This Pride Felt Different, Because It Had To Be

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”

Eleanor Roosevelt, chair of the drafting committee of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948).

At our IDAHOBIT event in May, Yvee Oduor, the executive director of Galck+ in Kenya, said something profound. Aside from the devastating loss of funding from USAID, the immediate impact on civil society organisations, and the sense of freefall engulfing the LGBTI+ movement, there was something more painful and pernicious at play: the little time left to dream.

This might sound luxurious, but it captured an element that has so deeply resonated with me and the many conversations I’ve had with LGBTI+ activists over my first year at KT. 

The world that some of us live in today, particularly those based in countries where LGBTI+ people are not criminalised and share broadly equal treatment under the law, was built by dreamers. The people that Eleanor had in mind, who came together, organised as a collective, convinced that their dream of a world where LGBTI+ people were treated fairly, equally, justly, didn’t have to stay as one; that together, we could make it a reality. 

What Yvee so poetically captured was that repression, whether through state legislation, violent thugs, or societal attitudes, is not only about physical and mental safety. It’s about suppressing the dream of a life full of love, safety, and dignity. The ability of our opponents to convince us — by brute force or weathering of spirit — that our dreams are not possible. 

But through Pride Month, I watched that dream spirit begin again.

Pride has always been a protest — from the very start. But this year, it felt especially urgent, especially necessary. We are living through a perilous moment in our fight for equality.

At the end of June, I joined thousands who felt compelled to take to the streets of Budapest after Hungary’s government passed a law effectively banning Pride marches.

The government had changed the constitution to ban the march. Police threatened to arrest the Mayor of Budapest if he attended. Three far-right counter-protests were officially sanctioned. Organisers now technically face a year in prison. Everyone who marched risks a fine of nearly £500.

A march might sound purely symbolic, maybe even trivial. But in this context, it mattered more than ever.

More people than ever before showed up because they knew, as I did, that this moment could not be left to become reality. It became the city’s largest Pride in history. After hours of marching in the heat, the bridge finally came into view — the pink triangle flying overhead. It was overwhelming. It was defiant. It was joyful. But none of us knew what was waiting at the end.

And still — we marched. Still we showed up.

This is the weight of the moment we’re living through. It’s not abstract — it’s visceral, it’s real. And it’s part of a larger pattern I’ve been witnessing throughout this Pride season, like I’m sure many of you have.

But, for many in our global community, Pride was never safe. What feels like a shift for some, including me, has always been their reality. The fear, the risks, and the danger isn’t new for the majority of our global community. 

This Pride feels different — because more of us are starting to feel this.

We are living through a global backlash and we are confronting a truth that would be tempting to ignore. For the first time in more than 15 years, the number of countries criminalising consensual same-sex relationships has increased. Today, LGBTI+ people are criminalised in 65 countries. And it’s not just laws — it’s a whole ecosystem of repression.

We’re seeing sweeping legislation targeting our communities: banning books and drag shows, restricting healthcare, silencing teachers, and erasing us from research and public life. At the same time, the global movement is facing devastating funding cuts — including the loss of major U.S. government support.

The chill is palpable. Companies that once rainbow-washed their brand logos now stay grey. Politicians who once proudly marched alongside us now avert their gaze — or worse, join the pile-on. In some places, Pride is under threat. In others, it’s never been safe to begin with. We’re catching up to that reality by seeing the danger reemerge in places we thought were safe. 

As a newcomer in this international space, I’ve felt the weight of that shift — and I’ve worried. Will our work make any impact? Will our community fracture under pressure? Will those moments of defiance even matter? Can the organisation that I lead rise to the challenge? How does our team keep going? Can we dream again?

But this month, time and again, I’ve been reminded of who we are. And what we’re capable of. 

This month reminded me of something that is easy to forget amid headlines and funding appeals: this movement has never been led by institutions. It was born on the margins, in resistance, in community. And maybe this moment is calling us back to that truth. If the illusion of safety has fallen, maybe that’s what it takes for true solidarity to emerge.

And one thing is clear to me: our ability and willingness to dream sustains.

Pride isn’t over. While the month itself has drawn to a close, the fight continues. And in this moment — as attacks mount and old alliances wobble — we need to remember what’s always carried us: each other. Our courage. Our joy. Our refusal to be erased.

There is no cavalry coming. 

But there never was.

This movement has always rested on our shoulders — and together, we’ve moved mountains. 

So let’s keep showing up.