Pride Isn’t Just for the Out & Loud — It’s for the Quiet Survivors Too
I’ve always been a quiet person. Private, too. Whether that’s more nature or nurture, I’m not totally sure—probably some of both. But either way, it’s how I move through the world.
I’ve never been the one to raise my hand first in class, to jump into the center of a crowd, or to share something vulnerable without a lot of thought and internal pep talks first. There’s a kind of comfort for me in staying just a little tucked in, a little behind the scenes, and playing my cards close to the vest. I sometimes joke with my clients that I missed my true calling as a spy. And that being a therapist is sometimes like being a spy - trying to access valuable information behind enemy lines (i.e. someone’s defenses) to help guide decisions and actions regarding national security (i.e. someone’s internal world)…though thankfully without the exploitation and murder…
What If I’m Not “Out” Enough?
So when I started coming out, things got complicated. I wasn’t just navigating the usual fears about rejection or misunderstanding—I was also running into this unspoken idea that being queer meant being bold. Colorful. Visible. Loud and proud.
And I… wasn’t.
I was anxious and quiet and awkward and still figuring out what it meant to even say the words out loud.
I felt unsure of where I fit. I wasn’t heading to parades. I wasn’t posting rainbow flag selfies. I was reading books and watching queer movies on my couch and researching “late bloomers” and “quiet queers” and “what if I’m not ‘out’ enough?”
I wondered, at times, if I was doing it wrong—if I was somehow less valid because my way of being queer didn’t look like the big, sparkly version I saw everywhere in June.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud. It just meant I had to learn that pride can look like a lot of different things. That sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s private. Sometimes it looks like slowly coming out to one safe person at a time, or simply saying to yourself:
“This is who I am. And I’m allowed to love me.”
Pride Isn’t a Performance—It’s Survival
The more I’ve worked with queer clients recovering from religious trauma—and the more I’ve unpacked my own journey—the more I’ve realized how many of us carry this quiet tension.
We might think that Pride is only for the people in parades dancing in the streets, the ones draped in flags and glitter and slogans. And to be clear: that kind of Pride is beautiful. Necessary. Revolutionary.
But it’s not the only way to be proud. It’s not the only way to belong.
Pride didn’t start as a party—it started as a protest. A refusal to be erased. A stubborn, sacred kind of survival.
And that spirit? It’s not reserved for the loudest voices or the biggest flags. It’s just as present in the people still whispering their truth under their breath. The ones who aren’t ready to come out yet. The ones who are grieving, unsure, or still hiding in plain sight.
Pride is for them, too.
For you, if that’s you.
Even if your protest is quiet.
Quiet Pride Is Still Pride
If that’s you—quiet, cautious, still figuring it out—I want you to hear this: your queerness counts.
You don’t have to be loud to be valid. You don’t have to go to a march, wear a flag, or post about it online for it to be real. If Pride for you looks like privacy, softness, safety, or even staying silent for now—that’s still Pride.
And honestly? That kind of quiet courage might be the bravest of all.
It takes so much strength to honor who you are… especially when no one else sees it yet.
It’s okay if your coming out didn’t come with fireworks.
It’s okay if you’re still sorting through your label—or if you don’t want one at all.
It’s okay if you’re still knee-deep in unlearning all the shame that was drilled into you by the church or the culture that taught you your queerness was something to fix, hide, or pray away.
Pride isn’t reserved for people who’ve “arrived.”
It’s also for the ones still climbing.
For a lot of folks recovering from religious trauma, Pride Month can be... a lot.
There might be joy, yes—but also grief. Longing. Even guilt.
There’s grief for the years you lost. For the parts of you that had to go quiet just to survive. For the relationships that couldn’t hold your truth.
There’s grief for the version of you who was scared all the time—the kid who begged God to make them different, better, holy, or just “normal”.
There’s grief for all the silence you kept, the masks you wore, the “I’m fine”s you said when you weren’t even close.
And then—there’s the joy.
The joy of finally having words for something you didn’t know you were allowed to name.
The joy of finding queer community, of reading queer love stories, of wearing something that just feels right.
The joy of reclaiming your body. Your identity. Your spirit.
For so many of us, Pride holds both.
It’s the celebration and the reckoning. The rainbow and the rain.
If you’re feeling both—joy and sadness, relief and fear—you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just living in the in-between.
That’s what healing looks like when you’ve been told your whole life to disappear.
What Healing from Religious Trauma Really Looks Like
That’s the thing about healing from religious trauma—it’s rarely neat, linear, or photo-ready. It doesn’t always look bold or brave or like something you'd post about on Instagram.
Sometimes it looks like crying through a queer movie because it reminds you of the kind of love you never thought you were allowed to hope for.
Sometimes it looks like skipping the Pride parade because your nervous system is maxed out and you just need quiet.
Sometimes it’s whispering to yourself, I’m still here.
And that counts. Every soft, quiet, messy bit of it.
Pride Belongs to You—Even If You’re Not “Out”
If you’re moving through this month with all kinds of feelings—joy, sadness, uncertainty—I want you to know: Pride is for you, too.
Even if you haven’t told your family yet.
Even if you’ve never been to a Pride event.
Even if saying “I’m queer” out loud still feels scary or strange.
Even if you wonder if you’re “queer enough.”
You are enough.
There’s no one way to be part of this community. No test to pass, no finish line to cross. You don’t have to be loud or certain or have it all figured out.
You just have to be here.
Breathing.
Growing.
Trying.
Your quietness doesn’t make you less. Your softness is a strength, not a weakness. Your pace is exactly right. You deserve space—whether you take it big or small, loud or quiet.
Pride is for you—the gentle heart, the quiet survivor, the one still finding their way.
And no matter where you are right now, your queerness matters. Your story matters. You matter.
Happy Pride, just as you are.
Healing from religious trauma, especially around queerness, is layered and often complex. But you don’t have to do it by yourself.
I work with LGBTQ+ clients in California, Florida, and Missouri who are untangling the harm of high-control religion and learning how to feel at home in themselves. If that’s where you are, I’d be honored to support you. Learn more about starting therapy with me by requesting a free consultation below.