“Is Pride still needed?”

When I hear that question, one word immediately comes to mind: duality.

Duality is at the heart of why Pride continues to matter. In fact, the very existence of this website is proof of it. The fact that I felt the need to create a separate space for these stories is, in itself, an answer to the question.

Why?

Many of you know me through my work preserving family history, writing about the Ingalls family, and telling the stories of everyday Americans whose lives might otherwise fade from memory. As President of the Society of the Ingalls Family, I have been entrusted with helping preserve our family’s history and sharing stories that deserve to be remembered. Through my books, articles, and other projects, I have spent years documenting the lives of ordinary people who lived extraordinary lives.

Those stories matter.

But there are stories I cannot tell in those spaces.

Not because they are unimportant. Quite the opposite.

They are stories about my community, my friends, my husband, and my own life as a gay man. They are stories about people whose experiences, contributions, struggles, victories, and loves are every bit as worthy of preservation as any family history I have ever written. Yet those stories often require a different platform, a different audience, and a different conversation.

That reality alone demonstrates why Pride is still needed.

Throughout my life, I have watched remarkable LGBTQ+ individuals build careers, raise families, volunteer in their communities, care for aging parents, support friends through difficult times, and leave behind legacies of kindness and service. Many of them have already passed away. Some are remembered only by a shrinking circle of friends. Others have already been forgotten entirely.

Their stories deserve better.

If we do not capture these histories, who will? If we do not preserve the experiences of our community, future generations may never know the people who helped build the world they inherit.

That is one reason Pride remains important.

The other reason is the duality so many LGBTQ+ people learn at an early age.

Long before we have the words to describe it, we begin studying the world around us. We learn which parts of ourselves are welcomed and which parts are tolerated only when hidden. We become experts at reading a room, gauging reactions, adjusting our speech, monitoring our behavior, and deciding how much of ourselves is safe to reveal.

Over time, this becomes second nature.

It is not a conscious decision anymore. It is instinct.

We can walk into a room and, within moments, determine whether it is safe to mention our spouse, hold a partner’s hand, tell a personal story, or simply be ourselves. The adjustment happens automatically because many of us have spent a lifetime practicing it.

Some might say everyone changes their behavior depending on the situation. That is certainly true. We all act differently at work than we do at home. We speak differently to a client than we do to a lifelong friend.

But for many LGBTQ+ people, the calculation is deeper.

The question is not simply, “How should I behave here?”

The question is often, “How much of myself can I safely reveal here?”

That distinction matters.

Even among people who love us, there can be an unspoken expectation that we soften, edit, or conceal parts of who we are for the comfort of others. We learn to tell certain stories and avoid others. We learn which pronouns to use, which details to leave out, and which conversations are easier to sidestep altogether.

And then something remarkable happens when we enter spaces where those calculations are unnecessary.

On the rare occasions when I have brought a friend or family member into LGBTQ+ spaces, I often hear the same observation:

“I have never seen you so happy.”

What they are seeing is not a different person.

They are seeing the same person with fewer barriers.

They are seeing what happens when someone no longer has to evaluate every word, every gesture, every reference to their life before speaking. They are seeing the freedom that comes from being understood without explanation.

And even then, many of us are still holding something back. Years of adaptation do not disappear overnight.

That is the power of community.

That is the power of Pride.

Pride is not merely a celebration. It is remembrance. It is visibility. It is history. It is community. It is the preservation of stories that might otherwise be lost. It is a declaration that our lives, our relationships, our contributions, and our experiences matter.

Most importantly, Pride is a reminder that authenticity should never be a privilege available only in certain places.

The day Pride is no longer needed will be the day no one has to measure how much of themselves is safe to share. It will be the day every person can move through the world with the same freedom to be seen, known, and accepted.

We are not there yet.

So this Pride Month, celebrate. Remember those who came before us. Tell your stories. Listen to the stories of others. Preserve them. Share them. Pass them on.

Because stories matter.

And because we know, perhaps better than anyone, why Pride is still needed.

Happy Pride.