My Name Is Iden | It’s Pride, and my heart breaks
- Published: July 20, 2026
Wedge heels? Check. Huge white sun hat? Check. Sports bra, barely there black hot pants and trans pride fringe skirt? Check.
It was my first Pride, and I looked amazing.
I stood on the corner with my family as the parade went past. I waved and I cheered for all the smiling, colorful people. The cars honked their acknowledgement and strangers called me beautiful.
It was my first Pride, and I felt amazing.
I am not sure that I can overstate how important that day was to me, and I especially worry that the straight, cisgender people in my life don’t truly grasp how vital Pride is to a queer person — especially to a newly out trans person. But perhaps, by zooming out slightly from that day, by looking at what else was happening in my life, I can add some context.
That day, my first Pride, was one week after I had been fired from my job as a firefighter. It was three months since I had been removed from my fire station, my home of nearly 17 years, by the police. It had not even been a year since I had come out as transgender and pansexual, and I had already lost my job, my pension and every one of my friends.
Back then, at that first Pride, I wasn’t Iden the artist, or Iden the writer, or Iden the activist. I was Iden the scared baby trans girl who had no idea where she was going or what would happen to her. I was Iden the anorexic who had already lost 30 pounds and was just getting started. I was Iden the self-injurer who was trying desperately not to go back to the days of blades and scars. I was Iden the soon-to-be addict who was just finding her way to her chemical cures.
But that day, that Pride, my first Pride, I wasn’t any of those things. I was Iden the beautiful girl that people honked for and waved at. I was Iden who looked and felt the way she always dreamed that she would. I was Iden who was starting to believe that maybe all this pain and struggle would someday be worth it.
It was my first Pride, and it was magical.
I had the house to myself the next day. I sat down with my phone, and I recorded my feelings, and there were a lot of them. I’ve shared some of those feelings just now in the hopes that my straight, cis allies can understand how vital Pride is and how critical it is that we keep fighting to hold onto the rights that are being stripped from us.
Pride is the one day — the one day — of the year when you aren’t afraid. It’s the one day of the year when you aren’t trying to decide which stranger voted to take your rights away, when you aren’t worried about what bathroom to use, when you aren’t a fetish or a target.
Pride is the one day a year when you feel safe and celebrated, when you catch a glimpse of why you chose to be yourself and when you can forget all the pain and sacrifice you’ve endured to get there.
That’s Pride, and it breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart because we deserve more. We deserve better. Queer people should be safe and free every day. We should feel beautiful and celebrated every day, but we don’t. Every day brings a new horrible insult, a new terrible threat, a new fear, a new sacrifice.
If you are an ally and all you see when you go to Pride is a party, then you don’t understand the queer people in your life at all and you need to do better. It isn’t enough to clap and wave for one day. It isn’t enough to wave a flag or paint your face.
The queer people that you love deserve more than one f—ing day, but without our allies’ understanding and active participation in our struggle, we will lose even that day.
Friends, this June, when you are standing in line for your funnel cakes, when you are picking out your rainbow necklace, think about what that day really means to us. Think about what it is to be queer in America right now. Then think about it the next day, and the next, and the next, because I promise you the queer people you love are.
That first Pride seems like a lifetime ago. In some ways, it was. I am not the unsure little newly hatched trans person that I was. I have a new job, new friends, a new body, a whole new life, and that life has put a spotlight on me and a mic in my hand.
I have spoken at many a Pride event since that first one, and every time I stand on stage and look out, I wonder, “Do they understand? Do they see what this day means? Or is it just another festival to them?”
I hope that you get it. I hope that you do understand, because queer people need your help. Because we are in danger. Because Pride is a magical day for the queer people in your life, and that should break your heart.
The author is an artist and writer. She lives in Yellow Springs with her wife and three children. You can follow her work at mynameisiden.com.
The Yellow Springs News encourages respectful discussion of this article.
You must login to post a comment.
Don't have a login? Register for a free YSNews.com account.
No comments yet for this article.