Dear Friends!

Let me be honest—for me, Pride is complicated. All throughout June, I vacillate from rolling my eyes and sissying that walk. I release a sigh of frustration when I see rainbow flags go up in storefronts while legislation strips away our rights. I feel exhausted by the commercialization of a movement that was born in the streets—by transwomen of color, by Black and brown queer people, and by people dying of AIDS who dared to fight back. It’s hard to know where the celebration ends and the co-optation begins. And still, I feel joy.

There’s a deep, abiding joy in being Black and queer. It’s in our music, our style, our stories, our survival. It’s in our capacity to love expansively, to grieve collectively, to laugh even when the world tells us not to exist. That joy is not naive—it’s a refusal to be diminished.

So this Pride, I’m holding space for contradiction. For fatigue and celebration. For grief and resistance. For the love that lives in chosen family, in congregational care, and in each courageous act of showing up for one another.

Wherever you are this month—angry, joyful, numb, overwhelmed—you are beautiful, you belong, and you are welcome here.

Pride 2025 arrives at a time of deep reckoning and urgent resistance. Across the country, we are witnessing a coordinated escalation of political attacks on LGBTQIA+ people—particularly targeting trans and nonbinary youth, families, and communities. These attacks are not isolated; they are deeply connected to intersecting systems of oppression—white supremacy, Christian nationalism, anti-Blackness, misogyny, and ableism—that threaten all of us.

This moment demands more than celebration—it calls us into bold solidarity. Pride was born from protest, from defiance, from the sacred truth that LGBTQIA+ lives are worthy, joyful, and powerful. Today, we carry that legacy forward—not just in words, but in our actions, relationships, and commitments.

In Care,
MIchael