have to say: the celebration and recognition of the LGBTQIA+ community doesnโt end when June does. For many of us, it never even begins in the way others imagine it would. But it lives and persists in our small acts of survival.
While Pride Month is a spotlight for some, where the stage opens itself to authenticity through parades and protests; to others, it's never even as grandโsometimes, it is a simple reminder: of the daily courage to keep existing even when your existence is still a question and a disgrace to others. Of the trembling hands that still reach out despite the fear. And the quiet strength of those who stay, who endure, who continue loving even when love is denied.
It is also for the people who to stay hidden not out of shame, but either out of necessity, safety, or simply because thatโs where they feel most themselves. And that, too, is valid. That, too, is Pride.
If youโve ever felt unsure what part you play, torn between who you are and who you have to be, or like your silence meant you aren't brave enoughโplease know that choosing yourself, in whatever way you can, is already an act of courage. You are not alone. You may not be seen in the full light, but you are felt, with all the love and empathy.
For now, I choose to hide as โanonymous" behind these curtains. But whether I remain in the shadows or step forward one day, what matters most is that I am here. That we are here.
And whatever choice you make, whether to speak, to stay hidden, or to be seen, your story still matters. You are as valid and real as every other person in this world.
Illustration by Anonymous
