Pride, Pain, and Power

Photo by WixAi

I absolutely love Pride Month. It’s full of color, glitter, laughter, and that feeling like you’re finally seen. It’s always meant something powerful to me—being loud and proud, celebrating queerness in all its forms, and showing up as myself in a world that hasn’t always welcomed people like me.

But this year? It’s hitting a little different.

Last year, I was deep in it—doing pride-themed makeup looks with colorful tape, working out regularly, dancing around the house like a music video extra. My body still hurt, sure, but it felt manageable. Pride was loud, alive, expressive. This year though, it’s quieter. I’m not posting makeup every day or sprinting toward every event. I’m not running any 5Ks, no matter how much I want to. Some days, just stretching between paragraphs is my pace.

And maybe that's okay.

Where I’m At Now

Photo by Julien Tromerur

Right now, I’m living in a body that aches more than I ever thought possible in my early 30s. Some days, it feels like I’ve aged decades in just a few years. My knees crack like glow sticks, my joints throb in the rain, and I carry this foggy fatigue that lingers even after a full night's sleep. Between chronic pain, mental health struggles, and limited mobility, I’ve had to reevaluate how I exist in the world. The simplest things—like walking through the store or standing at the sink to do dishes—can feel like endurance challenges. Sometimes, just making it through the day without crying counts as a win.

I’m still bisexual/pansexual. Still Black. Still polyamorous. Still full of love. But the way I express all that has changed. I don’t have the energy I once did to go to events, meet new people, or dive into group chats the way I used to. I miss being the one who went to random meetups, who danced until 2 a.m., who tried new makeup looks just for fun. Now, most of my conversations happen with my boyfriend, my girlfriend, and their kids. They’re my safe space—but even that closeness can’t always fill the social gap I feel. My world has shrunk, and while there’s still love and warmth in it, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes mourn what I’ve lost.

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I tried setting up a D&D game with a work friend recently. I was excited. I even started building a character sheet. But between no car, no public transportation, and living way out in the middle of nowhere, the logistics became overwhelming. It’s such a little thing, but it honestly left me kind of heartbroken. That mountain of “too hard” is built from moments like that—opportunities I can’t reach, friends I drift away from, joy that slips through the cracks.

There’s grief in that. Deep, quiet grief. But there’s also growth. I’ve had to get to know myself in a new way—beyond what I could do and into who I am. And who I am is still here. Still soft, still powerful, still queer. Still me.

This Year’s Focus: Healing

This Pride Month, I’m reclaiming something I haven’t felt in a while: myself. Not just the glitter and selfies (though don’t worry, those will make a comeback), but my health, my joy, and my sense of worth—independent of how productive I am or how “together” I seem.

For years, I’ve been dismissed by doctors. Told I was too young to be in this much pain. Told to lose weight or get more sleep or just take another pill. But this year, I finally said “enough.” I started advocating for myself harder, pushing for referrals, asking the hard questions, and looking for real answers. I’m tired of being handed another prescription without a diagnosis, another band-aid when what I need is healing.

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That healing isn’t just physical. It’s emotional too. I’m learning how to treat my body with kindness instead of resentment. I’ve started moving again—not out of punishment, but out of care. I stretch gently. I take walks when I can. I dance when the pain lets me. Some days, that just means bopping in my chair to a favorite song. And that’s still movement. That still counts.

I’ve also started rebuilding my emotional support system. Reddit, of all places, has been surprisingly helpful. I found women-only and mental health spaces where people share stories that echo my own—stories about burnout, ghosting, identity, and trying to stay hopeful when life keeps throwing bricks. One of those groups helped me through a tough moment with a friend who ghosted me after I poured so much into our connection. It hurt—a lot. But it reminded me of a lesson I keep learning: I don’t have to set myself on fire to keep someone else warm. I’m allowed to want reciprocal care. I’m allowed to walk away when that care isn’t there.

Healing is messy. It’s not linear. But it’s mine. And I’m claiming it—one boundary, one breath, one journal entry at a time.

Black Hair, Summer Heat, and Feeling Human

Okay, real talk—getting my hair braided this month was an act of survival. Between the summer heat and the hot flashes I’ve been dealing with (thank you, body, for being extra dramatic), I needed a style that let my scalp breathe without adding to the pain. If you’ve followed me on Marcevolution or TikTok, you’ve probably seen my signature mohawk. It’s bold, it’s edgy, it’s very me. But even shaved sides don’t stop the sweat when you’re constantly overheating.

So I booked an appointment. I was nervous—getting braids can be an ordeal when you’re dealing with chronic pain. Black women are so often expected to just grit our teeth and sit still for hours, no matter what. But this time, my stylist was different. She let me stretch. She let me take breaks. She even let me get up and dance when I started tensing up. There was no judgment, no side-eyes, no “girl, it’s not that bad.”

And I cried. Not during the appointment—but later, when I realized how much it meant to feel cared for in such a simple way. To have someone recognize my pain and work with it instead of around it. That experience made me feel human again. Not just someone managing symptoms or trying to “push through,” but someone worthy of comfort. Worthy of ease.

The braids are cute as hell, by the way. And more than that, they’re a reminder that I deserve softness. I deserve to be treated gently—even by myself.

Choosing Joy, Even When It’s Complicated

This year, Pride doesn’t look like glitter on every eyelid or dancing in the streets ‘til sunrise. And for a while, I felt guilty about that. Like I was somehow failing at Pride for not being out there in rainbow paint and body glitter. But I’ve come to realize something really important:

Joy doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

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Maybe I’ll have a pride-themed dinner with my partners and we’ll eat rainbow fruit salad together while watching our favorite queer films. Maybe I’ll do my makeup in soft pastels instead of neons, or pull out the paints and finally finish that canvas that’s been waiting on me. I’ll listen to my Pride playlist (which still slaps, by the way), and maybe I’ll dance a little—even if it’s just from the waist up.

There’s still celebration in these quiet moments. There’s still Pride in honoring your truth when the world tells you to dim it. Pride is in every decision to rest when your body needs it, every “no” that protects your peace, every “yes” to softness, slowness, and survival.

This—the quiet reclaiming, the soft joy, the deep breaths between pain flares—this is what Pride looks like for me right now.

And it’s still beautiful.

Your Turn: A Journaling Prompt

As you move through this month, I want to leave you with something that’s been anchoring me—something small, but deeply transformative.

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Journaling Prompt:

“What does Pride look like for me right now?”

No filters. No need to make it Instagram-worthy. Just you—honest, raw, and real. Forget what Pride used to look like for you, or what you think it should look like. Write what it actually feels like now. Whether it’s loud and glitter-soaked or soft and solemn. Whether you’re parading through city streets or lying in bed with aching joints, headphones in, rainbow playlist on shuffle. Whether you’re thriving, surviving, or somewhere in between.

That reflection—done just for you—can be one of the most radical acts of self-love. Because Pride isn’t about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up as yourself in a world that hasn’t always made space for you to exist freely.

I’m still on my own journey—mentally, emotionally, physically. I still want to feel powerful in my body again, to move with ease, to breathe without flinching. I want to dance again, really dance, not just in my chair. I’m seeing a counselor. I’m doing the paperwork. I’m stretching, sweating, crying, celebrating. I’m refusing to accept “this is just how it is” as a diagnosis when I know in my soul there’s more out there for me. I’m calling back all the pieces of myself that got buried under other people’s expectations and pain.

This year might not be a fairy tale. It’s gritty. It’s raw. It’s real. But I can feel something shifting—like I’m digging my roots in deep so I can rise even taller later.

So if you’re in your soft girl era, your healing witch era, your "I refuse to dim my damn light" era—I see you. I'm right here with you.

This version of me?

She’s not done yet.

She’s just getting started.

And I have a feeling the woman I’m becoming...

She’s a f**king force.

Thanks for holding space with me today. I hope this gave you something real to carry with you—a spark, a breath, a mirror.

Take care of yourself. Tend to your fire.

And when you're ready, step into your magic like you own it—because you do.

With all my love, fierce softness, and spine-straight truth—

Happy Pride.

See you next time.